“It's just a little further. You can do it.”
“People always say that. That's what everyone says. I smoke weed. You can't do this to me. Why can't I fly?”
“That would be cheating. And besides, can't they track you by the things you do? Or something?”
“I'm sure they always know where I am. Also, you're a bitch.”
Faeowynn was truly in her element. The smell of pine. There was something about it better than anything else. Something more fantastically real and clearing. It curled through her nostrils and into her brain cavity, like a trepanation. Sharp. So sharp.
On the other hand, Jude looked like he was going to die. Truthfully, she wasn't sure if he actually could fly, and she figured if he figured out how he'd definitely fuck it up something fierce.
“When I was young, I used to go on hikes with my dad all the time.” She paused. “We still do sometimes. He's spry, for an old guy. But he's still old.” Well, he liked to think he was spry. But she wasn't going to ruin Jude's image of the guy.
“My dad drank a lot.”
“What did your dad do?”
“Electrician.”
“Huh.”
“On the nose, I know.” He coughed. “I always liked your dad.”
“You haven't known him for long.”
“It's the sort of thing you just feel, Fae.” Jude had stopped. His face was red. Sweat poured from his dark hair. Somehow, a good amount of dirt had gotten on his face (lord, she had no idea how that idiot could survive on his own), and the trails of sweat cut rivulets down his forehead, dripping down his chin.
A vape pen was in his mouth, and he took a long suck. Face pulling inward. She could practically see the liquid dropping. Something poetic about it. She couldn't figure out what about it was, however. And then a second intake of breath. He held it for an uncomfortably long amount of time, making a face that could make anyone swear off drugs entirely. Just in pain. And the exhale was even messier. He hacked and coughed, hawkered and spat repeatedly.
Jude held it out to her in offering. Faeowynn shook her head.
“Why would I want to do that after seeing you cough out a lung?”
“We're all fucking dying, dog.”
“It's really close. It's just the top of this hill.”
“It's a mountain.”
“It doesn't meet any of the standards.”
“You don't know that.”
The air was crisp, cool. It reminded her of the falls with her mother. This was different, though. Pine trees didn't drop their needles, and she always had been impressed by that, in a weird way. She could smell the cold with the pine. A tin kind of smell. Something high up, in her nose.
“What was your dad like, Jude?”
They were getting closer, truthfully. Not just hot air.
“Not much to say. Good guy, I think. Never really got me. We had the same sense of humor, though. Laughed a lot. My mom and I, we fought more.”
“How was coming out to them?”
“I didn't.” Jude had caught up to her. Still stumbling and bumbling through the underbrush like a wounded animal. Something tragic in his movements and just as clumsy. “They died before I died.”
“What?”
“I mean, they died before I could tell them.” Jude almost tripped over something that Faeowynn couldn't see. Probably because the thing he had tripped on didn't exist. God, he really was something special.
“How did that work?”
“I'm constantly expending just a little bit of energy to make myself, like, everyday. And I've been doing it since I was a teen.”
“And don't we all?”
“I can make it so I always was a dude, a cis dude, but it's not like a one and done. It's a constant effort, you know, to do it like this.”
“You became a reality changer to avoid coming out to your parents?”
“Yes.”
“That's valid. You can see where we're going. Look, just up there.” She pointed. Jude looked from her finger to the spot, like a dog would. “On top of the hill. The place is funky, geographically. My dad and I found it, you know.”
“Your dad sounds so fun, fuck.” And he had to stop for a second, holding his hand against a tree, almost slipping and falling face first from the barest incline.
“He's not perfect, you know.” She wasn't exactly a superwoman, but walking with Jude made her feel genuinely fit. It was like spending long periods of time with her father. It was easy to think of one's self as the height of vigor when compared to someone so horribly out of shape. “He still calls me Felix sometimes.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, he apologizes. It's clear he's more comfortable using they for me, you know.”
Jude didn't say anything. He had either gotten too stoned, or he was thinking. She couldn't tell. The amount he had sweat had mostly cleaned away the grime. Maybe she should have let him fly. If he could fly.
“It's not bad, I mean. He's way better than most dads, I can't lie. He tries. But sometimes, it really isn't enough. Am I a bitch for not thinking it's enough?”
“No.” Immediate response. The ground was leveling up. The peak was more of a plateau. It overlooked the valley as though it was much taller. There was cotton candy mist looped through the treetops, pink from the heavily hanging sun, like an apple dipped in caramel. Just perfect for a cool, autumnal night at the circus. He had never taken her to the circus, the old man. Never anything that wasn't something he wanted to do.
“Jude, I want you to try something.”
He yawned and fell to the ground in a marionette sort of way. Boneless limbs, like noodles taken out after being boiled too long and too thoroughly, tortured by the bubbling heat. He took the vape pen out of his pocket and took another long hit. His brain was probably boiling, in there. He was sweating enough. “Don't tell anyone I vape.”
“Why?”
“Vaping absolutely isn't cool.”
“We're not cool anymore. We're old.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Try to make a spark.”
“I just did.”
“I mean, with your magic.”
Jude held his hand in front of him. He waved it. Twice. Nothing. “Holy shit.”
“It's a blank spot. My dad and I found it, and we kept it a secret. It was obvious, you know. This invisible hamster suddenly became really visible.”
“So nothing works here?”
“Yeah. It's a good place to have the serious talk time.”
“I'm still very much in this same body, though.”
“I'm not a scientist.” She shrugged. “They won't be able to hear you here, if you're anxious about that. But honestly, they're not as omnipotent as you think. They're really not.”
“You haven't seen the things they can handwave away.”
“You haven't seen the animals they need to put down when they're too tough for both of us to take care of.”
“Do they?”
“They don't hide it.”
“Jesus.”
“Not even the dignity of a farm upstate.”
“You're the farm upstate.”
Faeowynn sunk to the ground. He was still sweating, even sitting. She wondered if it could have been the concentration to keep the body, the past and present. The sheer grit needed to exist. But that was impossible. Maybe the place wasn't a no-spot, but a dampener? Like molecules growing colder, moving more and more slowly, almost to the point of inaction but still buzzing, buzzing with the vibrations of their true natures.
“Are you okay, Jude?”
“Listen, this is something I've been thinking about for a while.”
“Okay.”
“This isn't some bullshit I just came up with when I got high yesterday.” Jude looked at the vape pen in his hand. The liquid within was yellow, with hints of burnt umber. The liquid was roughly two thirds gone. He held it up to the sun and squinted. He put the vape pen back down and said, “I'm gonna work against them. I'm going to destroy them. I'm going to put in motion the end of capitalism. Fuck them. Fuck the treaty.”
“How do you think you're going to do that? Shitpost them to death, Jude? Be serious.”
Jude laid on his back, closing his eyes. He held the vape pen on his chest, pointing upward.
Faeowynn didn't exactly like them. She hadn't been too long, really, enmeshed in this world behind the real world. But the Foundation's reputation preceded them. Working with her dad, she got a hold on the kind of men they were really quickly. The things they thought were abnormal. The things they thought people could never come to understand.
They were hard where her father was gentle. Bitter where her father was forgetful. They seemed to hold long memories. She heard of entire families, entire cultures, being swallowed up. She imagined them as a leviathan, only drifting to the warmer surface when hungry, when a ship with a sufficiently tasty-looking crew came by.
“You don't have to know the methods. It's better if you don't know, actually. This isn't something that's good to know.”
“Isn't telling me you have a plan, in and of itself, kind of dangerous information to hold?”
“Shut up. Listen, okay. I'm going to make a project. I'm going to put a lot of energy into it. I don't know, truthfully, how it'll work out. I might have to put a couple more years of my life into it, I don't know. You know JJ?”
“The one you think is hot?”
“Shut up. I'm going to make this thing with, like, his frequencies. I got another friend. You know Esther. She's gonna, I don't know. Kabbalah it. She's got this energy. And you have to listen. And it's just, you know. A little bit of this and that. It's genius.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm going to make a guided missile. A person who sees the pathway to the kind of world I know we can have.”
“You're making a person?”
“I've got three spirits lined up. Older things, clinging to earth. Ghosts, I guess.”
“And what do you need me for?”
Jude sat up, opening his eyes. He took another deep hit from the vape pen, holding it into until his eyes bulged just a little. He didn't cough this time.
“When the time comes, I'd like Wilson's to stand by us. Legitimacy, you guys got it. Everyone, everyone loves you guys. It's hard not to. You're the Old Friends' Senior Dog Sanctuary of the anomalous world. We haven't even made this thing yet, and I know that your help will be, like, a fucking—”
“I'm not going to be your fucking Pravda, Jude.” She bit her lip. Jude was a good friend. Not the best friend. But he was a good guy. Mostly. “What you're asking for me is to be your propaganda wing. In open defiance of the people who fund our entire operation. You think the donations are what keep us going? You know damn well we get our facilities from them.You're asking me to die for you.”
“No, no. When, when it looks like we're winning, I guess. I can't ask you to put the animals on the line. I don't want war dogs. Just, just when things are looking like I'll think they'll go. I'd like you to help.”
“With what?”
“The aftermath. In the remapping.”
“You're willing to put your kids on the line?”
“The longer I can make it look like a militant wing, the more the kids will still get the benefit of the doubt. And besides, most of them know how to backdate. Throw old memes into a joke, so I can tell the janitors that it was made pre-treaty and just got big now. Stupid shit like that protects us more than you think.”
“That didn't answer my question.”
“I won't have anyone stand with me who doesn't understand what I'm asking, what they'll be giving up. I got irons in the fire, pigeons coming home to roost. We'll have places to keep them. The safest places I know.”
“You're asking for a lot of people to die.”
“It won't be in vain, if it happens. I think. Think about the animals. Think about the ones you can save.”
“Jude, I'm not my father. I'm here because I love him. Sure, I love animals. But I love my father. And I love what he built. This isn't my calling like you think it is. I can't put my father's legacy on the line for a revolution. I said they're not omnipotent, but they don't need to be to beat us. You don't have an army, Jude. You're asking me to risk everything the old man built. I don't, I don't know.”
“Your father's legacy will only be stronger if you use his influence for something like this. They're holding everything back. We can fix this.”
“You don't know that.”
Jude didn't say anything. Faeowynn didn't either.
Her dad was cool. Not as cool as people thought, really. Not as much as a hippie as people assumed on Void. Just, a dad. He was a normal dad who liked animals and had a knack for taking care of the problem ones. The special ones. He wasn't old. Only in his sixties. He wasn't perfect. Dropped the ball when mom was sick. Just a man. But, when he died, all he'd be was Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. That place was more his baby than she was sometimes. The place was his image but strained, only the good, only the positive.
“I know they're not good. I see the things they do. I hear about it.”
“Yeah.”
“I can't promise you anything, Jude. I won't compromise what he's built for you, for any revolution. But my dad tries to do the right thing. So do I.”
“I get it.”
Faeowynn stood up. She stretched her arms to the air. Jude did the same, cracking his neck, his jaw, his knees, and then his fingers in a weird unfurling gesture.
“We can't talk about this again, Jude.”
“I know.”
“I do believe in what you're doing.”
“Thanks.”
“You're a good guy. The old man likes you, you know.” Truthfully, she doubted he had any idea who Jude Kriyot was.
“Does he?” Beaming. He held out the vape pen to Faeowynn.
She took it, fumbled with the button release, and took a long hit. It was formless, strange. She had smoked when she was younger. Obviously. She was the cool kind of mathlete. But this was something else. It tasted like pine needles and turned fruit. It barely felt like anything was creeping to her lungs, but when she exhaled, the plume of smoke was gigantic. She hacked and spat.
“That's horrible.”
“Hits hard, doesn't it? I just charged it. Let's go.”
She started her way down the mountain. Most people found it easier. Jude, however, was struggling. He ping-ponged from tree to tree, half-throwing himself, half-falling down the hill as a means of transportation. An extremely sad game of pinball. The trees strained against his weight. He was covered in sap.
Faeowynn wondered if Jude's father would've been proud of the man he had become, the man he had made himself. Despite everything, Fae knew that her dad was proud. He may not always see her as she wanted him to see her, but he loved her. He understood her more than he would realize.
She wondered if he would stand with Jude, were he alive when the time came. She thought he would. She thought he would if she explained it all to him. Slowly, repeatedly, the way he had to have things explained to him.
A little like Jude sometimes, really.
The sun wasn't setting, but the sky was streaked with pink. Like the clothes in a washer, faded and mixed. Jude didn't look up to see it, but Faeowynn did, avoiding the roots and bushes down the path.
“Do you wanna get a coffee after this?” Faeowynn caught up with Jude. The ground was slightly more level.
“Trying to cut back on caffeine.” He yawned. There was a slight limp in his right leg. How had he hurt himself? “I think I might get going. I'm sorry. I got a lot of stuff to do. Stuff with the kids.”
“If you see Esther, ask her how Darius is doing.”
“Will do, buddy.” Jude smiled and slapped Faeowynn on the back. He hopped into the air and kept going. When he was above the trees, he faded slowly into nothing, becoming transparent until there was nothing else. He hadn't made a single noise when rising or disturbed a single needle.
She continued the hike back alone. When she reached her car, she found a text from her dad on her phone.
"How R U?"
"Good," she texted back. "I'm coming home."
"Bring Food For Lizard If Can, Got New Boy. Eats More Than We Thought. Thnx XOXO."
Faeowynn leaned back in the driver chair. Nothing would be open. The old man never understood people didn't operate on his hours. She'd still check, of course. She always checked, when he asked. She snapped it back up. She started the car, put it in reverse, and left.
She drove without the radio on. Faeowynn wondered if she didn't inhale the vape pen correctly. Didn't really feel much different. Next time, she vowed to ask Jude how to do it. Even if it sounded stupid.


