Canon Hub » What a Wonderful World Hub / Those Twisted Pines Hub » Take It Away, My Darling » Blake Tillerson

Chapter I.III

There is a time in everyone's life, when we look, talk, and act nothing like who we have been, and who we will become. It is a time of great change. We're faced with things we've never been faced with before (though, does that ever end?) and we're asked things we never thought we'd be asked. And we are riddled with hormones.
I'm talking about teenagedom.
Tim didn't particularly enjoy talking about being a teenager. He didn't consider it a real part of him. Now, I can see why. I think we all remember things that we did, that we regret doing. Things we did that we'd rather we never did. Well, this was one of those things. I think I heard this story from my mom, actually. Tim wasn't particularly proud of himself.

* * * * *

In sophomore year of high school, Tim's closest friend was a kid named Richard. Well, his real name was Ricardo Gutierrez, but he went by Richard and asked all the teachers to shorten his last name to just "G" when calling role. He had a younger brother, Pablo, though he went by Paul back then. As the years have gone on and on, life happened, and they grew apart. At the time of writing, I know we're still trying to get ahold of them, but sometimes no matter how much you connect with someone, time can pull you in different directions. They were a pair of dark skinned, slick-black haired Mexican kids. Not an uncommon sight in San Diego, to be certain.
They always sat at a table just outside the cafeteria, with a couple of others. I struggle to remember who, exactly. I remember a soccer player named Eva, but that's it. And one other. But that was the core group, just some pals who hung out at lunch. I'm leaving someone out, right now. I'm getting there.
Blake Tillerson. A fellow sophomore, Tim only ever described him wearing his signature outfit: yellow bell-bottoms with a light red button-up shirt. I can't imagine that was the only thing he ever wore, but it had to have made a big impression. In any case, combine that with some seriously gelled, dark brown hair, and what has been unflatteringly described as a "shit-eating grin", and you get the essential Blake look. He was brimming with overconfidence wherever he went. Anyone who went to school with him would tell you that he was famous for asking out just about every girl, all of whom rejected him.
Tim wouldn't have cared if it hadn't been for one thing; he harped on the Gutierrez boys. He was a talkative type, so he couldn't resist conversation with anyone he passed in the halls, or sat next to in class, or the like. Though, given his reputation, it was usually him who started the conversations. So any time he came across Ricardo or Pablo or both, he couldn't help himself but try out some small talk. Unfortunately, aimed at the Mexican brothers, it often came with an inordinate amount of inappropriateness. He commonly referred to the brothers as "the immigrant kids", would ask if they had tacos, burritos, or churros in their lunch. I heard an awful story about some jokes involving green cards. The list goes on.
Ricardo pretty much always told Tim to ignore Blake. Tim talked a lot about "getting back at him", and though it was usually meant in jest, Ricardo made it a point to tell Tim not to do any of it. Tim wasn't entirely sure why. He figured, though, that Ricardo just didn't want any attention. For a year, freshman year, he let it slide. But then Blake started leaning into Tim, too.
Tim's an extrovert. He, of course, has a deep appreciation for time spent alone, especially out in the woods, maybe sitting near a creek, but any invitation would be attended. He made space in his schedule for just about everybody. And so, he was a frequent party goer in his high school years. Through the lens of alcohol and teenage adventures, he started to be pretty popular. And Blake tried to hang around the popular kids. It was a pretty "forced" strategy, but it worked out well enough. Almost no one knew how, but Blake always seemed to get invited to the big social gatherings.
Trying to get in good with popular kids, Tim started to get more attention from Blake. One thing Blake liked to do was to give people nicknames, see if they stuck. For Tim, it was "Timmy Bear." It probably had something to do with him being a big dude, and a hugger. Every time Blake saw Tim, it would be an "ayy, Timmy Bear!" Blake especially loved teasing Tim about his "field sketches" that he would make in class instead of doing notes. Tim decorated every piece of paper he ever got with elk, primates, fish, and, very commonly, caterpillars, which Blake took to calling "worms." Blake had a small collection going of "worm doodles" on any piece of paper Tim would throw out, which Blake (falsely) believed he could embarrass Tim with. Unfortunately for him, Tim's not-sharing his art wasn't because he was insecure about it, so when Blake did eventually try and make a scene, Tim shrugged it off. All it did was make Tim even unhappier with Blake, perceiving that he was trying to soil his reputation.
It came to a head one day, sophomore year, when Ricardo, Pablo, and Tim were hanging outside the principal's office after school, having waited for Pablo to be done being scolded for cheating on a test. Blake was making his way out the school, and the two aspects about Blake that Tim disliked the most came together in one awful scene — Blake teased the Gutierrez kids for not being better at Spanish despite their heritage, used their given names instead of Paul and Richard, called Tim "Timmy Bear" and tried to go in for a hug — one of few hugs that Tim had ever refused — and then he walked out into the parking lot, his ketchup and mustard outfit fading off into the cool air of the San Diego spring.
Ricardo repeated his mantra of ignoring Blake, more to Pablo this time than to Tim; he was an essential big brother that way. But while Ricardo was teaching someone to get a thick skin, Tim was having his own little brainstorm. Except this time, unlike times before, he didn't joke to Ricardo about it, because he knew that Ricardo would tell him not to.

* * * * *

So by a lunch, later that week, Tim had concocted the plan.
Blake started his lunches by sitting alone at this one circular table in the far corner of the cafeteria. This was where he ate his lunch — as fast as he could — before going around to all the hangout spots of the popular people that he knew. His pattern was so tight, that people could predict when Blake was about to show up. He had a route. So Tim knew his time was limited. Blake was on a schedule to make uncomfortable teases at very specific times. So, he skipped getting his own lunch, and strode right on over to Blake.
Blake, of course, was very surprised. And, perhaps, a little nervous. What could Tim be doing here, sitting at his table, and talking to him? It was alien. And, despite it being precisely the situation Blake had been aiming for all along, alien was still uncomfortable. So when Tim said "hey buddy", Blake was a little on edge, though more than willing to play into it.
"H-hey, Timmy Bear, what's happenin'?"
Blake probably started that way.
"Well I was just thinking," said Tim. "You seem like a cool dude, none of my friends wanted to do it with me, so I thought… hey, Blake probably would be down. So I came over here. Wanna know what I'm talking about? Take a peek…"
On some level, Blake knew that he was being buttered up, and he knew that Tim wasn't one to talk like this, but on the other hand…
There was no circumstance under which Blake could refuse attention like this.
So with an unsure, but soon eager nod from Blake, Tim peered from side to side, making sure no teachers were around, and…
He pulled out two big metal water bottles, one blue and one green. Blake was, understandably, underwhelmed and a bit confused.
"And?" He asked.
"Wait for it," Tim assured, and opened one. "Smell it."
Tipping the bottle in Blake's direction, the intention became clear.
"Tim! You're crazy!"
"Hey, hey, no one's gotta know! It's clear, just like water, see? Perfect crime, am I right?"
Blake was fairly sure he knew where this was going, but was curious nonetheless. After an inquiry, Tim made things perfectly clear.
He was proposing a chug-off.
No longer surprised, Blake smiled deviously, continuously suppressing the nagging anxiety about what would happen if they were caught. "You devil, you!" He almost took one of the bottles, but Tim pulled it back, quickly.
"What's wrong, scared you'll lose?"
"Not at all, just need to know that you really know what you're up against. I'm Chug Master Tim, you know. Do you know?"
"Oh I know."
Tim, even from a very young age, had amazing alcohol tolerance. He was a champion at the parties, for drinking people under the table. The school legend about him was that it was impossible for him to get drunk. Anyone who was there the day the Shelter opened knows that's a lie, but they also probably know that he was drunk after everyone else was.
So Tim handed Blake the green bottle, and said, "ready?"
"What's the bet?"
"Oh, the bet?" Tim put down two dollars — a lot more, in today's money. Blake eyed it. He knew he was going to lose. Chug contest with Chug Master Tim? It was impossible. Were two dollars worth it?
But then he remembered just how much his status would increase if he did win.
"Ready," he said.
"That's the spirit! On the count of three. One… two… three!"
And like that, Blake held up the bottle at an almost ninety degree angle, choking it down as fast as he possibly could. Tim did the same… at first. But after a second, he lowered the bottle, slowly, making sure that Blake was still going. Blake didn't notice, of course — his eyes screwed shut in concentration, like he had found his life purpose and it was to beat Tim at his own game. But Tim just smiled, and waited for him to finish.
Blake slammed down the bottle (which made a louder noise than he expected, and startled even himself), and let out a loud "aaah!" Seeing that Tim already had the bottle down, he shrank a bit. "Aw man, looks like I lose."
"Look again."
Blake peered in, and saw that it was still half full of vodka.
"I… I win?"
Tim slowly nodded, grinning widely.
"I, I win! Holy shit, I won against Chug Master Tim! Two dollars!! That's, that's insane! Oh, Timmy Bear, you're going down, you're going down, ahaa, I'm the new chug master, that's amazing, holy shit!"
"Ehh, don't get too full of yourself. I got bored of it halfway through. Anyways, here's two dollars. Have a good day, Blake."
Blake, bewildered, took his two dollars, and just watched Tim leave. He tried to muster up something witty, but he was too… unsure of what just happened. This was a victory, right? Two dollars and status? What just happened?
Tim, of course, just got happier with each passing moment, his heart beating faster and his stride exaggerating with enthusiasm. When he arrived back at his table outside the cafeteria, Ricardo asked: "What took you so long? And why do you look so self satisfied?"
Tim sat, and got real, real comfortable, while more and more people asked him what he did. Very soon, Ricardo's slight smile had disappeared. He knew what Tim's "devious" look was.
"Tim," he asked again, "what did you do?"
"Oh, nothing," Tim replied. "I just got Blake to drink a whole bottle of laxatives."

