Wednesday, 28 September 2011

-Doc- Land of the Living

My memory of the past week and a half or so is fuzzy or nonexistent, so I apologize if what I say doesn’t quite match up with what others have said. I’m typing with one hand and my head’s in a terrible fog, so forgive me if I stop making sense at any point during this post.

I don’t even remember how long ago Spencer told me to go on that delivery to try and save those kids. A sixteen-year-old boy named Toby contacted me, informed me that his friend Roger was very sick and that they were Running alongside Roger’s girlfriend, Patty. She also happened to be Toby’s sister. Kind of odd to be dating your best friend’s sister, but I digress. I was already a bit tired, and my arm still in a great deal of pain from the souvenir I received during my previous delivery. But when the Boss got that desperate look in his eye, told me he was going to be okay, I believed him and departed immediately, planning to go without sleep to try and save everyone. Do the work of five doctors perfectly, and act as if I could be in several places at once.

What the fuck was I thinking?

The 22-hour drive was terrible, and I took my first pill shortly before arriving at the tiny old shack. It woke me up enough to get in there and see what was going on. Toby, a rather tall boy, greeted me; he had brown hair that was dyed green (rather poorly), and the added color was beginning to fade at the top. Toby led me to Roger, who looked for all the world like he was bucking for Boss’s position as the world record holder for “most black ichor to dribble out of someone’s mouth in an hour.” He was catatonic, his brown eyes glazed, several ribs and his clavicle broken, and drooling black. Deep bruises and gashes adorned his limbs and torso, but the most terrifying one was across his face, exposing his zygomatic bone and only about a half-inch from taking out his left eye. I got to work immediately, though Patty’s sobbing from the other room did my focus no favors. Another pill. Another adrenaline rush. The wind started picking up outside, rattling the old windows, sending a whistling breeze through the room.

The hair on the back of my neck tingled, and something terrible lit up in the back of my mind. The Presence, the Presence…Roger coughed violently, his eyes wide, before gibbering incoherently at me. He grabbed at my shoulders weakly before he just started twitching and twitching, his eyes staring miles away. I tried to get him stable, but something in me knew that he was a goner right there. I’ve dealt with my fair share of seizures when treating the Stalked, but this is the first time I’ve had one manage to swallow their tongue and suffocate themselves before I could even move to help them. When Patty saw, she was in hysterics, halfway from the hurricane that had started pounding into the walls of the shack, halfway from the dead boy I was attempting to resuscitate. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen…twenty…twenty-eight…thirty…one breath, two breath…I focused as hard as I could, adrenaline and amphetamines yanking at invisible strings tied to the back of my eyeballs, my entire head throbbing, my wounded arm throbbing even more, the walls quaking more with each moment, seemingly in rhythm with my compressions

The room’s temperature plummeted to a cruel chill, my breath billowing out before me in a great white cloud as I gave compression number sixteen in my third round of CPR. I felt the ropelike tentacles wrap around me before I saw the thin form standing before us. He squeezed me tightly and I started to scream, terrified and mindless. He could have crushed me into a sick, bloody pulp, but instead threw me around like a ragdoll, bashing me in the stomach, on my limbs, and once, a sickening crack to the side of my head. I heard a gunshot, a thud, a boyish scream, and another thud as I smashed into a wall, the left lens of my glasses shattering before I slid to the floor in a daze.

I felt a pair of shaky hands lift me, but I could not move or speak. A door opened, I felt the rain wash away the ooze of blood trickling down my face. The car door opened, and I was placed into a seat. Door slammed, another door opened and shut, the car started and lurched forward…I just sat there and let the scene wash over me. How it felt to be so helplessly ensnared, beaten about like a lifeless toy. Indecipherable voices, barely whispers, started to sound from nowhere as the rain beat on the windshield. Then I realized where I was: Toby was driving, though somewhat poorly. He was covered in blood and his eyes were wide. I heard him try to speak, but the only coherent words that came out were, “P-Patty shot herself in the mouth…god, Roger’s dead, they’re both dead. Oh god, oh god…” I did my best to calm him, the effort bringing me back to my senses. He eventually pulled over near a forest once the rain had let up and turned to me. “Doctor,” he said, looking at me with an empty look in his eyes, “you did all that you could…all that anyone could. Thank you, thank you.”

I looked back at him blearily, popping another pill. “Toby, come back with me. I can help you. I’m part of a group of very skilled Runners, and you’ve saved my life. I…I’m sure my Boss would love to meet-“

He shook his head quickly. “No, no thank you. I’m going to be fine. I’m just fine on my own. Everything’s fine. I don’t need…you’ve already done so much. Too much, Doctor, you’ve done too much. God…I’m sorry. Please take care. I…”

Without saying another word, he left the car, keys still in the ignition. He marched towards the forest, leaving me in the front passenger’s side of my old Scirocco. I took a moment to stop the bleeding on my head and my arm (thankful that my car has red upholstery), and apply an instant ice pack to my head wound. The pill was kicking in, the world growing oddly vibrant and dim at the same time. Once I was centered, I checked the blog, only to find...THAT post. After leaving one of my own, I hopped back into the driver’s seat and continued my journey alone.