Canon Hub » What a Wonderful World Hub / Those Twisted Pines Hub » Take It Away, My Darling » Elliot & Edna Had a Son Named Tim

Chapter I.I

The mild rays of the falling summer sun slid through the leaves and branches above, speckling the clear, snaking creek with an arrangement of glowing dots, blobs, and lines that moved in tandem with the wind coming inland from the far off sea. Years of cutting finances on public transport in New York had ironically prepared my heart for the long wooded walks I would so often find myself on. It was strange to think that I struggled less than him.
Somewhere nearby, the low hoot of an owl crawled through the brush. I recognized and identified the call just an instant after I had heard it; I was picking up an unusual assortment of wildlife knowledge through osmosis. I was still more comfortable in my office, but just by virtue of my job, I had begun to collect a trove of ecology somewhere within the deepest recesses of my brain. Before it had even crossed my conscious mind, I had turned around to check if I was being followed by a northern spotted owl, as they were known to be accustomed to humans — angry conservationists would use the buzzword "domesticated", even. Young curious owls were known to occasionally follow hikers.
The bridge over the creek had been in view for a while already, but it was only now that I was about to step onto it that I hesitated. I reached into my satchel and pulled out my tablet, opening the email my brother had sent me. I tapped on the attachment, and held the screen up so I could have it and the bridge in view at the same time.
Yeah.
This was the place.
I deviated from the trail to find an even patch of dirt or a rock that I could sit on for the coming hours. A sting in my eyes reminded me that I hadn't slept well. I'd never been great at taking care of myself, but I knew that this was pushing a line that I hadn't before. It was already getting to be late afternoon, and I didn't expect to go home that night. I had prepared with bug repellent, a sandwich, and an extra layer tied around my waist, in case the night got colder than I expected.
Once I had found an adequate sitting spot, I closed my eyes, and just listened. I wanted to get inside his head. This was what he was doing, after all.
I heard the wet trickling to my right and to my left, the foliage brushing against one another, the far away calls of birds. My nose filled with the scent of the dirt, and the often overlooked aroma of the creek. I took several centering seconds to myself. Then I was ready.
I unfolded the keyboard from my tablet, and opened a google doc. I titled it simply:
Stories My Dad Told Me
I had thought of the name sometime late last night. It had occurred to me just before my tired eyes had finally closed for the last time, only an hour or two before my morning alarm. As soon as I was done with work for the day, I had driven here, to Sandy, Oregon, to hike this trail. I had told my family where I was going, but I had white-lied as to why. This… was for me, really. Though I'd hope to share in the future.
"Tim," I typed.
No. That wasn't proper. Not for his first mention. I deleted the name, and then tried to start over. Even the slightest of hiccups had consequences to my flow.
"Dad," I typed, and that felt a little better.

Dad was born an only child to Elliot and Edna Wilson on the 29th of February, 1956. My grandpa Elliot was a taxidermist, Edna was a veterinarian. Their paths crossed when Edna unfortunately lost a dog that the owner then immediately wished to be done up. Saver of lives meets preserver of deaths, a match made in the stars above. They met on the east coast, actually, in Boston, but moved to San Diego because Elliot wasn't so happy with his family and wanted to be as far away from them as possible. Besides, they'd always wanted to go to the ever-fabled Southern California.
Beaches, palm trees, surfing, sunglasses, days spent in the sun — the brochures didn't need to do much to sell the place, it was a natural breeder of youthful fantasy. Except, instead of fantasizing, my grandparents actually moved there and made it a reality. Edna took up shop in a little pet hospital called Cotton Soft Veterinary Clinic. She was an on-call "nurse" there and worked twelve-hour shifts every day of the week. Her reputation preceded her; Cotton Soft Veterinary Clinics were a chain, which meant that the manager of any one establishment wasn't really a hard set role. Grandma Edna was offered the position several times, but she never took up the offer. She figured her job was stressful enough as is, and didn't want the extra burden of an even more important and involved occupation.
Grandpa Elliot, on the other hand, ran a business he created himself, wholesale. It was simply and aptly named Wilson Taxidermy, and sat strangely prominent in the middle of an otherwise average shopping mall. Grandpa Elliot made good business turning people's beloved deceased into stuffies that they could cherish forever (or put up on little pedestals like macabre trophies). He could also make actual hunting trophies, if people wanted him to, but you didn't get many hunters toting around dead moose in the middle of San Diego. Grandpa Elliot usually sat in his office there, not doing too much of anything, but looking very busy all the while. If he wasn't in his office, he was doing the grim work itself, which Tim was forbidden from ever viewing; Elliot kept his work very private and refused to do it for family members.
The Wilsons had a house in the San Diego suburbs, but Tim always liked to say that the house was a bed and fridge. He was right, in a sense. After a close run in with a fork and an outlet, his mom and dad thought it better to simply let him tag along. They most certainly didn't trust babysitters anymore. Since Grandpa's job was less hectic and his workspace more customizable (it was his building, after all), Tim grew up primarily at Wilson Taxidermy. His room was Elliot's office, his stomping grounds the lobby. He had a crib there, and then he had toys there, and almost always he had books there. His real "babysitter" was the receptionist, this old man that worked for Elliot for as long as Tim was in San Diego. This man's name was Hank, and you could tell from his voice that he hailed from somewhere up north. He called soda "pop", followed hockey religiously, and taught Tim to love snow.
While Elliot was in the back, carving up some poor terrier or whatever the animal was on that day, Hank would make sure Tim was occupied. My dad liked to joke that Hank was my second grandpa, because he was Tim's second dad. I suspect that Tim probably thought of Hank more like his first dad, though. Hank always took Tim out to lunch on his lunch breaks, and frequently showed him around the city when there was no other parent to look after him. It was through Hank that Tim saw his first big stores, that he explored placing his feet into the cold Pacific Ocean, that he ate ice cream bars or got the tiniest sip of beer. It was through Hank that Tim became adventurous, respectful, and loving where perhaps his parents would disagree. Well, as much as you can be adventurous, respectful, and loving as a little pre-preschool tot.
Tim told me that his first memory wasn't even of his parents.
Tim's first memory was of sharing a crepe with Hank, somewhere within earshot of the ocean, and trying to reach over to play with Hank's gray, scraggly beard.
Right alongside that memory was the drive between home and Wilson Taxidermy which he took with his dad every morning and every night, his mom giving him pancakes with a smiling face, and visiting some plant nursery where he got bugs to crawl on his hands.