* * * * *

I'd like to incorporate into the telling of this story, some ideas from one of Tim's old journals. Nothing is word for word, and it doesn't fully relate to the story, but I think it fits, in its own way. Tim was very cynical about humanity at the time he was a teen. Seems completely unlike him, I know. If I were to guess, something about the city did it to him. These notes were crumpled and thrown away. Edna was the one who found them, and kept them, because she did that with all of Tim's drawings or writings that he wasn't satisfied with. It wasn't until much later in his life that he found out she'd known to check the trash bin in his room before throwing it out with the rest of the garbage.
On the drive home from the principal's office (the second time he'd been there that week), Tim leaned against the back left window, looking out at the dark night's water as it ran past. The streetlights slowly strobed the car with yellow, then black, then yellow again, illuminating and fading in a calming, familiar sort of way. The San Diego Bay glistened with the orange, red, and sometimes blue lights of the city. Tim always liked to think that it was a kind of bioluminescence. He knew it wasn't, but it was more interesting to him, to imagine that the bay was teeming with life so unique and reactive that it made a glow, like those bacteria in some lakes he'd read about. It was better than to think that the city was so large and imposing that even the ocean could not stand to hold its nature against San Diego's harsh lights, its sleepless populace, the noises of waves crashing on the sand outnumbered by the noises of cars on the highways, the horns of angry people in traffic.
Tim liked to imagine some type of creature that could make those sounds, too. The bay was full of bacteria, and the land was full of giant rhinoceros-like creatures, with huge horns and screeching feet, that lived amidst a forest of squared, stone trees, with bark so thick that there was an animal specifically evolved to destroy it — something with a large trunk, and a big bone ball at the end, that would take out the old and weak trees. The ecosystem prospered as a result — in the place of the old dead trees, a new tree would usually grow and thrive.
"I'm very disappointed in you." Grandpa Elliot said, behind the wheel. "I know the Tillersons, and they're very nice people."
Tim was very silent, planning out his response. He knew he was screwed either way, and on some level he already knew that what he did was wrong.
Tim tried to tell his dad that Blake made a joke out of the G. brothers' culture. Said that Paul and Richard didn't need Blake "roughing them up" like that. Elliot told Tim that they both knew Blake wasn't "roughing them up."
They had stopped at a stoplight, a soft red shuttering through the front and back seats.
"He's an outcast, Tim." Elliot reminded.
Tim had had enough of this talk from his friends. He never heard the end of it from Ricardo. He honestly didn't think that Blake would admit that he participated in a chug off — he thought the alcohol would deter him from talking about it. He simply didn't mention that part, it seemed. Tim decided he wouldn't either — he wasn't going to self destruct to bring Blake down with him. In any case, just seeing how pale Blake looked… it made him chuckle at first, but then it made him sad.
Tim opened his door while the light was still red, and said: "I'm going to take a walk along the beach. I'll be home in about two hours, ready to talk."
Elliot told him that him and his mom would be asleep by then, so Tim said they'd talk about it tomorrow. Elliot agreed, and asked that he closed the door so the car behind them would stop honking.
Tim did just that, and watched his dad drive away towards their house. Off into the hordes of rhinoceroses, into the concrete forest. Tim walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the cold, salty air on his skin. He hadn't the chance to prepare a jacket for this walk. Not that he would have wanted to. Tim was always one to let himself be bare against the elements. It made him feel alive, or, something. Natural? In any case, he took comfort in discomfort.
The ocean was beautiful. There were one or two people on the beach, far away. Looked to be a couple, sharing an evening. Tim guessed that some people thought that city lights at night were romantic. These, he decided, were the parasites. They burned rhinoceros blood to get places, and they infested each and every tree. But when he thought about how they had really made everything else come into existence, the metaphor fell apart, and he got sick of the whole thing. The city was just the city, and people were just people.
Coming up on a pier, Tim thought that maybe he didn't feel like walking. Maybe he felt like going to the end of the pier, sitting, and looking out at the water. On his way, he started to think things over.
Suppose, for a second, that Blake wasn't being a dick. What was he trying to do?
Tim reached the end of the pier, and sat. He closed his eyes, and focused in on the ocean waves below him. He tried to think of the fish that must have been swimming around — maybe there were seals not so far away. And beyond that, whales lingered. If you swam far enough and deep enough, there were sharks, eels, jellyfish, coral reefs — anemones, fronds, squids and octopuses. Maybe something large, and undiscovered — or small, and discrete. Plankton, kelp, starfishes. Clams, mussels, sea urchins. Sometimes Tim felt absolutely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of life that earth had. Somewhere out there was something not a single soul had ever seen before. He knew that much. There was so much, humans couldn't possibly catalog all of it. There was always going to be something that was too good at hiding. Something elusive. Something unable to be put in any boxes, kept in any one place. Something no one understood.
Something alone.
Like Blake.
Maybe, maybe he was trying to be friendly. Make friends. Maybe he was just really, really bad at it.
Something splashed in the water, no more than ten feet from him. A seal? A big fish?
A large, vaguely circular shape swam past his dangling feet. Tim's eyes followed its ripples to the shore, where something gorgeous emerged.
A big turtle, its colors obscured by the night and the city lights, walked just slightly up the shore and stopped. Its wet hexagonal back took in San Diego and reflected it back twice as vibrant. Nature took the electric and made it something wonderful to look at. But there were two brighter, focused lights on the turtle's back. Tim panned his eyes over to the couple he saw earlier. Now that they had turned them on, he could see the headlamps they wore, with which they scanned the beach. For a split second, Tim hadn't a single clue what they were doing. Then, they came upon a plastic water bottle.
The woman speared it, dropped it into a trash bag at her side, and kept moving. Tim smiled.
Huh, he thought to himself. They aren't all parasites.

* * * * *

The next day, Tim got a call from Ricardo. Tim wasn't at school — he was suspended — but Ricardo was, and he'd talked to Blake. Said that they had a long, long conversation. Tim decided not to ask for the details. He figured that, at that moment, he didn't deserve as much, and he'd just let Ricardo talk.
Ricardo said that he'd offered for Blake to sit at their table with them.
Tim cringed a little, but didn't complain.
Ricardo said that he never wanted Tim to try and act in his stead ever again. Said that he didn't need "protecting", or for people to seek "justice" for him. Said that he didn't want Pablo to grow up thinking that revenge was the best option. Said that Pablo really liked Tim, and so he wanted Tim to act better.
Needless to say, Tim was having a very hard time taking it all in.
But he was trying, was the thing.
Tim was really, really trying.

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4:00 AM 1/11/2018

hey

hey

you awake

What?

Why are you up this early

1 i had an english paper due today

2 youre up this early

Do you need me to help?

nah just finished it

im just bored now

I'm rn doing something so texings gonna be hard

you could always call

Aight

Just give me a second

8:41 AM 1/11/2018

Dude

How do you live through Mr. Grave's class

easy i didn't take it

Thanks for the advice John

what can i say

don't choose your classes with a coin flip

I mean

It was only an elective

And plus you know it's my lucky penny

oh yeah

it sure has provided you tons of luck

seriously you use it every yeaer and end up picking the most boring elective possible

Like you could do a better job 🙄

i could

but that's giving away my excellent services for free 😛

Psh

I think I'd rather stick to my boring classes than pay you

surrrreee they won't all be mind bogglingly boring

there might be one where you're allowed to have fun

in the form of a three hour calc problem

Hey at least most of my teachers let me listen to music

ahhh so thats the problem i see, i see

?

you need to listen to some acually good music

and then you'll not be so bored

Oh shut it

Mat Mason's good

You just don't want to admit you like something that I do

*Matt

🖕

huh

i cant belive it

ive acually managed to make you curse

kinda

Oh shut it

i didnt know you had it in you

Well I did

oh dear

what if youre gonna go on a rebel streak

and stay out a minute past your bed time

I don't even have a bed time this year

suuuuurrrreeee you dont 😉

You're an ass John

What else would I be 😘

Eeeeeewwwwwwwwww

Get away

You probably have cooties

psshh naahh

🙄

but between the two of us you probably have cooties

Oh ffs John shut up

I couldn't even have cooties

cause i've never been kissed before

well guess i gotta be the one to give ya cooties 😉😘

dude

did I scare you off

No

Graves was just handing out more homework

suuuure he was

He really was

i think youre just afraid of getting cooties

Well I guess I'll have to show you

mmmhmmm

cant wait to see absolutly nothing

It is real

just like your fear of cooties 😜

Dear God, you're not going to let this go

lol

nope

Oh god

I'll see you at lunch

With my homework

and i'll be there with my cooties

11:34 AM 1/11/2018
The mirrors in front of Allen's face kept mocking him with his reflection. He was pale, weak, and tired, and he had been for several days. He wasn't a child anymore, so why was he acting like it? Shouldn't he be able to just go up and tell the person he likes that he likes them? Or is he just going to treat this like every other grade school crush he's ever had?
Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes and a hollow feeling was creeping through his chest. He couldn't go through this every day; Hell, he could barely even stand it now. He just wanted to go up to him and tell him the truth. He justed wanted to say to him what he really thought.
A soft buzz went off in his back pocket.

hey where are you

these freshies keep trying to take your seat

Sorry

I forgot my combo

again?!?

jesus dude this is your fourth year here

just make a note on your phone like everyone else does

I keep on forgetting

dude am i gonna have to force you to make a note on your phone?

No I'm fine

I'll be there soon

you better hurry up or else im gonna have to lay across both of our chairs just to keep these wild beasts away.

Nervous laughter crawled up from his chest. Dear God, why couldn't he just do it? Why? His stomach bubbled with fear and his mind ran through all the reasons why not. He could be rejected by him. He could become the next laughing stock for liking his friend. He could be kicked clean out of his friend group. He could become the next person that falls for everyone around him. He could be -
A soft buzz went off in his pockets causing his line of thought to break.

Okay, what's up dude?

you usually don't take this long to get your combo from her

is she pissed off at you?

No, its a lock issue

Just give me a second

"Screw it," he hissed as he crammed his phone down into his pocket and fumbled for something else.
He pulled out his penny. He had been trying to do this for weeks without it; For weeks he wanted to stand on his own, and for weeks he couldn't.
So onto his thumb the penny went, and he took a deep breath.
"Heads I tell them, tails I don't."
And then, he flipped the coin.
11:50 AM 1/11/2018

maybe i should should known the combo to your locker

so you if you forget it I can just open it for ya

"Yeah you wish, John," A voice said from above. Sure enough, standing before him was Allen, in his full forgetting-his-locker-combo-for-the-fifteenth-time glory. A sly smirk played across John's face as he motioned for him to take a seat.
"So, want to take up my offer?"
"Psh, no, you'd probably steal my food."
"And I don't already?"
"Yeah, but at least it's not all of it," Allen quipped before pulling out a box of assorted Halloween candies.
"Yeah. Guess you're right," John muttered before the corner of his mouth twitched up into a grin, "So, where's your homework?"
"I… I left it in my locker."
"Oh really? Guess you'll have to show me later."
"I plan on it," Allen said while pointing a fork toward John, earning only an eye roll from him.
The duo fell into silence as they ate their food. After twenty minutes of eating, and gossip, Allen stood up and asked John a question.
"John, can you come with me?"
11:28 PM 3/11/2018

youre shitting me right?