I could still feel His presence as I drove back and popped more pills, more pills, more pills. The more pills I took, the more voices I started hearing and the faster they spoke, but I did my best to ignore them. I knew Spencer was in deep trouble, and that he would die if I didn’t get there. All coherent thought was whittled away by chemicals and nonexistent whispers, and one phrase repeated itself over and over again as my mantra, my chant: “Gotta save Spencer. Gotta save Spencer. Gotta save Spencer.” When I pulled up to the house, I ran inside; Todd immediately found me, said something to me about Spencer. I nodded, feeling my eyes twitch in their sockets. In a flash, I was carrying him down the stairs…he was only staring at me with those obsidian eyes, whispering about how “The Leader is everything. The Leader is void.” Nonsense like that. In return, I just mumbled incoherent gibberish about how I needed to perform surgery. We were both maddened by our ailments, and nothing else mattered to me at that point but his safety: not my throbbing, bleeding arm, not my racing mind, not the world spinning and twisting around me in unison with the chorus of voices screaming in my head. But I got Spencer down there, opened him up, started dumping the writhing ooze into buckets…I remember him laughing, screaming, not reacting to any injections I gave him, dribbling black gunk from his mouth and his nose…

…then nothing but blackness deeper than the deepest sleep. I did not dream; my mind was an empty void. Then I saw the mottled white ceiling of my bedroom above me. August’s voice warbled softly in my ears, and though I was fairly certain he was speaking words, they meant nothing to me for several minutes. I mumbled back, but what came out of my mouth was slurred gibberish. We continued this exchange for some time as I stared vacantly at his blurry form above me. I came to slowly, doing a bit better once I was finally able to ask for my glasses and see his face. The poor kid must’ve kept a vigil, said I was unconscious for a full four days. Judging from the bags under his eyes, I can believe it. It’s taken me some time to finally start turning around, and physically, I’m still working on it. My left arm is in a sling, and I’m too weak to walk very far on my own. For a few days, I had to be carried. I still owe Steele an apology, he had to take me downstairs to care for Spencer once again, and tend to Nemo’s broken fingers as well.

I’ve been half out of my mind on morphine, slipping in and out of consciousness for the past few days. Having Him lift you up with those wretched tentacles and throw you against a wall doesn’t do much for bullet wounds, and I’m not sure how I managed to drive all the way home with a concussion, then perform surgery successfully before finally toppling over. I don’t even remember this, but apparently August came and found me in the operating room staring at Spencer once I’d finished working on him. He tried to get me to go to my room, but days of taking amphetamines, watching people die, receiving terrible wounds, and not sleeping a wink is bad for one’s sanity. I cut him across the face with the scalpel I was holding, screaming nonsense, trying to get to Spencer because I thought I needed to operate further or he would die. Eventually, August gave me a tranq shot to put me out, and that was it for me for a few days.

I hope to be back on my feet soon, but I’m not going to push myself further unless I have to. My body is a wreck. My mind is…well, I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain I’m hallucinating right now. If this post is up later, I suppose I’ll know I’m not. Either way, I’m going to get some more sleep.

Take care, everyone.

Monday, 26 September 2011

~Steele~ Everything We Know About The Competition

Let's call this a companion article to August's little (woefully outdated and even more woefully understated) spiel on Our Glorious Leader.

(also it's wrong, very wrong, "Spencer is, on the surface, much saner than most of the Slenderstalked," my ass he is, what with all his crazy-ass rants and his ahahahaaaahahaha CHANGE FONTS NOW I am Jack's raging sphincter bullshit. An update may be in order, August my dearest. The "Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard" part was quite apt, though, I'll give you that.)

So, my fine readers, we check the blog one fine September, and find that the beautiful, elegant solution for figuring out who the fuck is posting at any time has been irreparably marred, with "Frankly, my dears..." not having any name in front of it what-so-ever. Terrible, absolutely terrible. Sends veritable shivers down my spine. What villain could've possibly done this?

Writer is his name.

Well, not really. Presumably he has a real name, like "Spencer" (as if that's HIS real name), but for now, let's go with Writer. As tempting as it is to go with something else, (like Dickbeat McQueen or Colonel Fucknubbin), let's keep this professional. And short, I don't want to overstay my welcome.

Without further ado.

Writer is an old...'friend' of Spencer's.

Well, 'friend' is an understatement. I don't know if we're talking lovers, fuckbuddies, but Writer is obsessed with our man, Spence, and apparently that's a feeling Spence never returned. The two of them were partners in crime, some terrible double-act, with Writer creating looped worlds, (labyrinths, mazes, that-one-scene-from-that-one-vlog-where-they-played-Hotel-California, whatever word floats your metaphorical boat) and Spence filling them with all sorts of terrible beasties. Or something of the sort. Elaine did a write-up of exactly what Loops are according to Spence over at her blog, which is where I'm getting a lot of this information on Writer.