* * * * *

One weekend, Edna and Elliot had gone out for what we can retrospectively guess to be romantic reasons; Tim doesn't remember, and they're not around to tell us, but they had gone out, and Tim was left to Hank for a Saturday and Sunday. He was likely the Wilsons' most trusted friend.
So after Wilson Taxidermy closed, late on a Friday night, Tim half opened heavy eyelids. He was laying on his dad's office chair, and had fallen half asleep playing with a quill pen (Elliot was into calligraphy, and he used them and an inkwell to sign papers). Grandpa Elliot was coming out of the back room, his "studio", trying to make as little noise as possible. Of course, he wasn't very good at it. He always wore these big leather boots that could trudge through the arctic, and he had a twitch in his right leg that made it impossible for him to sit still. It also meant that if he was walking for a while, you might hear a suspicious "double step", where his foot would quickly tap the ground before he actually made his footing sure.
After organizing the pieces of his desk that he had let Tim play with, he picked up Tim and slung him over his shoulder. Par for the course for Tim, he usually fell asleep before the drive home. But this time, Grandpa and Hank had stopped to banter. Tim felt lazy, and his eyes shuttered closed.
When he next woke up, he was riding shotgun in a car that smelled like cigarettes masked by a painfully artificial vanilla freshener. Confused, Tim sat up and took in his surroundings. They were on some city road, flanked on both sides by palms, with the moon high and looming. Looking over, the dim electric lights of San Diego illuminated just enough of Hank's face to make him recognizable.
He was wearing his usual (or more like, as Tim liked to jest, his "unusual"); a fuzzy flannel, a beard ring, standard jeans, and black polished shoes. The inside of his car was decorated with Michigan Wolverines merchandise, stickers, and memorabilia; he even had a Michigan Wolverines baseball cap on the dashboard that Tim had never seen him wear. His sleeves were rolled up — a look he never wore on the job — to show three golden bracelets on his right arm, each with a small symbol patterned across. A heart, a snake, and a snowflake.
Tim could handle the smell.
It was a Hank smell, so it was a good smell.
Tim drifted back into sleep.

* * * * *

Tim found himself in an apartment. He woke to morning light, peeking through the blinds, laying on an unfamiliar futon. He was covered by a scratchy wool blanket and propped up by stiff red pillows. Immediately in view were a coat rack (on which were a coat and a sweatband), a small table, a petite bookshelf, and a glass case that Tim couldn't see into from his angle.
After a few moments of semi-consciousness, Tim identified a secondary reason for his awakening; there was the sound, and associated smell, of eggs cooking. He yawned wide and tried to sit up. Tim saw a very quaint apartment, small in stature and green in color. There was a kitchen, separated by no doors from the rest of the room, where Hank stood over a sizzling stove.
But his eyes drifted back to the glass case.
It stood on four legs, it was slanted. A display case. But what for?
"Uncle Hank," Tim groggily aimed in the direction of the egg smell, "what's the glass?"
Hank turned slightly to see Tim propping himself up on one arm.
"What's in the glass?" Tim asked again.
Hank told Tim he was going to have to wait, because the eggs were almost ready.
Tim wiped the sleep from his eyes and took his word for it. After several more minutes of lying and almost falling back to sleep, Hank called Tim to the little table by the window. The eggs were good, scrambled and imbued with cheese. Hank even gave him orange juice. It was a good breakfast. But Tim still wanted to know what was in the case.
"Alright, c'mere Timmy," Hank scooped Tim up from his seat and carried him over to the glass case. It was Hank's pinned bug collection.
From here Tim beheld a great array of colorful bugs, something he had never rightly seen. He'd seen spiders, he'd caught glimpses of ants before, and he'd seen cartoonish depictions of them in children's books, but never had Tim seen bugs up close and personal. The city doesn't allow for many of them, save flies and roaches. But what was here… Tim was looking at orb weavers, kite spiders, millipedes, centipedes, stick bugs, leaf bugs, rhinoceros beetles, ladybugs… it was like some tiny, frozen zoo.
Hank smiled, proud to have filled a child with wonder. He'd accomplished the same effect with simple magic tricks before but he was not nearly as skilled at that. Pinning bugs was a passionate hobby, and it's suspected he didn't have many people to show it off to.
Tim pointed at bugs. Hank identified bugs. Hank had a whole section on beetles, a whole section on spiders, and each of those was organized by regions of the world. It was less expansive than Hank would have liked, of course, but it was a good size. Right next to the dragonflies, Tim spotted the little caterpillars.
There were fuzzy ones, spiny ones, slick ones, short ones, long ones, yellow ones, green ones, brown and orange ones, and he fell in love with them instantly. They were like strings of yarn with eyes and legs. Or sometimes pills. Sometimes they came dangerously close to being balls. But Tim thought that all of them were adorable. Right next to them were the butterflies.
"Did you know, Timmy, that these butterflies are the same as those caterpillars?"
Tim gave Hank a blank look.
"How?"
Hank explained that when a caterpillar got to a certain age, it would make itself a little house, called a cocoon. "I have a couple right here," Hank said, pointing to a small conglomeration of cocoons. He told Tim how they staid in their cocoon for a couple days, and how when they came out, they came out as butterflies, or sometimes moths.
But Tim glanced between the caterpillars and butterflies. He wasn't buying it.
"Why?" he asked.
"Well, the goal of any wild animal is to survive," Hank explained. "The caterpillar is vulnerable and slow. It needs to take flight to give itself some defenses. As is one of the most common ideas of nature, one must adapt to survive. No animal shows this as clearly as caterpillars do."
Tim was frowning.
Hank asked what was wrong, and Tim insisted that the caterpillars were "perfect."
Hank chuckled. He tried to explain that if the caterpillar did not adapt, did not turn into a butterfly, it would certainly die and never reproduce.
"They won't die!" Tim insisted, ever confident in the caterpillar's abilities.
Hank explained at length why caterpillars did what they did. He explained the beauty and grace of moths, he showed Tim all their intricate winged patterns.
But try and try as Hank might, Tim just liked the caterpillars more.

Stories My Dad Told Me | Dad Goes to the Zoo »


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⚠ Content Warning: The following article concerns topics related to suicide and depression.

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There was nothing Aiden Navarro hated more in the entirety of the endless worlds the multiverse offered than snow.
Hate might have been too strong of a word — especially recently — but even as a poet, he had trouble articulating the subconscious and uncontrollable abhorrence and fear he felt in regards to it. Something in its structure made him feel like he was back in his home, once again left at the mercy of snowfall taking away a layer of him and blending him into the ever-white universe every second it touched him. When he closed his eyes he was once again the prisoner of the singularity, washing away his personality second by second, until there was nothing left in the entire universe except snow. White as far as he could reach.
Aiden frantically opened his eyes, realizing someone was nudging his shoulder in an attempt to ask if everything was okay. He nodded, massaging his eyes, and continued his walk through the cobbled alleyways leading to the Dragoman Tavern as if nothing had ever happened. He shivered slightly, drawing his coat closer to his skin, and threw some of the snow off from his messy hair.
It was truly a shame the street-encompassing blizzards of Lamplight never ceased, Navarro thought.
Strolling through the foggy alleyways of the multiversal nexus, his tired eyes eventually caught sight of what was unmistakably the entry to the tavern, blasting the obscured streets with its warm and welcoming light. He didn't smile — he never did — but deep inside, he was relieved he no longer had to interact with the snow. Navarro took a deep breath, opened the doors into the building, and crossed its threshold.
"Aiden!" The friendly voice of Sergei Osmanoglu greeted him. "The usual?"
He didn't respond verbally, instead nodding in confirmation as he put his heavy coat on the rack near the entry. He came closer to the counter, sitting on one of the stools, and began staring at the wall behind the massive man before him, as he usually did.
Sergei shook his head, handing Aiden a glass of absinthe, sadness entering his eyes. "You shouldn't drink this stuff, you know," he said, turning back to put the bottle away on the shelf behind him. "It's what got Delacroix crazy, remember?"
Navarro did in fact remember. But he didn't really care, if he was honest. There was something endlessly melancholic in following the footsteps of the city's legendary founder, no matter how self-destructive it might really be.
The poet took out his notebook, opening it where he'd left it off during his last visit to the place. He was never the outgoing type, but something about observing the daily lives of other people made him immediately know what to write, and there was no better place to do so than the largest tavern in the Giotto district. He took a quick sip of the alcohol before him, feeling it enter his digestive system, and clicked his pen.
As the crackling of the fire near him mixed with the dancing and laughing of the other customers, blending into nothing more than a blur, he took a deep breath, and began writing.