Nope

oh my god

you really flipped that damn coin

before asking me out

I mean it was more like five times

and each time you got heads

yep each time

you're a giant dork dude

but seriously though

you have to stop letting luck rule your life

It isn't "ruling" my life

you flip that penny

whenever there is any big discition you have to make in your life.

and you listen to it

Sooo?

it might as well be ruling your life

Im fine dude

are you

yes

im just worried about you

picking boring classes for your entire life

and missing out on a chance to get cooties from the perfect guy

it's unfortunate that im not dating him

🙄

but seriously though dude

I can help you if you need me to

I'm fine

if you say so

12:25 PM 4/11/2019

Hey are you here yet?

Dude?

huh, oh yeah

sorry dude

i forgot my locker combo

You're an ass

"You're not wrong." said a voice interrupting a storming of buzzing texts. Allen whipped up his head only to see John looking at him.
"Oh god, stop that was only one time-" Allen said before being interrupted by John.
"One time?" John asked with a smirk playing across his face.
"It was only true one time," Allen muttered.
"And the rest of the times…"
"I was having troubles in the bathroom."
At that, John smirked and a childish gleam entered his eyes.
"Let me guess did you get in a fight with a terrible sewage monster?"
"No."
"Did you have to fight a wild flock of toilet hawks?"
"What even are those?"
"I dunno, something I made up."
"You're such a dork," Allen muttered while shaking his head.
"I think we both are."
"Yeah, we are." At that, Allen smirked and motioned for John to follow him to the ticket stand.
2:40 PM 4/11/2019
Cool water splattered against Allen's back as he stared up into the sky. Patches of dark clouds were slowly breaking away, allowing him to see the baby blue sky that was underneath. He felt his shoulders slacken before looking down at the penny in his hand. He turned it through his fingers a couple of times and let loose a sigh.
"What's with the long face dude?" John asked as he handed Allen a cone, "I know the movie was shit, but that's no reason to be a sad sack. Just do what a normal person does and rant about it online for 12 hours while strangers read your mental break down about a shitty remake no one cares about."
Allen chuckled and shook his head.
"No, it's not about that. It's just that, goddamnit, you were right."
"About what? Like me saying that Alligator 3: Revenge of the Caiman was gonna a terrible movie or…?"
"The penny. You were right about it." Allen muttered, just barely loud enough for John to hear.
"Oh. Well, what's bothering you right now?"
"Well, just my decision making, in general."
"What decision are you having troubling making now?"
A quiet murmur slipped past Allen's lips and John leaned in slightly.
"I can't hear you when you're that quiet."
"I mean just, god. It's kinda embarrassing now that I think about it."
"What, you want me to give you a kiss?" John teased a small smile playing on his face. Allen's head tucked into his chest ever so slightly and John let loose a small chuckle.
"Hey getting cooties from your boyfriend is nothing to be embarrassed by."
Allen only tucked his head deeper into his chest before muttering, a muffled 'shut up'.
"Nah, I'd rather have you do that."
Allen whipped up his head and rolled his eyes at the cliche remark.
"Psh, really? You don't have anything else? I'm ashamed."
"Yeah so am I. But you know what they say, even masters fail at their craft."
"Like hell you're a master at anything."
"I have been told I am a master of kissing." John teased while leaning in, "but alas, you'd have to kiss me and find out."
After John's last statement, Allen felt his heart drop. His skin heated up and he just realized how close they actually were. His heart picked up its speed and his brain switched into hyperdrive. It was scattering inside of his skull thinking about his options that he couldn't make. His hands kept fiddling with the penny hoping that somehow it would show hi-
John set his hand on Allen's, breaking his line of thought.
"Are you okay?"
John watched him with concerned eyes.
"Allen?"
Allen watched his eyes as the childish twinkle slowly left replaced by a soft concern.
"Did I make you uncomfortable?"
"No, I'm fine," Allen said, "just was a bit nervous."
"Alright, you had me scared for a second."
"Aww, barely even a week of dating and you're already going soft?"
"Ha, no, I've probably been going soft for longer."
Silence fell over them as they watched the park. Pigeons would bother eating couples, the bees would buzz around bushes, and the butterflies danced around flower beds. Children squealed in joy as they played with one another and the parents laughed as they watched their funny movements.
After a time of watching, Allen settled his hand on top of John's. A hum came from John as he intertwined their fingers.
A soft blush came across Allen's face as he watched the ground
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"I think, I'm gonna make a decision.” Allen's head slightly lifted and turned to John with a smile across his face.
"Without that penny?"
"Yeah."
"And what decision would that be?"
"Well, I think I'm gonna kiss a cootie-infected, self-proclaimed kissing master." Allen said in his best sassy tone, although it ended in more of a squeak as he made eye contact with John.
"Really?" John asked as he turned to Allen.
"Ye-yeah," Allen whispered as he tipped his head up towards John. Slowly he moved towards him closing the gap between them. For a second he stayed there, savoring his first kiss before pulling away. After a second John's face turned to mock horror.
"Oh no!” John said in a shrill tone as he brought his hand up to his forehead.
"What?"
"Well, you now have cooties!" John exclaimed before they both burst out into laughter.
"God, we're children, aren't we?"
"Yeah, we are."
After a few minutes their laughter turned to silence.
"So, now that you know you can make a decision on your own, what are you gonna do with that penny?"
Allen's eyes glanced at John before looking at the fountain behind them.
"I don't know, there's not a lot it can really do."
"Eh, there's somethings," John said glancing off in the distance.
"Like what?"
"Well if you get enough you could make a paperweight, you could put it in one of those take-a-penny things, or my personal favorite, you could throw it in a fountain and get a wish.”
"Are you serious?"
"What?"
"You believe in fountain wishes more than my lucky penny?"
"I mean, my fountain wishes don't pick boring classes."
"… I guess that's a fair point." Allen turned to face the fountain, and the water splashed at his face. He sighed before looking down at the glistening water, taking note of all of the drowned coins underneath its surface. He trembled as he placed the coin on his thumb, ready to flip it for the final time. He took in several more deep breaths before a soft jingle from behind his back tore his eyes away.
A small smile passed over his face as John approached quarter in hand.
"I know it's no lucky penny, but it's the closest I got."
Allen smiled as he positioned his coin on the top of his thumb.
"Are you ready to make a wish?"

 "Yeah."

 plop.

Item Description: A penny which, when flipped, will always land "heads up".
Date of Recovery: ██-██-████
Location of Recovery: ████, ███████
Current Status: Shipped off to permanent storage.


There are as many stories about the beginnings of the world as there are slaves in Daevon - that is to say, uncountable, and ever increasing.
Here is one of them.

Listen: here is a story.
Once, in the ancient days - and these are the very ancient days, before nearly anything was remembered. Before humans and stone had hardened like aging wood. At the time when the Daeva came -
- but grandmother! - I thought the Daeva have been here forever. That they came before us, and will come after as well.
Indeed, child, they have been here forever, since before our people arose from the stone - yet it was not always so. And once there was a time when we had been first, and the slopes were all ours and we ranged where we might - before the first of them rode in, in the name of their pótnyā.
It took little time, for her army and the ingenuity of her servants was vast, for her to take control of all the people, and all the farmland, to divide up the woods into blocks and fell their trees, to lay claim to the mine-mouths and all minerals delved within them, and the animals and those that hunted them. Yet she was still not satisfied. And she looked up, and saw the lights of heaven still passing above without care - the sun and moon rising and setting when they would, shedding light and warmth on all the people regardless of whether she willed or gave her leave.
And she said: "I have captured the leaders of the people and taken for my own their land. So too shall I capture the sun, and then there shall be nothing in, or above, or under the earth that does not bow down before me. And then the warmth shall be mine, and the light, and everything in this land, plant or animal or man, shall be mine and bound forever to me.”
So she set her servants to devising a means by which they might capture the sun.
One said to her, "O my mistress, perhaps we may set a snare for it. For just as one may snare an animal when it returns to its den at nightfall, if we follow its movement until it descends at the night, we shall find it upon the horizon and may trap it and bring it back to you."
And she gave him leave to take a division of men and attempt this, promising that if he succeeded, he would be richly rewarded. So the men arose and began their journey, turning their faces always towards the sunset and keeping the dawn at their backs. Sixty days they travelled, until they came to the mountain wall at the rim of the world, and they could go no farther. So there they set up their camp, knowing that the sun would have to alight on the peak of the nearest mountain as he descended, and they took their snares and laid them all around, and took up their spears, and waited for the evening.
They waited and waited, and eventually their quarry drew near, sinking into the west, and they clutched tighter their weapons and made ready their nets. But -
The sun was not caught!
- no, for he dropped down, not on top of their mountain peak, but behind it, and though they scrambled to try to crest it and chase the sun into the next valley, he was gone and night was fallen before they could - for the Daeva did not know, then, that at the ends the boundaries between this world and the spirit world thin, and that the sun can slip into the latter at each evening without ever needing to alight, so agile is his way. They had given no thought to the spirit world, not knowing how tightly it cleaves to this the living.
So empty-handed and ashamed they returned to their pótnyā, saying, “Its den is beyond the reach of our snares, and it has evaded us.” And for their failure she had them bound in chains of iron and cruelly punished.
Now another one of her servants, thinking that he could outdo the former, succeed, and thus advance in the pótnyā's favour, said to her, “If it slipped our grasp at the sunset at the edge of the world, perhaps we ought to set upon it at midday, when there is nowhere in the heaven that it can hide. And if it can be but pierced with one weapon and bound thus, then we may draw it down to within the range of the nets.” And she gave him leave to devise a way that he could do this.
So the servant went to his forge and made weapons, with hardened tips and shaven shafts so that they could fly further than ordinary weapons, and he attached to them cables and ropes, such that these could be bound around the sun when it was pierced.
And when the day dawned clear and cloudless, he and others of her servants took them up, and went out, and they made themselves ready, and waited as noon approached. And as the sun reached his zenith in the sky they took their aim, and they fired.
But -
Yes, child - their harpoons and arrows all fell short, for there were none among them with strength enough to cast one so far, into the highest ranges of the sky, and the weight of their ropes dragged them back the longer they were unravelled. And so empty-handed the servants were forced to return to their pótnyā, saying, “Our weapons have all fallen short, and we cannot set even a single cable around it.” And for their failure, and thinking that they had lied to her at the first in claiming they might do so, she had them too bound and punished with the rod and the ember.
But a third of her servants, who had been watching closely the failure of the first two, and who was well esteemed among the pótnyā's people as a highly skilled craftswoman, came to her and said, “O my mistress, I have considered the failures of my predecessors, and I believe I have learned much from them. It seems to me that both were accurate in one matter but not in the rest, and that we must consider both, the approach and the assault, if we are to be successful in this endeavour.
“We must intercept it on its path itself, for so close our weapons cannot fall short, and without cover at the bright midday it cannot evade.” And she gave her leave to devise a way by which she might come to the high airs, even to the outer court of nánga, and set the sun in harness. On this the servant spent long labour, and drafted up many plans: for the building of towers that would stretch up like weeds from a lakebed until they intersected the paths of the clouds as lily-flowers intersect the surface; and the growing of mighty trees, taller than any that have ever been seen on this world; and wings overlain with eagle feathers, that a man might wear and soar as they do almost out of sight. And she made, after all her designing, a great device, of oiled wood and resin-glued linen outside for stiffness and with a heart an engine of metal and coal, that could lift itself away from the earth with the pumping of many wings and upon its own thermals, formed from the warmth of the burning.
So the pótnyā selected two of her servants, and they were her greatest hunters - their arrows did not fly awry, nor were their game-bags ever empty. And she charged them to be the ones to go upon this vehicle in this third pursuit of the sun, and they were armed with bows so heavy that scarcely any others in Daevon could draw them, and harpoon heads as great as a man's palm and savagely barbed so that they could not release from the flesh of any prey lest it tear off its own skin, and thick cables of bronze. So did the pótnyā's hunters go, and they mounted their device as they mount horses, and as horses they let it carry them not forward over the steppe but up into the airs.
Near did they come indeed - near enough, it is said, that they could see among the brightness the hairs of his coat, and count the tines of his antlers dark against the blaze. But strong as they were, even the pótnyā's chief hunters were mortal still, and what mortal can endure his glory? Some say that they fell back when they cringed away from the intense heat, and others that it was even more intense than that, such that they were consumed utterly - and surely that is not too difficult to believe, for if they fell, then there is no trace of their landing.
And when the midday passed to afternoon, and the pótnyā perceived that her third attempt too had failed, and she had her servant brought before her and demanded of her how she had stolen her resources and yet brought back nothing in return. And for her failure she had her punished before all her court, even with rod and ember and wire, and put to death before them.
Seeing this, none of the others dared propose any further methods by which she might attempt her goal, for the fear that they too would fail and be punished even more cruelly as the pótnyā's patience waned.
And so despite all her efforts, the sun was never caught. Right?
- no, child, and nor shall he ever be. And each day you may see it for yourself, that in his stately journey he still affords his light equally to slave and free, to pótnyā and vassal alike - for there will ever be that the pótnyāt do not touch and cannot control, sure as every tomorrow will follow today.
And the story ends there?
No, child, not there, and not ever - but you must speak the rest.