Is he a Proxy?

I have no idea. He seems to be acting mostly autonomously...and you wouldn't expect one on Slender's strings to be so...possessive of a person in of himself. Sure, there's a whole load of "Father this, Father that", but it seems like it's more of a sidenote. This is getting out of the realms of hard fact and into speculation, but he seems...different.

Is he an asshole?

God yes. I refer you to the comments on this page, he must've spent hours crafting that list of insults. And I mean, look how he talks. Hell, I thought I was pretentious. Clearly I should step up my game. He's also creepy.

...Y'know, this whole 'subtitle' thing doesn't really work for me...I think I might just tell you a bit of an anecdote for my next point. I went to see Spence in the basement while he was still recovering, before he went to meet this bloke. We had a nice old talk. Poor bastard was half the way up the stairs, trying to climb his way out, so I sat down next to him. "Here you are, mate: get up, let's make you comfortable."

Then he looked at me, and I looked at him...something was wrong. What was that in his eyes...fear? He looked terrified, and terror was not an expression I expected to see in that smarmy cock's general vicinity. "Christ, mate, what's happened to you?" I remember saying, before I regained my composure. "I'm sure if Lori was conscious right now, she'd be knocked right back out again if she heard you were out and about."

Yes, Doc, I do remember you have a first name.

"Sorry, Leon...bad dreams." Spence eventually said, able to speak finally...but his eyes still looked haunted.

"Don't apologise to me, I'm not the one who needs to sew you back up if you pop a lung or something. I'm just checking up on you. Without a gun, for the first time in a while. Thought you'd be impressed."
"Like this? I couldn't hurt a fly." He grimaced, touching a delicate hand to the flesh under his shirt.
"Thus the lack of a gun. I think I prefer you like this, you don't scare the shit out of me. Though I do have another worry that is rather consuming...Keeping you safe from this...'Writer'."

Working on upping my pretension level to compete with Writer, I paused for effect like a right prick. "Now I've heard this name a couple of times over the last few years, but I think it's time you and I had a good long talk about just what skeletons from your closet we're going to need to bury."
He managed a chuckle. "Oh, finally going to have a conversation where you don't accuse me of being a fascist? Ask away."
"Don't worry, normal broadcasts will resume soon enough. Plus, your fascist self is the one who pays me, and I ain't going to bite the hand that feeds. Well, not TOO hard anyway." I had to think for a moment, to figure out how to phrase this at all subtly.

Then I kind of just went 'sod it'. "So are we talking 'rabid ex-boyfriend'? Because bro, I can relate."
"... we're talking obsessive partner that's so hard to kill that I couldn't just do the deed, I had to loop him. We're talking the one who gave me this..." He pulls up his shirt slowly, stiffly; three ugly, dark, waxy bars.

Burn scars. This all fit in with my research; when he left Writer, the classy motherfucker pushed him onto a stove. "Sexy." I commented dryly. "Now, 'loop him'? He seems pretty loopy already. Particularly for being obsessed with your fine self. No offense, but I wouldn't go there sober. Bit too rugged for my tastes."

He wasn't amused. Which is odd, I'm a pretty funny guy if I might say so myself.

"He can loop you and fill it with your greatest nightmares before he cuts off all your limbs. Maybe he'll just break you with words; you have to be careful 'cause he'll kill you without a second-" He bent over and dry retched. Lovely. I rubbed his back a little, looking away. "Easy there, tiger."
He didn't listen. He kept heaving and coughing, and black blood splattered the staircase next to me, before he fell sideways, unconscious.

"Well, fuck." I said, hoisting him up and slowly dragging him back down the stairs to Doc's operating table. "I guess that answers my next question."

"How worried should we be?"

Sunday, 25 September 2011

-Spencer- Lights are on

But nobody's home.

Hey team, for the record, there's no point in leaving the half-insane bastard that just got over nearly dying by himself.
Where he gets wacky ideas.

You never know when he's going to do something very, very stupid.

So who was on the cursed midnight vigil...? Oh, right, August. Don't blame the kid, if you would. It turns out that even half-insane, I put up a very good argument.

"No. Not like this. He'll slaughter you and there where will we be?"

I didn't have a choice. He would've made our lives even more hellish than they already are, and August knew it.

... We all knew it.

You wake up in Seatac.

Montreal. It's a nice city; one of the sick bastard's favourites. I wish Canada didn't bother me so much; it's a nice place, after all, just... bad history. Bad blood.

Back to earth, narrator.

The cafe was small and bustling and unassuming and absolutely lovely with big comfy chairs and large bay windows. The counter was mahogany and perfectly polished but everything was ruined when I saw that head of spiked platinum blonde hair.


"Ohh, Teller, you look like death warmed over~!"