I
stand
gazing into the starless night above me.
Never
content
neither with this world nor being free.

"—en? Aiden!"
He snapped out from his trance, realizing Sergei was looking directly at him, shaking his head. He puffed, and Aiden raised his eyebrow.
"I asked you if you're going to the Festival."
Navarro's confusion widened.
"You know, Chrizmata? The Parade of Candles?"
He shook his head, looking around the room. Only now did he realize the tavern was full like it had never been, with every single seat taken and every single table filled to the brim with decorations and seasonal foods, seen only once a year. The people were smiling and dancing, knowing the time of the year most Lamplight citizens awaited was near.
"Aiden, it's mid-winter. The festival is tomorrow."
Navarro looked down, staring at the ground, slightly embarrassed he hadn't picked up the clues, even as obvious as the blizzards getting stronger. Everything felt… so fast, recently, as if all days and nights turned into one blur of nothingness, forever stretching as his life went on.
He didn't know what had gotten into him. He had always been a man of few words, but recently, it felt like those few words had turned into no words at all. Darkness — no, Night — that's all he felt deep inside. When he wasn't unfortunate enough to feel the cold grasp of snow around him, whenever he closed his eyes, there was only static. Static in his dreams, static in his mind, static in his soul; it felt like the Void surrounding the town was inches from suffocating him.
He'd thought he would be immune to its effects when he first came to Lamplight. Every newcomer did. They were consumed by the art they'd create, hoping to be the one who finally understood what the Nonexistence meant; praying that their masterpiece would make millions weep. They were all wrong. And Aiden finally realized he was one of them.
The bartender grunted in disapproval, crossing his arms as a sign of disappointment at to Aiden's lack of response. He's been trying to get him to talk for… however long he hadn't spoken a word for. Aiden didn't know how much had passed since he'd begun to think of the Night more often than not.
He shook his head, trying to get the static out of his mind, and looked back at the paper in an attempt to finish his poem before the Festival's literature presentation tomorrow. He knew he probably wouldn't be able to, but he had to try. He convinced himself that being a good poet meant having something to present during Chrizmata.

I
stand
gazing into the starless night above me.
Never
content
neither with this world nor being free.
Snow
all around
as cold as my heart, poisoning Lamplight's calm aether.
You
me
forever apart, never meant to be together.

He sighed. It was… utterly and thoroughly bland.
Aiden had never been a good poet, not really; he just put the words that appeared in his head on paper, hoping for them to at least be readable. But this was even below his normal level. It was… boring, frankly. That was the worst thing an author of any kind could hear; any other criticism was workable around, but 'boring' was a means of destroying the entirety of someone's work in a single word.
He sighed again, taking another sip of the alcohol, and closed his eyes, ready for the static to greet him in place of his thoughts. It naturally delivered, filling his thoughtspace with nothing more than a void, consuming every emotion and spark.
He opened his eyes, not wanting to greet the Night for too long, only to realize that the tavern was empty. The previously bright-burning lamps were nothing more than half-lit by now, and nobody danced nor sung anymore. All that was left was Sergei, who was cleaning things up behind the bar, Aiden, who was looking around himself, confused and panicked at time's pace, and a woman wearing a labcoat, sitting at the second end of the hall, sipping tea from a gigantic mug on the table next to her.
He realized two things: one, that the static took over, replacing his thoughts with emptiness for so long he eventually woke up hours later, and two, he knew that woman.
He stood up from his stool, putting his notes and pen back into the bag hanging from his shoulder, and came closer to the other. She looked up from the mug directly into his eyes, and smiled slightly.
"Aiden. Long time no see."
That was a lie, of course; he and she were the only ones that almost always sat in Dragoman's until its closing, and they knew each other by sight relatively well. They never really talked to each other, but she knew he was a poet and he knew she was ex-Foundation, and she was the closest to a friend he had. The emblem of three arrows pointing towards a deformed circle still sat on her labcoat as a reminder of who she had been before she ran off to Lamplight. Maya Weathers, that was her name, he thought.
He nodded and sat along with her near the table, staring at the ground.
"So, uhm, what you've been up to lately?" she started, chuckling nervously in an attempt to break the silence. "Any plans for the Festival? I saw you were writing something, and—"
He wasn't listening, instead looking at a window behind her. Its glass opened up to reveal the starless sky of the edge of reality Lamplight was, slowly but surely filling in every part of the city it could. He could feel like the void was reaching out for him, asking him to join the end of the world in nonexistence, saying he'd feel full again.
He tried to distract himself by looking at Maya, who was still talking with a gentle tone in her voice, but he couldn't. In another lifetime where he wasn't always empty of emotions he probably could, though; each time he looked at her big, brown eyes and the curly hair that surrounded them he could feel a spark of happiness and hope enter his soul, but recently, that feeling always got thrown over by the emptiness left by the Night tempting him.
'"—so, haha, what I'm trying to say is would you maybe want to go with me to Chrizmata tomorrow?"
He didn't respond, instead taking a big breath, and standing up.
"Maybe later," Aiden tried to say, only for the sentence to come out half-baked as always.
He didn't look back, not wanting to see her get hurt by his words. In just a few moves, he was back at the door again, ready to come back to the place he called his home. He opened the doors, embracing the snowy night, his mind still thinking of her warm smile, and through held back tears, he muttered a single phrase.
"I'm sorry."

He didn't sleep well that night. But, if he was honest, he never did.
He awoke to cold sweat pouring from his body, dampening his bedsheets. He didn't remember what he'd dreamt of, but he knew it wasn't a nightmare. There was a certain quality to nightmares, Aiden thought; even if they weren't pleasant experiences, they almost always left a lasting effect, a sort of half-faded mark in the memory of the person who was unfortunate enough to experience them. And, more often than not, they were a good inspiration, especially for someone who wrote often on pessimistic topics, such as Aiden.
What he'd felt that night had none of that.
Navarro couldn't focus on the dream for more than microseconds; it always felt like it slipped out of his memory the moment he thought he had it. But, even then, he was sure he knew one thing about it: it was dark. Dark as Night, filling his very being the moment he tried to think more about it, like a megalomaniacal god tormenting its mortals with empty visions of blackness.
It terrified him.
He stood up from the bed as quick as he could, in a panicked attempt to leave all of that behind. To fight it back, he thought of the first time him and Maya had met up. Dragoman's was full to the brim that night, and, perhaps by accident, perhaps by fate, they landed near each other. And then they talked for hours. But… he didn't think it mattered anymore. Nothing did.
In just a matter of seconds, he found himself in his bathroom, staring at the wall mirror. His face and hands were wet, but he didn't notice this; instead, his entire focus was drawn to his reflection in the pane of glass in front of him; or, rather, the lack of one. Where Aiden should have been able to see his messy hair and green eyes was now replaced with a dark void, endlessly looping on itself into infinity, trying to take him in. He let out a scream, backed off, and blinked.
It disappeared.
He panted, nervously scanning the room for any changes. Anything, anything at all; but no matter how hard he looked, there was nothing. The room was identical as to how it had been for as long as it had existed.
He blinked again, grabbing his head in his hands and groaning. He didn't feel good. He desperately needed a break.
In a few slow steps across his small apartment, he put the kettle on in the little recess he had to call his kitchen. Aiden hated coffee like nothing else — except snow — but tea was suitable. Tea was one of the few things that still made him want to drive forward; a cup as warm as Weathers' face to ward off the white cold always falling from Lamplight's non-skies was all he needed to carry on. It almost felt like his home before the singularity, where everything was good and he didn't need to worry about anything.
With a deep sigh accompanying the creak of wood, he sat down on the kitchen chair, grabbing the pen and notebook he'd left there last night. Aiden took a deep breath, massaged his eyes, and began writing, in a last-effort attempt to be able to present anything on tomorrow's ceremony.

I
stand
gazing into the starless night above me.
Never
content
neither with this world nor being free.
Snow
all around
as cold as my heart, poisoning Lamplight's calm aether.
You
me
forever apart, never meant to be together.
Night
everywhere I feel
encompassing each part of my soul.
Darkness
never sleeping
always taking parts of myself, until it forms a whole.

As the whistling of the water boiling snapped him out of his trance, he suddenly realized something that terrified him to his core, even more than the Night or the Darkness within him did: the Festival was today.
He stood up, shocked, only to notice the candles burning bright in the central square outside his window. He could feel the muffled songs and voices of the happy people, exchanging stories and art during the only day they could at least pretend to be joyful on.
He didn't even notice the kettle anymore, instead starting to walk in circles around the room, panicked. He couldn't go, he still hadn't finished the poem, he wasn't ready, he— but Maya would be there IT DIDN'T MATTER, he wasn't prepared, he couldn't… he… he…
Before he could react, he subconsciously felt himself take a step, then another. In a matter of what felt like seconds, he gathered his supplies, tossed his coat on, and meandered towards his apartment door. Thoughts of being puppeteered floated through his head. He tried to fight back, with any positive thought, but not even thinking of all the times they had met at the Tavern could help. He questioned who was making him do this, or why. He didn't want to go, but he knew he didn't have a choice, even if he tried to resist it. And so, he did the only thing he could.
He took a deep breath, put his hand on the handle, and complied with what the Night ordered him to do.