« | Sükni and the Firebird


Alleys are never wide enough, alleys are never wide enough…
clackclackclack…
never wide enough never wide enough never wide enough
CLACKCLACKCLACK
neverwideenoughneverwideenoughneverwideenough
CLANG
NEVER WIDE ENOUGH
Anthony's lungs are filled with embers. He's been pushing them to the verge of giving out for a solid ten minutes, and if there's still clanging there's still no relief in sight. The alleys in this part of town are enough of a rats maze that this may all be a waste of energy, too. Better to pause and die on the spot instead of going out the hard way.
The blood on his coat sleeve has dried to dull red. He can't give up now. Not after all he's been through.
He swerves around another corner, kicks a trashcan behind him, stumbles over broken broomsticks, picks back up. This has to be heading somewhere. This has to be heading anywhere
—crunch.
Several feet back, metal caves. It's a quick, purposeless crumple, holding all the weight of crumpling a piece of paper out of idle boredom. A shrill drone accompanies it, echoing across the concrete walls. If Anthony listens closely enough he can hear irregularities — pockets of turmoil between the consistent waves of sound. There's drums in there, hammering, scraping, screeching. They collide and when they do gashes are rent through the nighttime air. None of it follows any order he'd hope music would follow; none of it follows any order whatsoever.
He doesn't dare turn to check the aftermath. Whatever was in that trashcan — no, think about something else, think about anything else.
clangclangclingclingcling
The trinkets in his coat. They're rattling in time to the footfalls, a metronome of screaming adrenaline. Somehow the longer he fixates on the sound the more the clangs seem to fade out. Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle. Hopefully none of these got stained the same way the coat—
clingclang
clang
clang
CLANG
FUCK.
His feet burn with every impact against the ground. His muscles groan. Where there were once embers in his lung is now a full forest fire. Anthony keeps staring for any sign of an exit route, a clear demarcation for salvation, and keeps finding the same gray walls staring back. The approaching clangs resound at even higher pitches. He's on his last legs. If this alley has nothing…
Just one more, just one more.
Anthony strains. Turning another corner,
YES.
Mere yards away is a motorcycle — a Vespa, modded by whichever Mekhy owns it to have a full diesel rocket rig crammed into the back.
He can ride this. He can fly this, he can shoot into the sky, jet back to the safety of a spirit-guarded condo halfway across town and put this nightmare behind him. He can finally escape. He can
CLANG
A crumpled trashcan hits his spine. He's blown forward, face thudding and scratching into the pavement. Around his mouth pools a red, flowing warmth.
Hands press down. Nerves falter. He throws his arms ahead in an attempt to scrabble forward and finds himself clutching at nothing. His breath is staccato. The clanging is silent; everywhere is silent.
A finger presses into his back. The touch is of white noise, of so many distinct pushes that the brain can only register its completeness as numbness. More arrive, running up, running down. He can sense that the music is halted — subdued, just for him.
Full hands wrap around and clasp his torso. Following an orchestrated, deliberate slowness, he is pulled
up
and
turned
over.
He stares forwards.

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

The angel is abstract. It's a raw, formless perfection, the very essence of its own chaos. It is not a sight — it is a sound. It is not a sound — it is the harsh black scars and searing white scratches of harmony turned to discord. Every microphone blown out, every amp broken, every orchestra astray of its conductor; all is the angel itself, itself is all. The chaos swirls inwards like static waterfalls and in the center it twists into ten jagged halos. Jagged, deafening halos.
The 10th Seraph of Noise has caught its prey. It may now do as it pleases.
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
One arm reaches down, taking Anthony by the throat. The drums return, tightening their grip in rushes of blinding thuds.
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
His whole body is raised higher, higher. The alley walls slip from sight.
▓▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓p▓▓▓▓▓
Bleeding noise pulses.
▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓p▓▓▓▓▓▓f▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
The halos grin.
▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓p▓▓▓▓▓▓f▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓p▓▓▓▓▓▓f▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓n▓▓▓▓▓▓▓z▓▓▓▓▓▓p▓▓▓▓▓▓f▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
Twisting over, several hands grab Anthony's coat, reach through his pockets, and tug out the trinkets. They suspend on tendrils of static over him: straight pride pins, rolled-up posters demanding the purity of Three Portlands, swastika-emblazoned patches, pins of double lightning bolts. A blood-stained knife.
There are no eyes in the angel, yet Anthony can tell, tell by instinct alone, that it glares at him.
The trinkets crunch inwards.
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓nazi▓▓punks▓▓fuck▓▓off▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
Perception cracks. The world explodes into disharmony, halos shredding through his hearing to the tune of stages collapsing endlessly in on themselves and electronics overloading into audible daggers that rip scarlet ribbons through his synapses. His brain is launched into Noise and — right as a final drumbeat hammers — the angel vanishes.
Anthony hits the ground. His body thuds against the pavement again, muscles too empty to move. The debris of his possessions rains down around him. Behind him, where the savior Vespa once rested, is a diesel-drenched ball of scrap. Far, far higher, the night sky is empty.
Laying still on the pavement, Anthony pisses himself.

The wound is still fresh on Isabelle's arm. While the potions accelerated the clotting, trickles of scarlet fail to be restrained, slipping out onto ver skin and curving downwards. They splatter onto the rusted metal of the sink.
The attacker must've cut deeper than ve thought. Still need to wear the bandages, then.
Flicking a hand, a coil of velvet fabric on the sink counter flits towards ver, folding over the wound into a constrictive form. Smaller, inwards protrusions form, lapping at the blood like cats lapping at milk. The press is soft. Bleeding slows.
Isabelle switches off the bathroom lights and steps into the cramped, apartment living space, plunging verself onto the bed. The next apartment over an astral telecaster is broadcasting from the site of the rally, voice managing to filter through the walls. He's talking to one of the UIU agents who broke things up once the scene turned violent — judging by his voice he was the guy who ordered the police golems to round up every counter protester trying to slug a nazi.
Agent says that the UIU will be searching for whoever punched the skinheads first.
Guh.
Not the time of night to be listening to bootlickers. Ve reaches for the bedside table; maybe there's a set of unused earplugs, or maybe one of the candles can still be used to conjure—
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
The telecaster is muffled by sound stage failure ambience.
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓hi▓▓▓▓honey▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
"Hey."
Akita's halos drift in, illuminating the room in the soft glow of a thousand tuning radios.
▓▓▓▓is▓▓the▓cut▓▓▓healing?▓▓▓
"No. Maybe. I hope so. Wondering if the guy laced it in something."
Akita frowns. She lowers an octave.

▓i'm▓sorry▓
▓if▓it▓makes▓you▓▓feel▓▓any▓better▓▓▓i▓found▓▓him▓▓

"Really?"

▓▓▓i▓heard▓▓his▓noises▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓i▓followed▓▓him▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓he▓▓▓won't▓▓mess▓▓with▓▓▓anyone▓▓▓again▓▓▓▓

"Oh. Thank you…"
▓▓▓<3▓▓▓
Isabelle scoots verself up, sinking ver head into one of the pillows. Arms of static embrace ver back, halos pulling in. It feels like guitar strings buckling in monochrome. Ve snuggles closer.
"I… I wish we didn't have to do that, you know?"
A speaker fizzles out in understanding.
"I shouldn't need to be fighting these pricks. Should've been punched before they had their rally. Shouldn't have even been allowed to have a rally ever." Ve exhales; slow, tired. "I still wish I could be myself without dealing with this."
The static wraps tight around ver chest. To the degree that an abstract, manifested concept can have a touch, Akita has always felt warm. It's a byproduct of entropy she says, a byproduct of the processes that birth her, venting out alongside her drumbeats and covering the surroundings in its press. For Isabelle, it's a blanket — soft, comforting.