You can hear it in his speech. It's the kind of voice that seems perfectly fine at first until you start to listen. No, not listen, you nitwits. /Listen/.

Then you hear it. That note of depravity, the disgusting leer on every syllable. It's that sort of sound that's worse than the static, ten times worse than anything you could imagine. The urge to run pounds in your ears but that's not an option-

"Please have a seat! Darling, darling, do /tell/ me what happened!"

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Everything about this man makes-
made me want to puke.

"Subtle as a flying brick as always, Writer. And as for Teller, you missed him about a few hours ago. Please use my /NAME/."

I'm forced to settle down carefully. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the battlefield. Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times-

"And here I am."

"Here you are indeed~! I take it you've decided to take me up on my offer?"

I've never heard anything more hilarious in my entire life. The other patrons are starting to look nervous.

"... what? To join you? Not over my dead body, sweetheart. Not in a million years. Not if you crossed all the oceans and wrote a chart-topping love song. There is not one force in the universe that would make me join you again. Threaten my family and I kill you. Threaten my friends and I kill you. Heck, piss me off and I kill you. Really, you're not too good at this, are you?"

"There are a few things I need you to do. Draw Father's attention away from your little family. The lives of the few to save your little family~ More than generous, should I think so myself!"

Oh dear, seems my bullshit alarm has reached critical.

"/And/~! I can keep Father's /influence/ inside of you... at /rest/ for a while. You won't have any more episodes as long as you do as we say."

I lift up my own cup, reach over the table,

(I can't feel the heat anymore, like one of those crappy instant handwarmers. My hands are numb again. But everything is numb these days, it seems...)

and then I calmly poured the seemingly scalding contents all over his lap.

"... anything else?"

His grin falters ever so slightly.

Oh fuck.

"I suggest you take a look around, /Fitzgerald/."

My smile stays plastered on my face like a Disney attendant and for a second it occurs to me that I might not be able to stop, even if I tried...
The nausea hits me like a ton of bricks and I look at the corner of my eye, try to ride the wave out, and the walls of the cafe seem very, very far away and for one /stupid/ moment I wonder when it became empty. The table is dwarfed by the towering white; blank expanse as far as the eye could see.

I can almost /feel/ my shadow waver, once, twice...

"Oh you son of a /BITCH/!"

It should have been impossible. There was no darkness in this room of white, no shadows or dark corners for which ichor tendrils to form and propegate, but logic seems to have been delegated to a fool's errand. I feel, felt myself collapse, palms barely taking the brunt of the force, and the nausea gets worse, surprise surprise.

"Did you forget, Fitzgerald~? In all your years away? Did you forget what I'm /capable/ of?"

A hard kick driven right into my stomach. You all said that Writer has a talent for that; kicking you while you're down. It's not a talent; it's a godamn gift. He revels in it, basks in it.

Something about that strikes... struck me as hilarious. "Smoke and mirrors, Writer. Go on, then. Fill it with every single nightmare I've ever had; it's nothing that doesn't happen in my own head. You're a cheap imitation; is this one of my own fucking loops? This is pathetic, even from you."

God grant me the wisdom...

"It's not, but considering it's drawn from /you/ it should be familiar~!"

I can feel it now between my fingers; sand.

Tell me; have any of you seen the Leader in the desert?

Because there are only two physical things within there; the sand that surrounds you, embraces you, and the endless canvas of the night sky. Inky blackness all around while the dunes shimmer like waves of silver and tarnish all at once.

You are the only darkness in this place. The only blight; the spot on white, the bit of dirt, the filth, you are a speck within the universe and nothing more. You are insignificant and you will pay.

... it starts slowly, like the climax of a symphony; everything goes quiet, almost silent, and you can hear your own heartbeat, feel your own breathing, and for a second it's hard to tell if you're sleeping or dreaming or if you exist outside of yourself. Cogito Ergo Sum; and it's when you come to this conclusion that you start to notice the change.

Webs or blood and ichor web across the sky, blotting out stars, somehow destroying diamond. The /arch;/ and /reach/ and /stretch/ and for one horrible second it occurs to you; they're alive. Everything is alive. The sand no longer shimmers; it's black now, all, all black because that's all you are, that's all He is. Your infection; His infection; you can see it crest over the dunes and the light that previously bathed everything is absorbed and you feel


because there's no doubt about it anymore; you're going to die.

the silence is roaring in your ears and commands start to whisper in your ears.

Then you see Him.

... sound.


You wake up in LAX.

I'm vaguely aware of Writer holding me close, shooing off well wishers with genuine looks of concern instead of his fake one. "Ohh, darling, are you alright?" said in a high and melodramatic tone, practically the screech of a soap opera diva. Then he leans in, whispers into my ear... "Imagine this, /Fitzgerald/, every time you close your eyes; every time you drop your guard~!"

Sultry and smooth and spiteful and sneering.