When he woke up again, he was outside, sitting on a bench in the central square.
He blinked twice, and flexed his hand slightly, trying to remember how he'd gotten there. His head hurt, but he knew he had been in his apartment before the Night took over, making him go… somewhere.
He knew where it wanted him to go. It wanted him to be free. He opened his eyes again, observing how full the Square was. Citizens of Lamplight gathered, joyously celebrating their festival. They were talking, laughing, dancing, buying, selling, showing, reading, and listening to art, and, among all of it, Aiden stood. He stood alone, with his notebook and pen in his hands, staring at the masses like a distant observer.
Never in his life had he been surrounded by so many people. Yet, ironically, he had never felt more alone. He'd have burst out sobbing if he could.
Navarro stared into the meaningless voids that surrounded him from both outside and within, pouring into his soul like wine to a chalice. He blinked twice. Trying to hold the urge to scream within him, he grabbed his paper again, in one final attempt to put his thoughts in a state others could understand.

I
stand
gazing into the starless night above me.
Never
content
neither with this world nor being free.
Snow
all around
as cold as my heart, poisoning Lamplight's calm aether.
You
me
forever apart, never meant to be together.
Night
everywhere I feel
encompassing each part of my soul.
Darkness
never sleeping
always taking parts of myself, until it forms a whole.
I
don't
None of this makes sense. Nothing makes sense. Nothing ever made sense. I'm so sick of everything. Of everyone. Every single thing in my life, that's what I'm sick of. I need
I need help, I
I just don't understand anything anymore, I just. I'm so

He threw his pen onto the cold ground, screaming in frustration. Grabbing his head with his hands, Aiden disposed of his notes too, not caring where they landed. If he'd been a little more observant, a little less focused, a little less empty, he would've noticed that at least half a dozen people were staring at him, stopping halfway through their firework-accompanied celebrations to stare at his bizarre farce. He might have even noticed that the observers were worried and terrified at the same time, their faces clearly showing they wanted to help him, but with no idea as to how. But he didn't notice either.
He let out a silent sob into the starless skies above him as he leapt away from the noise, away from the square, away from the people. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't do anything anymore. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He had nobody. Not even her, he thought. He couldn't live like this anymore.
Tears started ran down his cheeks as his entire body screamed for help. He didn't know what to do. He had never known what to do. And he would never know what to—
And that's when he heard it.
A silent whisper, entering his mind like a snake enters its lair, grabbing every single ounce of his being left unaffected by the Night's previous invasions. That voice screamed into the deepest bowels of his soul, assuring him it would all be fine. It told him he just needed to follow it, just needed to come along for a walk he wouldn't regret, just needed to give it control for one final time.
He didn't want to listen to it. But he had no other choice.
Step by step he complied, taking one little motion after another, until he left the ceremony and every single person in it behind. If he'd been a little less empty, he surely would've noticed something was wrong. If he'd been a little less devoid of emotions, he maybe even would've opposed the voice.
And, perhaps, if this time he'd been a little more observant too, he might've even noticed the big brown eyes and curly hair of Maya Weathers, coming towards him in a panicked attempt to stop what was inevitable.
But, just like last time, he wasn't.

He didn't know how or when he got to Lamplight's edge. But he didn't need to, because it didn't matter. It never did. Nothing ever mattered, not anymore. He did what the Night said. It was over. He didn't need to struggle anymore.
He looked up to the sky above the border between nonexistence and reality, gazing at the black night occasionally broken up by glowing points in the distance. He knew the skies above the last settlement of man had no stars, but somehow, he didn't question it. Maybe if he hadn't been broken, he would; but now, he accepted it as reality. It's always been that way, and it will always be that way.
As one of those stars blinked, he felt like they were the eyes of all the others who had given in into the Night, gazing into his soul as he was about to join them. They were silent, because no words were necessary; he knew they wanted him to join them. He knew the Night wanted that, too. And, because of that, he knew he had to want that as well.
For a second, he considered backing off. He couldn't do this to her. He… it wasn't… I…
He took a deep breath, putting that thought to the back of his head as best he could and grasping at the cold air tainted by the snow's presence. He didn't even notice it, instead gazing into the endless void before him, its cold such a contrast to the warmth of the rest of the city. He took comfort in it, if he was honest; it almost felt… like him, in a sense. It was devoid of absence, devoid of events, devoid of a personality. Its similarity felt comforting to him.
It was said that every year, at least fourteen lost souls became one with the Night. Aiden was about to fulfill that status quo.
And, so, he took the first step forward, embracing the long-lost part of himself the Night offered, taking the first breath of relief in years. For one moment in eternity, he was… he wasn't happy, he realized. He'd been driven here out by a promise that would never be true, used as the desperate individual he was. He cried out, unnoticed, continuing his walk into the end of the world, starting to sob. He'd been lied to, but at the same time he… he felt comforted he— he didn't understand that feeling. He didn't know if these were tears of happiness, tears of fear, or tears of sadness. Or if they were all at the same time.
And, just as he was about to make that Void fully himself, bringing his soul and the darkness as one, he suddenly stopped, mid-step. A singular blur, reminiscent of a cry, interrupted his thoughts. And then it grew louder, and louder, and louder, until it became unignorable.
"Aiden!" the voice explained, panting with exhaustion. "Aiden fucking Navarro, come back here, you, you little—!"
In a moment, he turned back, panicked that someone had seen him. He turned away from the Night's comforting touch, back again into the horribly warm reality of that which was, taking one first step forward.
"You absolutely cannot do this to me," it cried out again, this time through tears. Aiden felt them, deep within him, and cried out again, not sure why. "Aiden! Aiden!"
Almost subconsciously, he took more and more steps forward, embracing that voice as if it was his mother's. He wanted it, he needed it, he hoped for it. If he didn't know the Night was no longer in control, he would've said he was again controlled; but he knew he wasn't. Something deep within his frozen soul felt a spark of heat melt its cold insides with each syllable the voice spoke, eventually turning him into someone full again.
And, after a few moments, that voice gained a face. It was of Maya Weathers, and it sighed with relief.
"Aiden!" it shouted, coming closer. "W-Why?"
He didn't answer, instead running towards the woman as fast as he could, embracing her in a hug. He He broke down, realizing what he'd really done. Somehow, he found the words in his head, forming a coherent sentence and putting it through his frozen mouth.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Maya," he wiped his tears. "I should've never done that, I'm so sorry, I should have listened, I should have understood, I… I…."
She shushed him, returning the hug.
"It's okay. Everything is fine. Don't worry. It's all good now. You're good."
He didn't care about anything anymore that wasn't her. He grabbed her hand, closing his eyes. And, for the first time in ages, there was no darkness there; instead, he could see her smile, her hair, her eyes, her very being nested within him.
She asked him to follow her, and he complied, knowing that was all he needed. Aiden didn't think he needed to put his words to paper anymore, because, for the first time in eternity, he was content. No longer did he need to search for fullness, understanding, or himself in poetry, because he felt like that missing part was right beside him.
For one more day, he had a reason to go on. For one more day, her light illuminated him, giving him a reason to carry on. He didn't know if it was permanent, or it was a fix at all, but, if he was honest, he didn't care. That was all he needed, at least for now. But, if he were to write his feelings down once again, he'd only need one sentence to truly express himself:

I love you.


slurppp

Read my other works here!