▓▓▓▓▓it▓▓will▓▓▓get▓▓▓better▓▓▓▓
▓i▓promise▓

"Okay…"

▓▓▓stability▓▓▓isn't▓▓▓▓▓▓permanent▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓all▓records▓▓degrade▓▓
▓▓▓▓all▓files▓▓▓corrupt▓▓▓
▓every▓speaker▓has▓its▓limit▓▓▓and▓theirs▓is▓reaching▓it▓

"But that's the thing." Ve curls into a ball, clutching the soreness of her wound. "It's not. They keep getting louder, they keep lashing out more, I don't know how we're supposed to keep up pace, I…"
Ver thoughts drift as a nonexistent hand pats ver head.

▓▓the▓▓interference▓▓will▓▓▓pick▓▓▓up▓▓▓
▓they▓turn▓too▓bold▓for▓their▓media▓to▓handle▓
▓already▓it▓▓▓cracks▓▓▓their▓speech▓

▓▓when▓the▓▓▓barriers▓▓▓of▓▓their▓heads▓▓▓give▓way▓
▓▓▓▓when▓they▓pry▓the▓last▓crack▓open▓
▓▓it▓▓will▓▓▓rend▓▓▓their▓
▓▓▓▓VOICES▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓and▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓▓VISIONS▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓to▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓SHREDS▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓▓they▓will▓have▓no▓way▓to▓speak▓▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓▓no▓way▓to▓understand▓▓▓▓▓
▓▓▓▓and▓no▓way▓to▓cry▓for▓help▓▓▓▓

▓▓▓they▓will▓never▓scream▓▓▓

▓▓ever▓▓

▓again▓

▓i▓can▓ensure▓it▓
▓<3▓

"Thank you." Ve smiles.

▓▓▓▓▓i▓love▓you▓▓▓▓▓

"I love you too."
Sinking into Akita's disharmonies, body cocooned in harsh noise, Isabelle falls asleep.


Content Warnings

BE EXCELLENT TO EACH OTHER

Anomalous espionage and paracrime can be underhanded. This chapter features coercive behavior and emotional provocation; it touches on self-harm/suicide, substance abuse, and severe dissociation/derealization.