I can feel myself cough weakly, once, twice. People are staring. "Life would be boring otherwise, /sweetie/. Now get out of my face." Try to get up. Stumble. Feel something dribble over your own lip.

I am Jack's failing liver.

He catches me as I fall. "Darling, /please/, don't try moving!" it's clear the hold is to restrain, not to support. Again, that seething whisper into my ear. I snort.

"Are you certain, Spencer Fitzgerald? A few simple tasks, that's all I ask~! I can even promise you nobody will be killed!" a pause. "Nobody of importance, anyways~! And all of this bad nightmares business? That /infection/ slowly eating you from the inside out? Gone, gone, gone~!"

"You know you can't promise anything like that. I'm desperate, Writer; not stupid." A slow, weak laugh. I must be more crazy than I thought.

"So you know what? You can take your deal and shove it. Nice stain, by the way. Don't think it'll come out." I touch my hand to the black dribbling from my mouth, wincing.

"What stain, Fitzgerald~?"

"This one."

And I have to say, I took great pleasure in smearing the black blood onto his pristine white shirt, rubbing furiously into the fabric.

Twitch. Twitch.

Writer is fighting to keep his composure.

"I'll take that as a no."

"Good plan."

I grin brighter than I have in weeks, finally managing to stumble to my feet. "I'll see you around, Writer, darling. Or not. Let's hope that it's the latter."

He stalks out without another word.

It took a good few minutes for me to get out; to dodge the other patrons and convince them to not call an ambulance despite what I looked like and oh hell they called one anyway.

That was my cue to go offstage.

Every time a foot slammed into the pavement it felt like my head was going to explode, but it was almost a bit of a relief...

Eventually I ducked into an alleyway, where my staples promptly popped open and stained my lovely, if not dishevelled clothing. They're not holding well and I feel like I'm going to hurl, but I'm alive and I just ruined Writer's day.

... Holy crap. It feels damn good to type that.

So I figure I'm going to try pinning myself shut without having anyone notice. It's late and there's not a lot of people around, but you can never be too careful-



Isn't that....?

Looks like we might have a guest.

Seems like tonight just got a little more interesting.

There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he were sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

Saturday, 24 September 2011

-August (Todd)- Normalcy

Or, as close to it as we can get.

After the chaos that was Wednesday and Spencer's infection; Doc running herself into the ground after her delivery and a certain tilde-abusing man now apparently in full control of the boss' account, I guess anything less than total chaos feels like a break.

We took a plane home from Vegas not long after getting off the phone with Spencer. Or, what I so scarcely call Spencer; anybody who isn't half-blind would realize that the boss in that state is far from his regular self. While I won't share the contents of the conversation, I'll tell you it was enough to leave behind the FREE CANDY van and get back to Vermont as fast as possible.

What we came home to... wasn't ideal.

It's strange. We've dealt with messes before. This is hardly the first time Spencer Fitzgerald has gotten like this, hardly the first time somebody has pushed themselves far, far beyond the brink of functionality and still continued to work, and certainly not the first time I've come home to finding all the dishes shattered and the gun missing from the back of the cupboard.

(You idiot, you know there are ones that you can use without breaking my best china!)

But maybe it's just seeing the panic written out so clearly for the world to see that makes everything worse in retrospect. I guess everything gets filtered out over time? Maybe we've always been this dysfunction and chaotic, just never able to really see it after the fact.

Hindsight is 20/20, afterall.

But I digress.

Hey, a quick joke. What do you call a guy who is oblivious to the fact that one of his only friends is dying right in front of him?

An asshole.

You know, it was sort of cute walking in on August passed out at his laptop, especially considering he's the one telling me I need to sleep. Oh, this is Todd by the way. Alive and... alive. But better than most a majority of us. Which, in all honesty, is not saying much. Just glad I'm on my own two feet and can actually do something other than sit in my room and be useless. I do kind of find it funny that it started with Spencer. But funny in a 'you're a horrible person for thinking this is funny' kind of way.

I've gained a habit of randomly walking about the house when my mind troubles me (which is a lot lately), almost as if my clouded thoughts are causing my legs to move. When I happened upon Spence, lying on the ground, black substance dribbling out of his mouth and nose like a mucus, labored breathing, my brain cleared all processes. No more thoughts. I froze up. Time that could have been spent trying to save him was wasted with me gawking at him like an idiot.

It was the first time I've really gotten a good look at him. I've been passing my eyes over him for a long time, I just didn't want him to notice me. I don't even know why, really. Fear? I don't know. Anger? Probably.

It was strange, cause I have seen people in similar states, most of whom are dead not long afterwards. But I can't really recall off the top of my head Spencer ever showed weakness in front of us, or me, at least. Now, there was a voice in my head going "Take this chance. He's weak and wounded. Kill him! Kill him!" and another one going "Run while you can! Get out! Get out!" while in my own voice, I'm thinking "I wonder if two men have passed him before me.
But I don't think I'm good enough of a person to be a Samaritan here. Right after that I wondered if Spencer was going to be the symbolic Christ figure who would die to save us, but I ultimately decided against it. His arms weren't in a crucifixion pose.