"Doctor Berryman, we may have gathered sizable funding over the past year, but I must remind you that it isn't infinite."
Berryman scowled and tried to ignore the unfaltering stare of the suited man in front of him. They'd known each other for many years now, meeting before the Foundation even formed. In fact, perhaps one of the only reasons why he was kept employed here was because of his connection with him - O5-8.
"C-Come on, David. I -"
"Please don't refer to me as such. We're in a work environment."
Well, that was the thing, wasn't it? He'd just gotten so damned cold recently, it was hard to believe that he was the same person that Berryman used to hit pubs with. They had been roommates at Cambridge, sharing the same dorm over the better part of six years. They knew each other so well, and then the Foundation happened.
A disappearance without a single word left behind, followed by a three month gap of silence. Then, an invitation in the mail. A job offering, for the position of Researcher at a recently founded organization, the SCP Foundation.
"I'm close… sir," Berryman managed to choke out. "You've seen it. You've seen how it works, I told you, the potential, the potency. It's so close. I… I just need to work out the kinks in the.. the… oh, the… thing. It's, the, the machine."
"Algorithm?" O5-8 suggested.
"Yes! That!" Berryman spat. There was an unbearable itchiness in his scalp that made it hard to sit still. His hands trembled terribly, digits twitching and tapping on the cold tabletop in front of him as he tried to ignore the prickling in his skin. "Machine, machine logarithm. Algorithm. It's so near complete, just more time. You know me, I know you, this is my life's work here."
How could he explain such a concept? An image, entirely non-anomalous in nature, something rooted in the explainable, in science, being able to maim or even kill at a glance. There were flaws in the human brain, thin cracks spider-webbed across the pulsating wall of neurons. It had been the subject of his Master's thesis back at university, something he was in the midst of planning out before the invitation came. A handwritten letter by his old friend, and such a high paying job, a career for life, it was, it was…
Unbelievable. A dream. Inexplicable. Illogical.
Something more than a research paper or thesis! The chance for him to prove his theory in the field, protected behind government funding and the greater good.
O5-8 sighed, a deep exhalation that was close to deafening, at least within the closed space they were in: a closed metal cube that stank of deep sanitation, as if the whole room had been scrubbed down with rubbing alcohol. It had been used as an interrogation room for employees suspected of abusing anomalies for their own gain, though Berryman couldn't fathom why anyone would do such a thing. If someone had the clearance level necessary for stealing anomalies, he was sure that their salary was high enough for money to be a nonissue.
"Doctor Berryman, I can't keep this going for much longer, I'm afraid. Lack of results aside, your mental state has been deteriorating. You refuse to meet with psychiatrists, you barely interact with your colleagues… This cannot continue."
Unbelievable.
"Don't you see? Dav - Sir, they can't see the things that I do. The patterns, the recursions, they all meet to create this one, big, looping puzzle. Something that the brain can't help but follow. Except, it only works if it's… ah, it's… what's the… forever?"
"Infinite," O5-8 said.
"Infinite!" Berryman jumped from the table and slammed his hands down on the table, flinching at the resounding echo it produced. God, there was that headache again. "Infinite, infinity, I hate it. Do you know how hard it is to produce infinity? Even an image, a kill agent that's possible of conveying the mere concept of the… the forever, it's agony. You can't have forever in an image, because that image would have to be at a forever size, don't you see? It's impossible, but… the meaning, the meaning is there. I know it is."
"You're unwell." O5-8 frowned. "I must remind you that these conversations are recorded. A mental evaluation may-"
"Because!" Berryman exclaimed. "The brain, the human mind isn't capable of truly comprehending it. So what can you do? What can you do but entice the brain with the message of forever… infinity? It'll use all of its resources trying to figure it out, and then, and then, and then, it… That's it. Don't you see? I have all the fundamentals, I just need the execution. I can produce the images myself, you know. By hand. Only, it's imperfect."
"You what?" O5-8 shifted uncomfortably in his seat, an unsettled look dawning upon him. "Berryman, what have you been doing? What you're describing… Yes, I understand it. You've been telling me about it for years, after all. But drawing it out by hand, that's lethal. You would suffer from the very same kill agent you're trying to produce, would you not?"
There it was, the crux of the issue. Berryman almost felt like laughing at how ridiculously absurd it all was. It was impossible for a human hand to produce a truly perfect memetic kill agent, at least not one based upon the level of recursion he was aiming for. But the idea, it was there. It was a manifestation of his own thoughts, themselves manifestations of an idea that was entirely out of his control.
Every waking moment had begun to consume him. His subconscious had been erased. All in the name of mapping out infinity. There was simply no room. No room for sleep either of course. Such were the symptoms of his proposed kill agent, though it was too slow. How could he put it?
His fingers began tracing something out on the table. They left no markings of course, but his fingers made the figures and shapes nonetheless. Round and round they went, leaving behind invisible lines amidst the blankly reflective tabletop canvas. There was so much joy to be had at the destruction of perfection, but he could not find it in himself to revel. Look at that: intermittent spots of imperceptible black, mixed with pitiful puddles of thinning red. It was nothing, and would be nothing by the day's end. Only that it was likely to be an hour. Perhaps a minute. Would it be a month? Who was he to question infinity?
"Alright, alright." O5-8 grabbed his hands, forcing his mimic sketch to a halt. "Two more weeks, with funding as you require it. That should be sufficient if you're so close, yes?"
"Yes, yes. All's well and good." Berryman snatched his hands away and began raking through his scalp with his uneven fingernails, scratching vehemently at the fields of static that had overtaken his skin. "Thank you… you. The machine, it's great. It can almost produce the Basilisk, but not quite, like an off-brand if you will. It's almost like drawing it by hand, the effects are much too slow. But you'll get it, and the inoculation, of course, it's all in the papers. You just have to refuse your mind from seeking out the forbidden fruit. Never infinity, never."
"Inoculation… So you're producing a vaccine as well?" O5-8 asked. "Off the record, Berryman… I'm worried about you. The reports you've sent back are borderline nonsensical, and the other O5's are doubtful of your capabilities. They wish to assign a new head to the project."
"Oh, yes, a vaccine. F-Far too late for me to use it, but it'll serve its purpose," Berryman said. How would that pattern lead again? Into itself, with tails of glowing orange? Or would it just be another loop? "As for the other O5's, they can assign whoever they want. I'll keep working, with or without f… what? Oh, for… funding, it's all fine. It's, it's just that I need you by my side, David."

"Damn thing's overheating. But it w-works, huh? Like I said, everything. Works. Everything, all of it, I'm so god damned tired."
Berryman tapped on the digital timer on his desk. Thirteen days, sixteen hours, thirty six minutes, and one second without sleep, has it? Really, it was nothing. Time passed as sand through an hourglass, and then again through shattered fragments of glass. Hard to feel sorry about losing sleep when your brain refused to acknowledge its own ability to sleep in the first place. Far too busy plotting out disgusting, imperfect loops. Close enough, though.
All he needed to do was draw what his mind came up with and then feed it into the computer's… the… what? What was it? He wished David was here, he'd remind him.
There was a thin layer of translucent red over the world, creating a slightly warped image of reality that overlapped with his vision. By his own diagnosis, nothing more than a popped blood vessel in his right eye. That was fine, it wasn't… what? It wasn't death, that was all that mattered. He was no fool; his fate would lie in the very thing he just created.
And what a beautiful thing it was! A culmination of so many years of work, along with the finishing touches it so desperately required, all the efforts of such immense processing power. Tears trailed down his cheeks as he sat back and reveled at the completion before him. It wasn't an emotional reaction, rather just a natural symptom of his wrongness. His body cried too, crying and crying with warm, salty tears that popped up all over his body like beads of -
Sprawling, infinite plains of geometric patterns. The static that haunted him so incessantly had evolved into grids of pulsating blots, stained dark dots of bleeding purple. Like Icarus, he had flown too close to the sun. Only, he was perfectly willing, only that once his wings started to melt, once his body began to burn, he hadn't sunk into the ocean like a stone, rather he began ascending. Further and further he flew, closer to the sun, closer to the blazing heat that yearned to consume him whole.
Disturbed, he finally closed his eyes, only to flinch backwards as a flood of blazing light rushed to fill his vision. The expected darkness was instead a bold, blurry sort of light blue, as if a holographic tint had been painted over the room. An explosion. Supernova. Mouth gaping, he opened his eyes and looked around as his heart became heavier in its metronomic beat. It felt like his eyes were melting out of his sockets. Where had it gone? The numbness?
There wasn't enough time to think it over. He was burning.
Berryman hastily opened up a new tab on his computer and typed up an email:

I finished the project. I will be in my room, dead. Probably cardiac arrest, but possibly a seizure. Thanks for everything. Vaccinate yourself with the attached image before going into my office. Hope you use it well. Sorry that I don't have enough time to do all of this formally.
- Berryman

Access SCiPNET Email? One (1) new message!

Re:SUBJECT

To: O5-8
From: Researcher Berryman
Subject: Untitled

DAVID
Image is .,what please vaccinate do not go in office, DO NOT. Vaccinate first, image is. Finished, thank you I'm so happy, finally done. Finished, everything is ././
—Berryman


The two agents eyed one another from across the table, their faces unreadable. The woman wore a pair of felt reindeer antlers, while the man rocked a Santa hat. A small crowd had gathered, half watching the game as they shared the latest gossip. In the background, the buzz of the party continued unabated.
Each player held two cards. On the table, face up were suits of odd values. Three swords. Five staves. A king wielding a club.
The woman knotted her thick unibrow in concentration as she touched a card in her hand, hesitated, touched the second card, then moved back to the first card. She laid it down, her eyes fixated on the other player. A pair of vases.
The other player, a man with a short blonde beard, allowed himself a moment to smile. The woman cringed, knowing what was coming next.
The man laid down his card. Seven coins. "Settebello," he said a half-hair too loud, swiping the cards from the table. The crowd gave a murmur of approval before returning to its gossip.
"That's -" the blonde man began.
"Yeah, yeah, eleven," the woman interrupted, slumping in her seat. The game over, life returned to her. She sighed, then sat up. "Good game, Damian," she said, offering her hand.
Damian rolled his head back, leaning over the back of his chair. "Leila, Leila, Leila," he said, "you're too dismally gracious for this! Where's the fun in winning if I don't get to gloat? Where's the salt?"
Leila grinned. "It's my secret weapon. Don't tell anyone," she said as she got up.
Damian waved as Leila left to talk to the cute administrator who had transferred from -28. The crowd that surrounded the table awkwardly broke into knots of two and three, all facing away from him. He took a moment to savor his victory, taking a long sip from his beer.
"So what's this called?" came a voice from behind Damian. He turned in his seat to see Ross. This was technically her first day - taken up half by training seminars and capped with the annual Unspecified Winter Holiday Celebration. Perhaps not the most typical way to begin a career, but the Site-64 Social Committee waited for no mortal.
"Scopa," he said, "You know it?" He indicated the empty seat across from him and began to shuffle the cards.
His life might one day rest in this woman's questionably steady hands. At the very least, it seemed like a good idea to see if she could bluff. Plus, he thought, she was quite cute.
"I watched you play a few rounds - I think I get the gist," she said, taking the seat. She paused a moment. "Plus I looked up the instructions on my phone."
Damian nodded and began to deal. Three cards to him, three to her, four on the table.
He frowned, looked at the cards, then across the table. His eyes met Ross'. For a moment, he was lost in the subtle gradations of green and amber, the beautiful infinity of her gaze.
He realized he was staring and quickly averted his gaze. So did she.
"Your turn," he mumbled.
Well, he thought, shit.