The meet was on the first of June, 2019. Saturday. Mx. Wren Masterson1 sat in the rear of the diner, in a booth with red seats. They waited but did not idle. Time wasn't money (not for an anarchist librarian), but it was definitely precious, so they always tried to keep busy. They brought a familiar book, so they could read it again. They watched people enter and leave the franchise, keeping a silent count, and regularly checked their exits. They drank coffee (black), and when the opportunity presented itself, Wren would pluck a couple of electrons out of the surrounding environment, pair them off as qubits, and sock them away for future projects. They weren't focused on any one thing, but they were occupied, and that was enough.
Eventually, Penelope Gore2 walked in, dressed in some of the most boring clothes imaginable. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Lots of beige. This was an amateur mistake and actually made her look more conspicuous, but Gore didn't realize that, because espionage was not her specialty. She worked for the SCP Foundation at Site-76 as a Researcher, not a Field Agent. Spying on "Gamers Against Weed" had not been her choice, but when she was recruited by Project CLOWNFISH in 2018, Gore thought she might have an opportunity to redeem herself. Maybe even settle a score with the troll who had derailed her career. In practice, things hadn't been that simple. She scanned the room, spotted Masterson in the back by the jukebox, and grimaced at their fashion sense before approaching.
Wren didn't like to sacrifice personality for anonymity. It seldom worked. Leaning into a gimmick, though… that was effective, because people seldom think past their first impressions. Today, underneath a denim jacket festooned with pins, studs and patches, Masterson was wearing a bright orange shirt printed with the grotesque face of the "The Incredible Melting Man". They were dressed for a book fair, swap meet, concert or convention, all of which would be a pretty typical environment for "MxMasters"… but today, the anomalous individual known as "steakshift" was working.3
Gore came to a halt by the booth and stood there, waiting to be acknowledged. Masterson did not look up from their paperback copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. When she finally spoke, her tone could frost glass. "Sorry. Am I interrupting?"
"Not at all. I've read it before. Several times." They flipped a page.
Penelope removed her sunglasses, glared, and checked her watch. It was 2:30. "Well, are we going to get started, or-"
"Do me a favor," Wren interjected. "Queue up Track 6 on the jukebox. That way we won't be interrupted, or noticed, or anything."
"Oh… no. No, no. Masterson, whatever this is, I can't be an accessory to an anomalous event."
"Relax. It's self-contained. Think 'cone of silence'. Besides, you're withholding information from your buddies and scheming with a known weirdo, so I'm pretty sure you're a co-conspirator, not an accessory!" They clicked their tongue nonchalantly and flipped another page.
Gore set her jaw, exhaled slowly, and did her absolute best not to take the bait. Instead, she marched over to the jukebox, pulled up Track 6 (ugh, Tom Jones), and hit play. Then she returned to the table.
As music flooded the room, Masterson inserted a random piece of paper as a bookmark, then snapped the paperback shut and set it aside. "Alright. Now we can do business without anyone knowing or caring! Thanks, Tipper."
Gore's eyes narrowed. She had no idea how PoI-6966 had circumvented their post-interrogation amnestics, and she didn't care. I already asked you politely. "So, while the music is playing… the people here won't notice, whatever we do?"
"Essentially. It's similar to one of harmpit's tri-"
Gore balled up a fist, wound back, and socked Masterson right in the nose. They reeled and tumbled over into the booth like a cartoon character. As promised, none of the surrounding patrons batted an eye.
For a moment, Masterson was still; then they opened their eyes and touched their face gingerly. "Ow," they protested. "What was that f-"
"For the last time," she shouted, "do not call me that! My name is Penelope! Do you have any idea what it's like to be mocked, day after day, over a simple mistake?! It's been two years! This is all your fault, Masterson! You want my help? Fine! I'll help! But if you ever call me that again, I will kick the shit out of you!"
"Okay. Okay. Touchy." steakshift straightened up in their seat and gestured to the opposite bench. "Please. Be my guest, 'whistl_stahp'."
Still fuming, Gore sat down and inched deeper into the booth. "Honestly… that name is silly, too. Just the oldest meme I could remember."
"Yeah, well, I named myself after a joke I heard when I was seven. The Internet is weird like that." They drummed on the table with both hands. "So… what exactly are we talking about, today?"
"Your request. The anomaly. Unwinding." She saw Masterson's expression shift, and they snuck a glance over their shoulder. "I thought people wouldn't notice?"
"They won't, it's… reflex. I don't talk about it. Ever. Much less in 'public'. I'll manage. What's the problem?"
Wow, where to begin? This whole thing was an ethical quagmire and Gore was still struggling with the implications. Unwinding was a lost piece of anomalous art, produced by a rookie member of "Are We Cool Yet?" and abandoned in the Canadian backwoods for a decade. It had killed five people… or possibly six? Wren Masterson claimed that Anna Bojarski (AKA "The Developer") was effectively gone, but this was still their crime, their responsibility, and their plea for assistance. It had been an earnest confession, but definitely not guileless. In fact, the whole thing left a bad taste in her mouth. "For starters… I can see that you're trying to do right, and I respect that. But this is not an actionable lead. It's incomplete."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sorry, you just haven't given me enough. We're mi-"
"Excuse me?" Wren repeated. "Ti… Gore, I gave you everything I had! What more could you want? My wrists, so you can clap 'em in irons?" They paused. "Wait a minute. Is this a trick? Are you going to rat me out after all?"
"What?! I'm-"
"Dial, a-3-a-1-1-f."
Penelope slammed both hands onto the table. "RED!" she barked, then let out a shuddering groan. "Oh God. Please stop that."
"Huh. So you're not trying to fuck me, here."
"No, Masterson," Gore seethed. "I would literally never fuck you, but especially not after what you've done."
"That's… not what I meant, but… feel free to expound."
"On top of torpedoing my workplace credibility… what did you put in that second tape?"
"It's a sort of lie detector. Question and answer. Red light, green light. Simple."
"Oh. 'Simple'."
"Works, doesn't it?"
"No! I mean… yes, but it's not '100% safe', you lying…" Penelope choked on her rage and swallowed it. "Ass!"
Wren chuckled, then coughed hurriedly. "Well, not to be unkind, but… I'm surprised you didn't run a coghaz filter. You don't seem like a quick learner, outside your white box."
"Listen. To. Me. Every time you trigger that thing, I taste colors. Synesthesia, except it hurts! It's like licking a bug zapper!"
They paused, mug of coffee at their lips. "That's… not supposed to happen." They finished the drink and set it down. "Sorry. I'll try not to use it."
"You'll try?! Get this shit out of my head! I keep biting my tongue!"
"Dial, a-3-a-1-1-f."
"GREEN!" She clapped a hand to her mouth and stifled a moan. "Please, please stop. I can taste blood."
"Uh. Well. Did not intend or expect this, but… not sure I can trust you without it?" They cowered beneath the scientist's withering glare. "That sounds bad! Coming from me. Not personal. Don't trust easily, but particularly not janitors."
"That's… fine. Even fair. But you asked me to respect your fragile brain. So please, I really am begging you now: respect mine."
For a moment, Wren was silent. Then they nodded. "Alright. I have a countermeme in storage. It's not format-dependent so I can pop it to you as a nice friendly jpeg. No more lights. No more synesthesia. We can just talk, and… inevitably lie to each other some more, like regular-ass humans."
"Thank you." Penelope glanced around the room. Nobody was looking at them. Nor was anyone coming into the diner, or leaving. The wait staff seemed… occupied, but not with anything in particular? Everyone was sort of going through the motions. "Is there any chance I could get something to eat? I skipped lunch."
"Nope. They won't respond even if we flag them down. Besides, you shouldn't eat or drink at a meet, not unless you control the terrain. And, uh…" They gestured broadly to the environment.
"…you're right, I learned that in training. I'm… sorta new to field work."
"Don't feel too bad. Tradecraft takes lots of practice." Masterson hesitated, then sighed. "Rewind. What do you mean, I haven't given you 'enough'? As far as I know… this is it."
"Don't get me wrong, the data is good. I could use this information to help design containment protocols. The question is, if you're not involved, how do my employers discover this anomaly in the first place? It's in the middle of nowhere. It just doesn't scan."
"Ah… heck. Didn't think of that." Wren leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. "Besides myself, nobody knows or cares."
"What about the rest of the 'art society'?"
They laughed but there was no mirth in it whatsoever. "It was a decade ago. The art world moves fast. Nobody remembers the Five, except me. Those ten freaks who walked away… well, several have shuffled off this mortal coil for other reasons. No idea where you might find any surviving… survivors."
"Great. Square one."
"Not exactly, Deepthroat. How does the Foundation normally find… abnormal stuff?"
"Don't call me that either. Broad strokes: many anomalies were discovered because of public incidents; disruption, upheaval, loss of life…"
"Hard pass."
"Historical or cultural precedents, like legend or myth, with consistent anomalous features…"
"No ghost stories in the Crossing about a TV in the woods. Not much local color at all, in fact."
"You're sure? You've checked? Recently?"
"Yes, Researcher. I have my sources.4 Besides, I picked that place for a reason: nobody just wanders around that part of the country unless they already know what they're after. It's… well, rural Ontario, it's boring."
"Fine. There are also objects discovered in the midst of other investigations…"
"Oh c'mon," Masterson whined, "haven't you stolen enough of my shit?"
"The word that we use… is 'secure'."
"Yeah. Right."
"Then there are primary and secondary sources. Which we have! But they're not enough." Gore turned her palms to the sky, defeated. "I'm sorry, Wren. I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but-"
"Wait, wait. Hold up a minute. Secondary sources? Such as?"
"Again, variable. We sometimes find references in newspapers, forums, or…"
"A photo album? Filled with images that are consistently, verifiably weird, but don't have any juice?"
"Define 'juice'."
"Magic. Creativity. Zip. Bite. 'No juice' equals 'safe to observe', albeit frequently unpleasant. I ask because I've got a veteran anartist's personal photo album buried in my collection somewhere. Acquired it thirdhand. Original owner is dead and the timeline would fit. I'll put a few snaps of Unwinding in there, add a little extra fakery, and boom. Done. Corroborating evidence with no traces back to me."
"That could work, but… you said you didn't have anything else. No photos, just diagrams."
Wren chortled. "You remember who you're talking to, right? I can gin up some thoughtographs, vintage film and all. This is my art."
"So how does the Foundation find the photo album?"
"Uh… around? Shit, another plot hole. I guess you could 'discover' it in somebody else's collection but I don't want to get The Amazing Rando thrown in your gulag, either."
Gore scowled. "It's not a 'gulag', Masterson. Speaking from experience: we help people. My civilian background was in social sciences. My employers do a lot of cross-training, so I'm not in that division anymore, but I have helped… a fair number of people." She tried not to think about why she had transferred out of Site-17. Eyes in the dark.
"What, by bleaching their brains with chemicals? Locking them away forever?"
"We are not having this argument! We're wasting our very limited time!" Gore twisted in her seat and gestured towards the diner. "This song isn't going to last forever, and… uh…"
Something was wrong. The staff wasn't simply distracted; everyone was distracted, from everything. Nobody was placing or receiving orders. Nobody was eating, though they were certainly trying to jockey food from table to mouth. They just kept getting sidetracked by other things: looking around, considering the menu, talking. One guy kept dropping his cutlery. The background conversation was becoming… tense.
"People around here are noticing, Wren."
"No, they're tangentially aware that something is off, but it's not clicking on a conscious level. A lot like how you don't seem to realize 'What's New Pussycat?' has been playing for five minutes straight. Even though it's a two-minute song." Masterson giggled.
Gore paused. This was true. Tom Jones was still crooning. She looked at her watch. Still 2:30. What the hell? "Are you… slowing time right now?"
"No. Well, technically yes, but… literally, no. I'm compressing all the information around our conversation, using this sequence as a sort of… narrative prism? Conceptual algorithm? Whatever. Regardless of how long our meeting takes, the routine will play until we're good and ready."
She stared at them, dismayed. "That sounds like… pataphysics. You're talking about pataphysics?"
They squinted back, nonplussed. "Maybe? I heard that word in college, but that was a long time ago."
"I don't know the theory behind it. I've only read a few casefiles, and those were… really, really weird. From what little I understand, pataphysics is a branch of metaphysics predicated on the idea that on some level, reality is… fictional. Malleable." She paused again. "Christ, Masterson, you're a reality bender?"
They shook their head vehemently. "No, no, no. I'm just… genre-savvy."
Penelope Gore's brain short-circuited. For a moment, pgOS 2.0 idled. Then it came back to life and she realized that everyone in the Foundation, including her, had been completely off-base in their assessment of Wren Masterson's anomalous traits.
We've been looking at this backwards. Tapes, storage, screens and lenses — they're the medium, not the message. Specialization, not limitation. PoI-6966 is a metaphysical remix artist who "deconstructed" themselves through weaponized doubt, came back, and they can only be "genre-savvy" if…
"You don't think that any of this is real." She gestured broadly to the diner, then realized she should probably clarify, given the circumstances. "The world. The universe."
Masterson hesitated. "Well… no, honestly. I think this is, uh… shadows on a cave wall. A 'dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind'. 'The Matrix'. Whatever you prefer." They cocked their head to one side. "You know you're the first person to just… straight-up ask?"
"Really," Gore deadpanned. She was doing her best to stay outwardly placid, but her mind was reeling. PoI-6966 is a Type Green with a derealization disorder. This is like standing in conceptual quicksand. Penelope glanced towards the doors, then remembered her training (far too late). Can't just walk out of a bender's range, Pen. Not if they don't want you to.
"Yeah. Wild!" Masterson giggled. "Doesn't come up in conversation and I don't talk about it unprovoked; that's a faux pas, like waving at the fourth wall."
Penelope was conflicted. Do I want to ask? Hell no! But… should I? I'm neck-deep in this already and I'm only just realizing what it means! Eventually, she spoke. "'Genre-savvy' implies that life has a genre."
"Tons, actually, thank goodness. Variety, spice, all that. In my experience, the narrative landscape shifts all the time. Luckily, I'm good at reading the terrain."
"'Terrain'," Gore echoed.
"Conceptual terrain. Genre conventions are sort of like landmarks; they help me orient myself. From there, I mostly just… ride. It's nice. Like biking with the wind." Their smile faltered a bit. "Doesn't stay smooth forever, though. There are always ups and downs. Some conflict is inevitable. Nature of the construct."
"'Construct'." She'd learned this trick in her old job; repeating someone's last phrase typically encouraged them to elaborate.
"Story. Narrative. Reality. Whatever. Existence isn't one thing with a single order; it's a bunch of complex systems with interrelated parts. Heterarchy. Some things rise up, take precedence, then fall back down afterwards."
"'Afterwards'." Stop stalling and think of something, Pen.