I picked him up, and rushed him into Doc's room. She knew how to take it from there. I left her alone, I knew I could only make it worse. I sat outside of that room for about... half an hour? I don't exactly know. Time dragged on, all of the world that I could experience was filled with noises of screaming, occasionally a pause, maybe so the sound of a bone cracking could be heard, to be replaced with screaming. All I could see was a section of wall I dare not take my eyes off of.

But August came rushing in, frantic, asking me what happened. I stared at him, unable to give any answers to any of his questions. I just opened the door. And I closed it once he went in. It got a little quieter. I could hear them talking. I did my best to try and not understand anything they could say, except it was pretty hard when I heard Doc start yelling "No, no no no no no, August!" And then August walking out and asking me to help carrying Doc to her room.

I'm doing my best to forget that part now.

I carried Doc by the torso, while holding her head up. It was a really strange sight. We got back into the room, and August and I talked a little bit about my obliviousness to the whole situation. August, bless his heart, took the "Todd is not an idiot side.", I don't think the judges were impressed. He also took the "You should really get some sleep, Todd." argument. Which I think is kind of funny, considering he's curled up into a perfect little ball at the edge of his bed right now. Personally, I think he's the only one of us who deserves sleep right now.

But everyone could use some, I suppose. Doc hasn't even moved from her bed since we put her there. It's the kind of thing I would ask her if it was healthy if she was awake. I'm just going to guess that it's not.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

-Doc- Murphy's Law

Oh for fuck's sake, I just had the worst delivery in the history of my career, and now some jackass is trying to kill the Boss?

Listen, Oscar Wilde, I don't know what you did to him, but you can take your "ultimatum" and shove it into your ass. Deep into your ass. Even if it's something I cannot fix, I'm sure that Spencer would rather die than owe a favor to a murderous twat like you. HOwever, just to spite you, I am going to fix it. Watch me. Watch me work, you mgiht learn something. You might learn how to fix someone isntead of just break theam.

Haven't slept yet, can'mt slee pyet. Head's in a fog, I need more pills. Sorry, I can't make a longer post, but I' m sure you udnerstand, readers. I'm sure you all understand beause you read this blog and you know how shitty all our lives are and your lives are probably shitty too but I have to go now because of reasons sI'm sure you can relate to and understand.

I'll be home soon. My arm hurts. My head hurts. Pills are making me shiver, but at least I'm awake. I'm completely awake.

Frankly, my dears...

You all disgust me.

One can only wonder, Mr. Fitzgerald, how long a man can sit and flail about like a pig with its throat slit before its spastic thrashing ceases to resemble life and more accurately resemble what it truly is; struggling to hang onto the little vivacity it has still drains rapidly from its veins.

It's taken me a long, long time to hunt you down, darling. To think, I might not have even been able to if it weren't for that pathetic excuse of a defector drawing every servant of our Father in the entire lower region of Vermont to your humble abode.

You put on quite a show with that little piece of arm candy, too - I must admit. But your standards have positively plummeted since I last saw you, nearly three years ago.

Do you remember the night you left me?

Do you remember the burns?

The places where my teeth marred your delicate skin?

Are the scars still there, Teller?

A rhetorical question, of course. We both know they're there, and they're as fresh as the day you abandoned us.

And what life did you pursue instead? Cowering like an old dog behind the shed, desperately clinging to your last shreds of humanity (though we both know very well you were never truly human in the first place. Not your purpose, right~?) as this utter sham of a family tries to turn a blind eye as you slip, again and again, working yourself further and further into the ground?

How many times can you rebuild, Spencer Fitzgerald?

How many times can you rekindle the fire from the ashes? Eventually you'll be so shattered and broken that your little pet of a housewife won't be able to piece you back together, and that's assuming your doctor doesn't dive completely off the deep end first~! What of sir Leon Steele? How do you think he'll react to all of this? Are you desperate for a bullet between the eyes, or is that just an unfortunate side effect of your gift - pardon, your illness? You're a liar and a fake and a failure most of all, Spencer Fitzgerald.

And I can fix you.

And miss Loreli, (almost a missus, and must I say, congratulations! I've never seen somebody wring the life from a person who was once so close to them in such cold blood. Except for when I did it, of course. But you didn't have a choice, did you? You were to be married, after all. And now look where you've both ended up~! Funny how love works, isn't it?) before you go dropping everything to tend to your most beloved leader, I take this time to tell you that Teller is beyond your help at this point. He is a delicate and beautiful flower that is far, far beyond your comprehension - at least, in this state. But if you would like to test the limits of your knowledge, perhaps you should pay closer attention to those animals you keep under the tarps~?

Mr. Fitzgerald is nothing but a figment of Teller's imagination; an illusion of what he wishes he could be, all he could never be. Father's gift to him... he resists it.

I imagine it hurts~!