"Wait," Beatrice asked, her voice high with disbelief, "you've never played poker before?" She took another sip from the beer. With her free hand, she shooed a moth from her face. The insect fluttered away into the dark that surrounded the back porch.
Damian shrugged in that adorable hunched way that he always did when he was embarrassed. The fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt didn't hurt.
"I just- it's never been a priority," he said, quickly taking a swig from his beer. Ross tried and failed to hide a smirk. Crickets filled the momentary gap in the conversation.
"Besides," he continued, "it's great for 'Never Have I Ever'" He tipped the neck of his bottle towards Beatrice, emphasizing the point.
Beatrice rolled her eyes. "No one over the age of twenty plays 'Never Have I Ever,'" she said, her tone authoritative on the matter.
She took another swig, spilling a little. A small rivulet of the cheap beer made its way down her faded Rink Sphinxes t-shirt, leaving a trail as it flowed onto her bare thigh. She didn't shift her gaze from Damian's eyes, darting this way and that.
"Besides," she said, pointing her bottle neck at him, "It'll make all those bits in James Bond make sense. You'll be able to tell a flush from a full house."
Damian raised his hands defensively. "Alright, alright, let's do it, then. Show me how to do a poker," he said, grin spreading across his face, "but if I win, I get to gloat this time. For at least a year."
Beatrice nodded. "Sure, but if I win…" she said, her voice trailing off. She gave a coy smile.
Damian sat for a moment, his face expectant. After a beat of silence, he started. "Oh," he said, "oh! Sure, yeah. Sounds like a win-win." His tone was entirely earnest.
Beatrice stared at Damian for a second, then burst out laughing, almost doubling over. After a minute, she slowed down to mere chuckles. "Ah, God," she said, wiping a tear from her eye, "I don't know why that was so funny."
"I'll get the cards," Damian said, rising with a smile. As he headed for the back door, he ruffled Beatrice's hair. She responded with a swat at his butt.
He disappeared into the house. Ross leaned back and sighed into the night. "Ah, God," she said to no one in particular.

"This is eerie," Beatrice said, her eyes flitting from corner to corner of the apartment's tiny dining room. The rain pelted against the window in rhythmic gusts.
Damian shrugged. "Yeah, I'm pretty much just waiting for my phone to go off. There's no real way to enjoy this," he said. He took a gulping bite of the mushroom and anchovy pizza.
"It feels like a cosmic joke, y'know? Or maybe HR knows and they're just screwing with us?" Beatrice said, tapping her foot.
The last three times the couple had made plans for a date, some last-second emergency had called one or both of them away. Some new development with Anderson, Wilson requiring backup on a new creature, generalized mayhem. Two canceled reservations at Chikaleny's. At least the third time it had only been a vague idea to see a Hospital Bombers concert. Damian hadn't been too broken up about missing it.
This time, though, they made no plans. The universe, or at least HR, had rewarded the discretion by not mess with them this time around.
They were free, they were wild. And they had no idea what to do next.
After determining that no proper date restaurant had an opening at any point tonight, and neither was really feeling the other's suggestions, they decided on Spicy Crust Pizza. It felt a bit strange, ordering from work, but with the only other option being Little Caesar's, it was an easy call.
And with the rain, there wasn't anywhere to go anyway. So here they were, tired and semi-stranded at Damian's apartment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "All time off'd and nowhere to go," Damian had joked. Beatrice had given a halfhearted chuckle.
For a while, they sat there, not talking, each lost in their own thoughts. Damian chilled as he recognized the silence - it wasn't the quiet of anger or even contemplation, just nothing to say.
"Hey," he said, wiping his hands with the thin paper napkins before wadding it into a ball, "Wanna learn a card game?"
"Hmm?" Beatrice asked. A pause, then her face perked up. "Oh, sure, yeah, let's do it!"
Damian hopped up to fetch the playing cards from the living room. As he picked them up, he heard Beatrice in the other room. "What's it called?" she shouted, her voice barely coming through the thrum of rain.
"Pasur," he shouted back.
"Remember that retreat they had all the West Coast MTF people go on? The one I drove to Olympia for in March?" he said, returning with the cards, "Razmara, the chief for Gamma-35, she showed me this one. It's pretty fun."
He sat down opposite Beatrice and began to shuffle the cards. Beatrice rubbed her hands together. "Hope you're ready to get crushed," she said, grinning.
Damian squinted. "I haven't even explained the rules yet!" he protested
Beatrice shrugged. "Just helping you prepare for the inevitable," she replied, her tone breezy.
In response, Damian stuck out his tongue. Ross broke into a laugh. Damian smiled as he felt the familiar rhythm return.

The two agents eyed one another from across the table, their faces unreadable. The woman wore the toothpaste green gown all patients were provided, camouflaging her against the similarly-colored bedsheets. Her partner was dressed in civilian clothes, having been discharged the day before. He cast a shadow over the bed, sitting between it and the setting sun outside.
Beatrice held two cards in her remaining hand. After a brief consideration, she laid them down on the bedspread and selected one, placing it on the table. A seven of spades. She held her breath as she waited for Damian to lay down the final card of his hand.
"Bea," he said, shaking his head, "I'm really sorry." Her heart sank as she realized she had miscalculated.
"No-" she started as he placed his card. The seven of coins. He swept both cards off the table.
"Scopa," he said, almost apologetically, "Also, settebello."
He couldn't completely conceal the smirk of triumph, though.
Beatrice flung herself back onto her pillow as dramatically as she could manage. "There ought to be a thing against beating the wounded at cards. You should go easy on me," she said, glowering at Damian.
"Would you have wanted that?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
"No," she admitted, "definitely not." She played the final card of her hand, a five of swords.
Damian dealt each of them a new hand. As he placed the cards in front her, she gave a contented sigh. Her eyes went from Damian to the cards, then back to Damian.
Damian tilted his head. "What's up, Bea?" he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. "Nothing," she said, "Just this. It's… just thank you. I love you."
He smiled and nodded. "I love you too, Bea," he said. And they played and played and played as the sunlight faded and turned to night outside.


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The thing I dislike most about the old buildings, converted into flats, with their meandering stairs and tiny corridors and slam-shut doors and buzzers, is how you can hear everything your neighbours are doing. Running the water to boil the kettle, arguing, moving the furniture, using the bathroom, watching porn. Sometimes fucking.
Reaching a breath-heavy, wordless, gasping crescendo, my neighbours and I came at the same time once. I lay with my hand tangled in my pubes, absently fondling the folds of skin down there, sweaty and sticky, and I imagined them sweaty and sticky too. Was it an act of making love or just a vulnerable moment? Was it all for show, or for a planned outcome - the blood-stained, grey-tinged little alien thing that may burst into the world in 9 months, dragging out organs and shit and torn-apart memories, sharp teeth wailing to latch onto a blood-blistered nipple?
I guess I would know soon if she became gravid and I wouldn't know what to say, because you can't say ‘Happy Birthday!' or ‘Sorry for your loss'. If you fear pregnancy, your reaction is somewhere between those two extremes. All I can do is blankly stare and, in my head, my interior-terrified, screaming voice yells out ‘Congrats – are you happy this one stuck?' and ‘Hope it isn't a dud!'.
You must hope even when you don't have hope; why do people keep going when they know the being inside may kill them and their future, gnawing on organs and traversing the delicate boundary the boggy womb provides, and knowing there's no way to test if this one is an imposter or a soft-skinned, delicate human.
Since I was 14 and my mother called my growing curves of womanhood ‘childbearing hips', I knew what was expected from me in life. My breasts to become udders, hanging, from a sexual, teasing heftiness with pink-tinged areolas to feeding bags; for my stomach to grow the stranger within, marked forever, and become public property, to be touched without question nor invitation.
Waiting 7, 8, 9 months, growing a mistake, then the thing would burst from me without the intervention of cold, steel instruments, its first cries a wailing forever need for love as I try and hold my insides together; machines beep high-pitched and instantly I know it is an otherkin, not human or even animal, but I grew it inside me anyway, and it tore its way out, eager to come into the world a destructive force before becoming a mewling, wanting, grasping forever-thing.
Discounting the horrific vision of a life torn in half and sucked dry by a greedy being, I'll do my neighbourly duty for the new mother, and if she's struggling with the oversized pram on our undersized stairs, I'll dutifully lift the other side, and I'll talk to the loaf-of-bread-baby (uncooked, underdone; they take so long to even look human; some of them aren't even that much) like it's a real thing and force a smile at it.
I'll smile at her, too, the woman I will never be; happy in her motherhood, even with nipples chapped and bloody, her stomach torn and opened with long claws, sharp teeth, all stitched up with surgical string and staples and sores. She's somehow exhausted but glowing, and she'll go into her flat for teatime, bath and bed, and wine once the non-human human is in its crib.
And I'll go into my flat, and I'll run by my own schedule, the clock ticking past midnight as I spread languid on the bed, incense stick burning, candles burning too, wearing lingerie for just myself, and I'll lazily rub my clit until completion, undisturbed, then remember to blow out all the candles, making wishes, before I slip off into a heavy slumber.