"After they stop being relevant to someone's perspective. Stories typically have a beginning, middle and end; those parts are rendered in scenes, chapters, arcs, et cetera. Subplots and genres come and go. Sometimes the transitions are predictable. Mostly… not. My life seems to be governed by narrative inconvenience."
Penelope winced, and her facade cracked. "Uh… isn't that sorta self-fulfilling?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well… you've mentioned this before. You said you were 'depressed and dissociating' when you built Unwinding in 2008. How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?"
"That's… kinda personal. Started young, though. Way before I discovered magic. It's definitely bound up in that project, but I didn't know what any of it meant until afterwards." They stared off into space for a moment, quietly distressed, then blew a raspberry. "Joke's on me, I guess."
"Don't you think this could be confirmation bias? You're a reality bender. Maybe the surrounding world acts like a story because of your influence?"
"Again, not a reality bender. My life is really weird and contrived sometimes, but that's not because of me, I'm not in charge."
Gore pointed at a nearby table, where three men were stuck in a short, recognizable loop. One told a joke, the second laughed, and the third knocked his cutlery off the table. The third picked up his cutlery, put it back, then the first man told the joke again. Repeat. "These guys might disagree."
"Ha! Fair point, but not the same. I don't do things passively; there's always a control system. Remember my story about the pinhole? Had to understand photography before I could mess with film. Well, narrative engineering is way tougher, because everything in the construct is connected. Jamming fingers in the universal machinery is a great way to lose the whole hand, so I use tools instead. Mostly jokes, homage, pastiche. Small, simple stuff. I try to be responsible."
"Responsible?! Masterson…" Gore tried to say "SCP-4581" and couldn't. Foundation neuroprogramming forbade her from using the official designation outside of work, even to people who (apparently) knew it already. "That tape you made-"
"Ah yes. The gun."
"The bomb. What if it had ended up, say… on international TV?"
"Well then there would be… oh. Oh, wow, then there could be problems." Wren bit their lip. "I didn't consider that sort of scale."
"You don't say." Gore put her head in her hands. SCP-4581 was a counter-propaganda tool embedded with a virulent infohazard: when recorded and uploaded, "the Loop" would propagate and overwrite derivative media with copyrighted music, while "the Jam" would disable the effect and wipe audio recordings. The containment breach at Site-76 had been damaging. Embarrassing. On the other side of the Veil, though? SCP-4581 could have been devastating. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but… you really should be higher on the threat index."
"What, is that a power level thing? Like DBZ?"
"Sure. I guess. But also a 'public enemy' thing."
"Oh I am definitely not one of those."
"But you are!" she exclaimed. "You say you're careful, but you miss important details! Checks and balances which seem obvious, from my perspective."
"Oh, I see. You think you can do better?" They scowled and crossed their arms. "Well, enlighten me, Researcher. Tell me precisely how I've fucked up and how you, in your infinite wisdom, would patch the holes."
"Fine. Gladly. Why doesn't the cassette have a safety system?"
"It does, jackass. You used it."
"No, I mean, why is it indiscriminate? I am not a propagandist, but it treated me like I was, just because I recorded the experiment. If it's an anti-fascist thing, why isn't it keyed to the uploader's politics? Not everyone with a camera is trying to poison the discourse."
Masterson cackled. "You've clearly never tried to pack a definition of 'fascist' into an essay, let alone a cassette tape. Read Umberto Eco, Penelope: fascism isn't internally consistent, it's a rhetorical shitshow, and it would have taken me months to make a more specific targeting algorithm. So I didn't! Didn't need one! It was a purpose-built device. Specific context. Explicit instructions. The most important safety is keeping your finger off the trigger."
"Where was your finger when you sent the cassette to that kid, 'polaricecraps'? Where was the safety when he dropped it in the street? What was your remote failsafe, in case things went nuclear? Because yes, it is a bomb, Masterson! This was like… a land mine, waiting to be tripped." She sighed. "Much as I hate to admit it, I was actually kinda lucky to set it off in a controlled environment."
Masterson fell silent. They looked at Gore. They looked around the diner, then down at themselves, contemplating. Eventually, they nodded somberly. "You are absolutely right. I should have built in a quantum failsafe, on/off, so I could flush the juice remotely. I… didn't expect that someone else would need it at all, let alone so quickly." They sighed heavily. "The tape belonged to my dad. Making it was impulsive and letting it go was shortsighted. I'm sorry for what happened to everything and everyone involved… except, uh, the ones who deserved it… but you obviously did not deserve this. The Foundation scares the piss out of me, but you have a conscience and from the way you talk about it, my tape wrecked your world. Then I made it worse with my 'red light, green light' bullshit. That was a low, underhanded thing to do when asking for help. Had reasons, but… they're not good enough. I'm sorry. I will never do anything like that again. I will send you that countermeme A-S-A-P." steakshift paused, then raised a finger. "Also… names are super important and I should have respected yours. So. Big apologies, Penelope Gore. Never gonna use that nickname again."
They looked at each other for a while. Researcher and librarian. Liberal and anarchist. Lurker and troll. Then Penelope sighed. "That is probably the most thorough and specific apology I've ever heard."
"Go figure! It's even earnest."
"Wren… I don't agree with your politics, let alone your methods. You are more reckless than you realize. Still… I can tell that your heart is in the right place, even if your head is right up your ass. So, apology accepted. For now."
"Oof." They clapped a hand to their chest and twisted in their seat, as though they'd been struck by an arrow. "Your judgment wounds me."
"You've got thick skin, I'll give you that." Gore hesitated. I need to say it and this is as good a time as any. "For the record… your conception of reality doesn't appeal to me, either. I'm a human being, not a fictional character."
"'Por que no los dos?' They're not exclusive. Humans are people, but on a biological level, we're also meat puppets. Emotion is chemical. Consciousness is electric."
"I'm familiar with biology, Masterson. I'm even familiar with philosophical pessimism. I'm not a fan! Bottom-line… I don't appreciate your insinuation that someone is pulling my strings."
"Oh. Heck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be, like… condescending, or deny your agency. My perspective isn't fatalist. We do have choice and independence, it's just…" They trailed off. "You're asking me to shut up."
"I was trying to be polite about it, but yes." Gore drummed her fingers on the table, considering. "In fact… I have an idea. You will hate it, but it might work."
"Lay it on me."
"You give us the album."
"Uh… you sure you're not trying to get me pinched?"
"Look, real talk: the best lie is the truth, at least in some capacity. You hide the lie in something earnest. Like your '100% safe', self-incriminating Trojan horse, or that story about driving out to your target and using your cassette. Compelling stuff! Except we looked it up afterwards, and you don't drive."
"God damn it, I knew that would bite me in the ass."
"No, that's the thing — no one cares about a discrepancy like that. You're with 'Gamers Against Weed', for crying out loud. Of course you lied to us, the janitors, the nightmare men. If we dug deep on every little thing that seemed amiss, you'd still be in custody."
"How reassuring."
"What I'm saying is, what you see is typically what you get. You're a librarian! You told us as much. If you find an anomalous document out in the world and report it, nobody will assume you're the one who planted it. You just recognized something dangerous and called the people equipped to handle it."
"Except blunt told me about the last time he gave you a call. Y'all tried to roast his grey matter with angry math."
"That doesn't sound like us. Are you sure Kriyot was telling you the truth?"
"Like, 90%? Well, maybe 60%.5 He said it was a robot, and robots seem rare-ish."
"Hm. Regardless. From my bosses' perspective, you are small fry. Janitors don't kill small fry. We prefer to use them as bait."
"Wonderful. Remind me again how this solution will not get me neck-deep in shit with everyone I know and love?"
Gore sighed dramatically. "Masterson, what do you think happens when a known weirdo submits a tip… which turns out to be legitimate… and asks for something entirely predictable in return?"
Their expression brightened. "Like my cassette! You have my undivided attention."
"Well, most of the time… nothing happens at all. I sincerely doubt that you'll ever see that tape again — sorry, my bosses don't really trade — but you're an anomalous individual who collects stuff. Stands to reason that some of it is hazardous. We could conceivably take care of it when you can't. Calling it in makes logical sense, unlike me saying, 'hey guys, there's this dangerous thing I heard about, somehow'."
"Huh. Wait, you're suggesting that I pretend to be a source who provides the Foundation with info… to cover up the fact that I'm a source, providing the Foundation with info?" Masterson tapped their chin. "That's… elegant, actually. Very John le Carré, except hopefully without getting shot on the East German border."
"I don't get the reference, but… yes. That's my idea."
"What's New Pussycat?" came to a sudden halt mid-croon. Gore looked at the jukebox, confused, until it fired up again. More Tom Jones. This time, "It's Not Unusual".
"Don't worry," Masterson said, "the effect is still going. We're just moving to the next phase."
Wait. "Hold on a second. I know this joke from Tumblr. Is this a John Mulaney bit?"
"Of course it's a bit." They giggled maniacally and snapped their fingers with the music. "I'm actually surprised you got it! Figured you'd notice 'Track 6' first."
It took her a second to connect the dots: "TRACK 6 FOREVER" had been in the instructions for SCP-4581. "Wait, you included a callback? Why?!"
"Because it's an in-joke. We both know it. That's why it works."
"Why are you such a…" Gore bit back a more cutting insult. "…such a goof?"
Masterson shrugged. "Humor helps people deal with a cruel, random and frequently unfair universe. I figure that if nobody's getting hurt, why not have fun with it?" They put two thumbs up. "Cosmic nihilism! But the cheery kind! Where possible."
"Doesn't this routine end with the patrons being supremely pissed off?"
"Well sure. But they're just mad… because they are angry."
Penelope snorted involuntarily. "The 'first rule of tautology club'…"
"…'is the first rule of tautology club'. Yeah." Wren gazed at her, visibly re-evaluating. "You're a bigger nerd than I thought. What's left on the agenda?"
"Well, if we're going to do this, we need a direct, discreet backchannel. Asking bones to pass you a note was beyond awkward."
"Mmm. No, we don't."
"Yes, we do."
"No. We don't. bones is impartial. Besides, you're in the shallow end of the GAW pool, 'whistl_stahp'. Let's hash out some challenge/response codes, then you can @ me in the chat to set a meet."
"Do you actually want to play this game in a monitored channel of magical stoner outlaws? That seems like a real bad idea, assuming you don't want to get caught or labelled a narc. Which, technically… you are."
"I am not a narc. I am narcing on myself. That is called 'responsibility'! I'm not going to tell you fuck-all about the others! I might say that our admin calls itself 'bones' because it's a skeleton in an enchanted server farm, or that 'kkrule' is an actual gremlin, who eats rocks. Am I telling the truth? You'll never know!"
"We're getting off-topic. You don't have a phone?"
"Ha! No. GPS, stingrays, NSA shit? Best way to get made, nowadays."
"I can't drop a postcard in your mailbox, or something?"
"Uh… no. I've got PO boxes all over the place but checking them takes a while."
"Masterson…" Gore wrestled with the phrasing a bit before giving up. "Are you homeless?"
They scoffed a little too loud. "No. Of course not! I mean… I may not have my own house, but I go home all the time. I live with people. Around."
"Aren't you a librarian?! Where do you keep your library, if you don't have a base of operations?"
"None of your business, officer." Masterson glowered for a moment, then sighed. "Put an X in your window if you want to talk."
"Everyone knows 'The X-Files', Wren! Besides, what if I need to contact you urgently?"
"God damn you are picky. Uh, let's see. Walk… clockwise around your apartment building, making right turns. Carry chalk. If you need to contact me, turn hard right, mark an X on that mailbox on the northeast side and keep walking. As for speed, I can tweak my delivery route to check it daily."
Penelope's heart leapt into her throat. Then she saw red. "First of all," she hissed, "fuck you for spying on me at home, Masterson! You memorized my block? That is creepy!"
"What? This is basic tradecraft! When I found your wallet-"
"'Found your wallet', what horseshit. Like you'd just stumble on it at random. You're Canadian! What were you even doing in the States, in my town? You've been following me!"
"You're the party crasher, 'whistl_stahp'! You snooped in our chat, and no! I am not following you and I did not steal your wallet! I am not a thief! I don't judge people who are, because 'crime' is fake anyway, but that's not something I'm into!"
Gore crossed her arms and waited.
"Okay, not regularly. Some people just… need it more than the mark. Whatever 'it' is. But I swear to everything I hold dear, I did not steal your wallet and I am not stalking you, Penelope, that would be super gross and creepy and I am nothing if not professional." They sucked air through their teeth. "Ethical trolling. It's the GAW creed."
She chortled humorlessly. "That's rich, given the 'tricks' you've pulled."
"Look, I… like I said in my message. I travel, a lot, all over. Wallet on the sidewalk. Yours. Thought it was a trap. Bolted. Checked it for bugs, found none. Scoped the block the next morning. There you were, catching the bus. You looked stressed. I realized it wasn't a trap, it was just… a very strange coincidence. Those do happen." They hesitated. "Right?"
"You — are — a — reality — bender," Gore spat. "You used a Tom Jones song as a 'prism' to timefuck this entire diner!"
"I used… two Tom Jones songs. Compressed and looped. Plus one standup routine."
"Who cares?! That doesn't matter! Nothing matters in here! For all I know, you could be messing with my brain right now — even more than you already have!"
Wren shook their head frantically. "I'm not. Promise. Gonna send you that countermeme as soon-"
"You could have primed this whole sequence of events. Pataphysics. Reverse causality. You could've set up every variable: song, diner, wallet, con, taskforce — your fucking tapes! Was this you, Masterson?!"
"I don't — no. I don't do that, I can't."
"Not consciously. You keep saying it: your 'brain-meat' is kinda messed up, and you don't talk to anyone about it. Are you medicated? Have you been taking them properly? Do you have, like… substance abuse issues?"
"…don't do this."
"God, you do. Are you sober, 'steakshift'? Maybe desperate for a hit? Are you sure you're in control here? Or… are you sure that you're not controlling everything here?" Penelope Gore let that question hang in the air for a moment, then scoffed. "Who am I fucking kidding. You've never been in control for a second. You're a mess. You're barely here at all."
Masterson paled. "Please don't say stuff like that," they whispered. Their voice shook, heavy with emotions. Confusion. Horror. Fear.
"Or what?!"
"I don't… no."
"You don't know! That figures!" Gore's voice got louder and louder. It wasn't like it mattered. The patrons and staff were busy with what they were doing, which was… nothing. Angry, boring nothing. "You are like a conceptual explosive, wrapped up in a gaudy jacket! You're so tightly wound, you're eventually gonna pop out and shred everyone in the room! Christ! You're scared of us, the janitors? We're lucky you didn't just manipulate the narrative and turn us inside-out! You could, couldn't you? If anything mattered to you, you fucking poser!"
"Please… Penelope, you're hu-"
Gore balled both hands into fists, thrust them into her lap, and let her voice boil out of her belly. "You are, without a doubt, the most sloppy, dangerous and violent person I've ever met, Wren Masterson! You're a fucking bitch and the world would be better off without y