But, as I said, I do possess the ability to let you all scramble and grasp for a small time longer. I offer... compromise.

I can and will return your glorious leader to his former glory; to how he was before you degenerates seemed hell-bent on ruining him. All I ask in return is a string of largely insignificant and mostly inconsequential assignments to be completed by him, for me. For Father. For his family.

I leave the choice to all of you, disgusting and flawed as you are. Leon, perhaps you will choose inaction, prove that you would be a much better leader. Todd, you have a bone to pick with Mr. Fitzgerald as well, do you not? August, imagine how much better you could care for your sham of a family, and Sam, don't you miss your sister? Amanda, aren't you tired of secrets, and Lori, aren't you tired of keeping them?

Elaine, he could have saved the man you loved more than anything, and he didn't.

I expect my answer soon. I'll know if you accept.

Tick tock, tick tock~!

Best of luck, couriers.

Monday, 19 September 2011

-Spencer- God Complex


it's funny

the little things you notice when y'think you're gonna die like how clean August keeps the kitchen floor

and how there's little spots of blood on the ceiling

can't help but wonder if it's mine

They pushed us into a big white room and I began to blink because the light hurt my eyes. Then I saw a table and four men behind the table, civilians, looking over the papers. They had bunched another group of prisoners in the back and we had to cross the whole room to join them. There were several I knew and some others who must have been foreigners. The two in front of me were blond with round skulls: they looked alike. I supposed they were French. The smaller one kept hitching up his pants: nerves.

... it's all foggy, all in that delightful fog that's been around for the past few weeks, i couldn't have done it by myself because I woulda died if I took the Gift out of me, wait for doc, she'll make it all better

something entered our territory, the House's territory; was reading about Miranda, poor, poor Miranda and Emma. They're dead. Dead. Am I going to....

Threw open a cabinet and HRRRGK there were the pistols the dishes fell to the floor with the prettiest of ugly sounds and I crunched over the broken glass with my boots and stepped outside and it was cold cold cold it was freezing

Day was coming in through four air holes and a round opening they had made in the ceiling on the left, and you could see the sky through it. Through this hole, usually closed by a trap, they unloaded coal into the cellar. Just below the hole there was a big pile of coal dust: it had been used to heat the hospital, but since the beginning of the war the patients were evacuated and the coal stayed there, unused; sometimes it even got rained on because they had forgotten to close the trap.

Tom began to shiver. "Good Jesus Christ, I'm cold," he said. "Here it goes again."

i'm sorry everyone, I should have known better
i should have known better

I couldn't move on my own; the crawling started under my skin and I SLAMMED into the ground and I could feel something in my chest crack and mend like dying and breathing all at once and I couched as I tried to get up and tried not to scream as my shoulders screamed in disagreement and then they dislocated and relocated and moved like they shouldn't


looking back, i'm not sure who I was talking to

Elaine, elaine beside me. I was going to kill her, she was going to kill me, and I-

told, tell her to get away and my head slams into the ground again

drops of thick, dark red splatter onto the ground and I feel a warm stickiness near my temple start to ebb and flow

"Kneel. kneelkneelkneelkneelkneelFUCKDAMMITSHUTUP!!!!"

she said she wouldn't leave me like this
I told her to get inside

i should have known better

below me, a patch of fresh snow.

There was a strange smell about Tom. It seemed to me I was more sensitive than usual to odors. I grinned. "You'll understand in a while." "It isn't clear," he said obstinately. "I want to be brave but first I have to know. . . .Listen, they're going to take us into the courtyard. Good. They're going to stand up in front of us. How many?"

He began to talk to himself: he never stopped watching the Belgian. The Belgian didn't seem to be listening. I knew what he had come to do; he wasn't interested in what we thought; he came to watch our bodies, bodies dying in agony while yet alive.

"Last Chance."

All three of us stare and I'm not sure if it's because we know what it means or not
Star gagged and coughed and clutched his head and moved towards the side of The House

I felt myself jerk to the left and felt more things crack and could almost see the bloody mist leave my mouth before I felt the pain and then the warmth spread the corner of my mouth

the temperature fell

and fell

and fell

until white flecks of snow floated down in front of my eyes and the area got a blue tint and all I could say was


a pathetic whimper of a man who has everything falling apart around him

At that moment I felt that I had my whole life in front of me and I thought, "It's a damned lie." It was worth nothing because it was finished. I wondered how I'd been able to walk, to laugh with the girls: I wouldn't have moved so much as my little finger if I had only imagined I would die like this. My life was in front of me, shut, closed, like a bag and yet everything inside of it was unfinished. For an instant I tried to judge it. I wanted to tell myself, this is a beautiful life. But I couldn't pass judgment on it; it was only a sketch; I had spent my time counterfeiting eternity, I had understood nothing. I missed nothing: there were so many things I could have missed, the taste of manzanilla or the baths I took in summer in a little creek near Cadiz; but death had disenchanted everything.