Eugene scratched his neck nervously. He'd never gotten the hang of interrogations. "Look we're going to uh deport you. That's uh not even a question at uh this point." Fifty-six years old and he still couldn't talk to women. Thirty-three of those years at the Bureau and he still couldn't talk to suspects. "The uh question is where we uh deport you to." Passports from Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova and Kazakhstan. Different name on each — different face on each, too, but that's why he was here instead of at his nice cozy basement desk at the field office.
The woman sitting opposite him shrugged. "It does not matter to me. Take your pick, Agent Vega." She was taller than him. He wished he hadn't sat down. "I will be fine anywhere."
"Uh right but we can't uh send you anywhere, there are —" There was a knock at the door. Eugene stood a little too quickly, and all the blood rushed from his head. He steadied himself on his chair. "Ok uh I'll be back in a minute, you should uh think about telling me the uh the truth. Can I uh get you some water or uh coffee or something?"
"No thank you, Agent Vega. I'll be fine."

Detective Novak was waiting for Eugene outside the interrogation room. "Hey, Vega. Ran your girl's prints through AFIS. No matches."
"Not my girl, Novak."
"Hey, so… You think she's really… You know…" Novak gestured vaguely around his face.
"Really what, Novak, I don't uh like charades."
"A shapeshifter, man!" He lightly punched Eugene in the arm. Presumably it was supposed to be friendly. Eugene didn't appreciate it. "That's why we called you in here! The spooky shit, you know?"
"There's no such thing as uh a shapeshifter." Technically correct. The Unusual Incidents Unit preferred more precise language. She was a multimorphic mimic. Or maybe a frighteningly good plastic surgeon. "And even uh if she was you know I couldn't confirm or deny uh anything whatsoever."
"Sure thing, sure thing." Novak gave him an exaggerated wink. "Say no more, Vega."
Eugene sighed, and headed back into the interrogation room.

"Welcome back, Agent Vega." She was playing with his pen. Rookie mistake, leaving it on the table. "I think we might be able to help each other after all. I've figured you out."
"What uh do you think you've figured uh figured out?" He sat down, and she slid the pen across the table. It bounced off his stomach and rolled across the floor. "Is uh this some sort of uh of mind game? Because uh I've seen them all. Or uh heard them. I guess."
"You," she said, pointing right at the fresh ink stain on his shirt, "are dying. And you did it to yourself."
Eugene tried not to react, he really did. Judging by the look on her face he had not been successful. "What do you uh mean?"
"Itchy skin. Slight yellow tint to the sclera and the fingernails. I would guess that under those cheap trousers your ankles are swelling, no?" Eugene barely resisted the urge to scratch his legs. "Cirrhosis of the liver. Maybe, two years to live? Ten if you stop drinking?" Three and fifteen was what his doctor had told him. Maybe he was sugarcoating it. "I can fix you, Agent Vega. But I will need… What is the line?" She smiled. "Quid pro quo. Yes or no, Eugene?"

"Alright Novak, I'm uh taking her out of your hair." Eugene was, in an objective sense, a terrible liar. He sweated, he stammered, he wouldn't meet people's eyes. But he did all that when he was telling the truth, too, so it all balanced out. "She's uh turning state's evidence on the uh the Odessa mob."
Novak sighed. "Vega, you and I both know the Odessa Mob haven't operated out of Chicago since the 90s. If you need her for spooky shit you can just tell me."
Now, choosing the right lies, that was a skill he'd never mastered. Eugene grinned sheepishly, and nodded. "I uh need her for spooky shit." He took out his official UIU ID card, and flipped it over to the back; then he flipped it over again, to the third side. "And uh sorry about this Frank you know I hate to uh do this but if you could uh just look here?"
"What, are you going to neuralize me or some-" Sergeant Novak stared at the amnestic meme on Eugene's ID card for a few seconds, then blinked and shook his head. "-thing. Sorry, what did you say? I spaced out for a sec."
"I uh said I'm going to uh make a Starbucks run if you uh want anything."
"Oh. No thanks. Too expensive." Novak frowned. "Hey, did you…" He patted his pockets. "Huh. Never mind. Great to see you, Gene, but I got paperwork to do. See you around."

Gene turned out of the precinct lot onto Belmont, headed for… Well, he wasn't really sure where he was headed for. "Alright so uh…" He paused. "What uh what should I call you by the way? I know Irina isn't uh your real name but uh does that work?"
"Hmmm." She was staring out the passenger window, lost in thought. "Call me Olivia. And take a left on Kedzie."
"Ok. Olivia. So uh what do you need to fix my uh my liver?"
"You missed Kedzie. Take a left at the light up ahead." She lit a cigarette and glared at Eugene before he could object. He rolled down the windows without comment. "I need a sharp knife and some gauze. You're, what…" She sniffed the air a few times. "B negative? I have some B negative at home if you need it. Left on North."
"What? We uh searched your apartment. There wasn't any uh blood there."
Olivia snorted. "That, Agent Vega, was not my home." They sat in silence for a few minutes. "Right on Damen."
"Wait don't you uh need a uh a liver?"
"No."
"But…"
"We're here."

"Here" was a third-floor walkup above a dry cleaner's. Pretty standard two-bedroom, except for the operating table in the middle of the kitchen. Eugene made sure it didn't make any sudden moves while Olivia dug around in the back of the refrigerator. After a few moments, she emerged with a lump of wet meat. It was pulsing faintly.
"What uh what is that?"
"A gallbladder. Take off your shirt and lie down."
He followed Olivia's instructions. Not really anything else he could do, at this point. She was doing something behind him, now, but he couldn't feel anything; there was a wet slap, a few muffled curses, and then nothing but silence.
"You can sit up now. Don't drink or take tylenol for at least eight hours. You didn't lose enough blood to need a transfusion, but you'll be a little light-headed. Have a big dinner."
Eugene sat up. His back itched. "That uh that was uh it?"
"Yes." Olivia's hands were bloody to the wrist, and her left held a sickly lump of flesh.
"And that's uh that's my liver?"
"It is."
"What uh. What are you going to uh to do with it?"
"Hmm. Well, I have a nice Chianti in the cabinet, maybe go get some fava beans…" She rolled her eyes at his horrified expression. "I am going to throw it out, Agent Vega. It's medical waste."
"Oh. Uh. So that's uh it?"
"Yes. Well. If you don't keep the police away from me I will be taking my gallbladder back. But that's it for now at least. Goodbye."
"Uh goodbye." Eugene put his shirt back on and left without a backward glance; tomorrow, he promised himself, he would submit his retirement paperwork. Get out a year early before any more of this bullshit.


This page with a small tale and art (my first real art) about SCP-6767 was my gift for Aftokrator for the 2021 Art exchange. I highly recommend reading the original article. Hope you enjoy!

A small snake, no, a small lizard, slithered around through the snow. It went over root, under stone, and through the ice-cold water. And yet, whilst it had never been there before, it knew the place better than anyone, as it had access to a lot of memories. Dead memories.
But no matter how much knowledge it could rely on, it did not prevent him from feeling increasingly colder. Tired from its travels it hid in the cracks of a rock, hoping its scales wouldn't reflect the moonlight and reveal its position when it slept.
It woke up from a new memory. One of the metal men from The Empire had succumbed to the cold. Through the eyes of the poor individual, it saw that they were close, very close.
As fast as it could, it left in search for a new river or a place that wouldn't leave tracks as the snow did. So it tried to cover itself with powdered snow, hoping it wouldn't fall off too easily. But alas, in the end, its beryllium bronze was like a shimmer in their eyes…
A chase began.
The legless lizard, despite its size, proved to be quite fast and agile. Slipping through their hands on multiple occasions. Uphill or downhill it mattered not, camouflage and quickness were key. Their mechanical equipment, or do I dare say nature, aided them yet made their approaches less stealthy. Even their improvised barrage of stones hurled in its direction did not stop it, until they scored a hit.
A high-flying rock struck a nearby bird, and a new memory revealed itself. At first, it saw itself trying to escape, then from an aerial perspective, it saw its hunters, which appeared to be more numerous than expected. A tall priestess, it recognized as Ataraxia of Tarsos, had come for its precious skin in the most literal sense.
The chase continued, but outnumbered and countered by the priestess, one fellow was able to finally grasp the sleek reptile in his hand. It bit, to no avail.
"Did you really think you could escape?" the cultist said with a grin on his face. "Not as easy, no." it answered before it tried to struggle its way from the palm's grip. These actions were met by a burst of mocking laughter, as the others now came closer. The priestess began an enchantment, which for the third time in quick succession, brought a memory forth. This time not from the dead, but his own.
It remembered being beaten by them for its scales from rare metal and paying for freedom with its knowledge on sigils. The very same they tried to use now to take him back, as he was too precious to let go.
But through the centuries it had learned to keep an ace up its sleeve. And with its own thaumaturgy, it cast the snow around him onto its pursuers. Whilst they were still blinded, it fled and dug himself a small hole in the ground. And with the fluttering snowfall, it had disappeared from their sight, finally escaped never to be seen again…
Or at least on this occasion.

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"A talking snake in Tschida's coffee?"
-Dr. Bordeaux

Merry Christmas Afto!