Foundation Researcher Penelope Gore rinsed her coffee cup, wiped it out with a dry cloth, and refilled it. Sugar, cream. Clipboard, itinerary. Another day at the office. She heard the rustle of movement and turned to greet Doctor Robert Saunders, who breezed in through the open door of the employee lounge with a wide smile.
"Oh hey, Doc. How're you doing?"
Doctor Saunders grinned. "It's a good day, Penelope. How about you?"
Wait, what?
Record scratch, freeze-frame. Penelope Gore didn't know what was wrong, but she almost dropped her coffee cup regardless.
Something was… missing. Something she had almost (but not at all) grown accustomed to. What was it? Gore considered the scene. Site-76. Research. Still working her way through scheduled test sequences. Had Saunders changed his hair? No. Was it in how she'd been addressed? He hadn't said anything odd, he'd only used her
name
instead of a horrible, disrespectful nickname they'd cooked up because of the Incident, a sophomoric joke, boomers pretending to be hip, like anyone still cares about Ti
This wasn't right.
She knew what had changed.

This was a world without Wren Masterson.

That was a world without Wren Masterson.

Then they were back in the diner.
"Oh please, please, please don't. I, I can't."
"What just happened?" Gore squeaked. She unclenched her hands and looked around. Tom Jones: still wailing on the jukebox. Patrons and staff: still stalled, agitated, discombobulated. She looked back at the person on the opposite side of the booth. They looked exactly the same (curly hair, denim, loud orange shirt) except now they were having a meltdown. They shook like a leaf. Their eyes were wide, wild and brimming with tears, and when they extended both hands across the table, palms up, pleading, Gore finally saw the scar tissue across both wrists. Old, faded, horizontal. Traces of a teenager's attempt at suicide.
"Please," they whimpered. "Don't look away. Need your help for a second."
"W-What is it, what can I do?"
"Hold my hands. Say my name. Look at me, recognize me. Please. Just for a second, just… to know I'm here, and not… gone. Not again."
Penelope took both their hands without hesitation and gripped them firmly. "You are Wren Masterson," she said. Her voice quivered a bit but her pace was steady. "You are real. We are here. I don't know what that was, but… it's over. You're okay and I am really really sorry, I shouldn't have said-"
"What's my name?" they wailed, tears streaming down their face. "Please."
"Wren. Uh, MxMasters." She paused. Wait. Think core identity. A joke they heard when they were young. "You're steakshift. Your friends call you steakshift."
"And you're… Penelope Gore." steakshift sobbed once, then squeezed back and let go of her hands. "Okay. I'm good. I'm here." They reached over, grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser and went to work on their face. Then they tried to control their breathing.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Eventually, Gore asked, "What… was that?"
Masterson sobbed again. Or was that a laugh? "The juice. 'My gift, my curse.' Narrative engineering. Whatever you called it. Pataphysics?" They blew their nose, grimaced, then balled the napkin up inside another, cleaner napkin. "Happens sometimes. Brain problems. Hate myself, don't believe I exist. So I don't."
I got it backwards again. Gore had assumed that a reality bender having a dissociative episode would degrade the surrounding environment, not themselves. "You… stop?"
"No, I drop. Out of the story, back to the void. Don't like to talk about it." They paused, then sagged in their seat, defeated. "And now I've blabbed to the janitors. Fu-"
Gore snatched their hand again and squeezed it tightly. "No, fuck that. Forget I'm a janitor. This is between you and me, personal and confidential. I won't ever tell them about this. I promise."
"…really?"
"Yes, really." Penelope smiled a little bit. "I was never going to tell them any of this. I can't. I'm more than a lab coat, Wren. I'm a human being, and we all need help sometimes. In those moments… I try not to hesitate."
More tears welled up in their eyes. "Thank you," Wren whispered. "Can't come back on my own when this happens. Lose my tracking in a white box… might not come back at all."
"Then how did you… Wait. I was back at the office. Normal day, except it wasn't, I recognized the gap. I remembered you."
"Oh, damn. Lucky." Masterson wiped their face again. "No, seriously: thank you. It can take a while for people to notice. Tend to snap back days later in some different circumstance. Like 'Memento', except I remember things, they just weren't real. I was there, but I wasn't. But now I'm… good. Mx. Wren Masterson! steakshift! Here." They exhaled dramatically. "Yep."
The researcher frowned, perplexed. "This almost sounds like a multiverse thing, a dimensional shift, but… it doesn't make sense. How did I remember Wren Masterson in a world where you didn't exist? Hell, how can I remember a coffee break from a different universe?"
"Could be a different universe, but it's the same story. We're the key characters in this scene, talking big stakes, so there's narrative flow even if we change perspective. Most of the time… my life's not that important. Drop out because of sadbrain shit and snap back because of library stuff. None of my patrons remember any divergence, just… 'wasn't I reading a book?' Pop. Wake up someplace unexpected. In short…" Wren formed thumb and forefinger into an OK sign. "'It stinks.'"
"Wait, it's the patron who brings you back, because they think about your book, and without you, the book isn't there? Isn't that a causal paradox?"
They made a face. "I mean, technically? 'Paradox' implies it can't be resolved, and it clearly has. This was a continuity error. You recognized it, so it healed over immediately. From your perspective. There's a… gap on my end. Non-time. But again, same story. This is fine. I'm fine. Back on track."
Linear causality. Non-linear continuity. "Wren… I am so, so sorry. I was angry, I went too far. I had no idea I was hurting you like that." They nodded silently. "You… really didn't steal my wallet. Or rig it."
"No. Didn't. Couldn't if I wanted to. Can't affect the past while standing in the present. Tried once and it blew up in my fucking face. I'm not that special, I just focus on… being."
"But… I don't understand. What are the odds of you finding my wallet, in my city, given where and how we met?"
"It does seem… very, very improbable." They pursed their lips. "42% improbable. 'Don't panic'."
Penelope laughed despite herself. "You are such a goof."
"Cruel world. Humor, coping, brighter future. Yadda yadda. Hold on a second, do you smoke?"
"What? No."
"Perfect." Wren reached into their denim jacket and produced a cheap Bic lighter. They screwed their eyes shut, shook it violently, and waited. Nothing happened — nothing visible, at least — but they handed it over anyway. "There."
"…Thanks?"
"It's what you were talking about before, uh… the unpleasantness. This is how you get in touch, urgently. Limited, maybe a few hundred uses…" They pretended to flick a lighter, to demonstrate. "…but when you trigger it, I'll know, anytime, anywhere. The object is mundane, the signal is untraceable, and you can use Morse if you need to get wordy. I can even recharge it when we meet up. Tradecraft. Learn it, love it, live it."
She handled the item very gingerly. "And it is…?"
"Completely safe. Unless you burn the place down. Which I, personally, encourage."
Gore laughed again. She couldn't help it. "God, this is such a silly idea. Running a con game with an anarchist stoner, to fool my own bosses, because you can't be linked to your…" She hesitated. "Your deadname. Is that right?"
"Yeah. It is. Anyway, it's a silly, brilliant idea, which you have concocted to help someone do the right thing, even though they're a total bitch." Masterson ran a hand back over their head and ruffled their curls, embarrassed. "Gotta take back what I said earlier, Penelope. You are actually very quick, but you seem to expect the best from people. In my experience… people let themselves down." They cleared their throat. "That's why I like media. Simple, predictable, tons of variety. Easy to understand. Fun to mess around with. Low stakes. Fewer complications. I don't mess with the big stuff. I can't believe in anything that… grand." They sighed. "I'll set up a secure server, so we can talk privately. Gonna dig up that photo album. Then I'll be in touch."
Behind them, the jukebox let out an audible squelch, and the surrounding hubbub suddenly got much, much louder. Gore checked her watch. 2:30. Now 2:31. Oh boy. "Uh, Masterson?"
"We should probably be leaving." Wren snatched up their battered copy of Vonnegut, cackled, then shuffled rapidly out of the booth and made for the rear doors. "I like dramatic exits, myself. Much easier to slip away in the midst of something bigger."
"God damn it, steakshift!" shouted Penelope. She jumped out of her seat and made for the front door, running past row after row of profoundly irritated, confused, and very hungry patrons. "You told me this wasn't going to get out of hand! 'Cone of silence'! Exact words!"
"Yeah, well. 'Silence is a fragile thing. One loud noise… and it's gone.'" They snapped their fingers on their way out the door.
Tom Jones came on the jukebox and he started to sing "What's New Pussycat?" He got three words in before his voice distorted into a high-pitched digital squeal.
Then all hell broke loose.

The trickiest thing about narrative engineering is informational inertia. It's possible to gum up the works and slow things down with the appropriate conceptual framework (say, a popular comedy routine about an eternal, inescapable song), but the data that gets clamped down doesn't actually go away, it's just compressed. It's like squeezing a spring-loaded snake into a can; that energy will naturally, eventually, inevitably… sproing out.
Luckily, Penelope Gore did not get caught up in the ensuing mess. She made it back to her apartment without incident. Later that day, when whistl_stahp logged on to IRC, steakshift sent her an image embedded with the countermeme. Problem solved! With a cat photo, no less.
As for the incident at the diner: nobody got hurt. No dispatchers were alerted, no emergencies were declared, it was just… profoundly embarrassing for everyone involved. After 2:31, a few people fell over. Plates were broken, drinks were spilled and cutlery went everywhere. There was yelling, and there were tears (entirely fake. Customer, always right, blah blah). There were a number of burned, unserved, half-eaten, abandoned, discarded meals at the diner that day. That was it… or at least, that's what Masterson thought at first. When they looked it up after the fact, poring over all the outraged, upset, and generally negative comments, they initially thought it was "fan-tastic!"
Then they saw that across every single restaurant review platform with a numerical scale, that specific franchise location had plummeted to a consistent 2.3. As in 2:30. The perfect time for a meeting, no matter how long.
"Narrative engineering," steakshift muttered. "'Pataphysics'. Same old story. There's always a quid pro quo."
Then they turned off their computer.

Footnotes
1. PoI-6966 (AKA "steakshift", AKA "MxMasters"), member of GoI-5869 ("Gamers Against Weed").
2. Codename "NEMO" (AKA "whistl_stahp"), member of Project CLOWNFISH (spying on GoI-5869).
3. Masterson liked aliases. Good for compartmentalization.
4. Masterson wasn't about to tell the Foundation about local librarian Felix Kipp, their oldest and most trusted friend. Basic opsec.
5. Jude Kriyot is a bit of a fibber.