Elaine dragged Star to the House and came back for me
but I knew she would interfere
and probably die
it's funny
i never thought i would die on my own kitchen floor

it took two seconds for her to get to me but that was all I needed. The brick wall was long and endless and sturdy and beautiful and i admired it for a second before the third rib cracked from the backlash

then the fog moved in
then the nightmares moved in

those red eyes, those burning red eyes; they've haunted me since i saw them in that dream, since they told me what I was and what I could be

.... I have an idea, that you are here.....

He wept: I could clearly see he was pitying himself; he wasn't thinking about death. For one second, one single second, I wanted to weep myself, to weep with pity for myself. But the opposite happened: I glanced at the kid, I saw his thin sobbing shoulders and I felt inhuman: I could pity neither the others nor myself. I said to myself, "I want to die cleanly."

"This is my /HOME/, y'bastard, and I'm not giving it over so godamn EASILY-"

retch. Reeeeeeeeeetch. But don't fall, don't fucking fall

my arms hang limply at my sides and I think for a second that I'm not alive at all, just a puppet, just a stitched together doll...

Tapping. Tapping of a cane. I smiles then. Maybe I laughed, it's hard to remember.

"You remind me of an old "friend-" gasping, laughing, I can't stop because if I stop then I'll start to cry because I don't want to die here but I'm going to face this with dignity-

These men dolled up with their riding crops and boots were still going to die. A little later than I, but not too much. They busied themselves looking for names in their crumpled papers, they ran after other men to imprison or suppress them: they had opinions on the future of Spain and on other subjects. Their little activities seemed shocking and burlesqued to me; I couldn't put myself in their place. I thought they were insane. The little man was still looking at me, whipping his boots with the riding crop. All his gestures were calculated to give him the look of a live and ferocious beast.

dignity- not something that one possesses as they retch in their front yard with such force that they feel a pop in their eye and lovely tendrils of red cloud my vision

gloved hands reach for my own damn gun and I give a few shots

"Hey hey hey, ugly, that's mine."

The hands vanish and I feel something smash into my shoulderblades, once, twice, oh look I'm going to be beaten to death by a tacky knick knack the warmth and stickiness spreads to the back of my head but I won't kneel, makememakememakeme

Valtiel, that's his name.

The Wall starts to crumble and Elaine is running but The House isn't exactly happy with me
so he drags me by the hair into my own kitchen
I keep laughing
haven't stopped

until It

They were badly mistaken. In the laundry I sat on a stool because I felt very weak and I began to think. But not about their proposition. Of course I knew where Gris was; he was hiding with his cousins, four kilometers from the city. I also knew that I would not reveal his hiding place unless they tortured me (but they didn't seem to be thinking about that). All that was perfectly regulated, definite and in no way interested me. Only I would have liked to understand the reasons for my conduct. I would rather die than give up Gris. Why? I didn't like Ramon Gris any more. My friendship for him had died a little while before dawn at the same time as my love for Concha, at the same time as my desire to live. Undoubtedly I thought highly of him: he was tough. But it was not for this reason that I consented to die in his place; his life had no more value than mine; no life had value. They were going to slap a man up against a wall and shoot at him till he died, whether it was I or Gris or somebody else made no difference. I knew he was more useful than I to the cause of Spain but I thought to hell with Spain and anarchy; nothing was important. Yet I was there, I could save my skin and give up Gris and I refused to do it. I found that somehow comic; it was obstinacy. I thought, "I must be stubborn!" And a droll sort of gaiety spread over me.

until It started calling.

It was only abbetted by the shadows that flank The House, the shadows that have always been there and never been there. Spencer noticeably stiffens and the room goes silent, but is it silence? it roars in everyone's ears like the coming of god and the destruction of the world all at once.

Something from nothing.

It gathers from the place in the corner of your eye that you avoid looking out of; every great fear and great love you've ever had; ichor webs string across ceilings and floors, gathering into a main, pulsating body; the static is getting worse. Even in the small kitchen the dark, pure black sky is endless, trapping, consuming, /OBSERVING/, and in the middle of it all, a beacon.
It was like viewing something from underwater
everything was beautiful and nothing hurt


I must've came to when He was gone.
Star was in bad shape, I could feel myself bleeding, and Elaine was hysterical.
thinking back, her eyes looked so incredible at that moment...

Todd was the first to find me
it's getting kind of dark
you wake up at Seatac

"Yes. What a fool. Of course they went by there this morning, that was sure to happen. They found him in the gravediggers' shack. He shot at them and they got him."

"In the cemetery!"

Everything began to spin and I found myself sitting on the ground: I laughed so hard I cried...

Hellen had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell. Hellen took some dynamite and blew the bell to Hello operator-

Sunday, 18 September 2011

-Doc- House Calls, Round II

I'm going to clarify something before I launch into this: I do not do house calls as a matter of routine. I do, however, do them if someone is on the brink of death and desperately needs someone, anyone, to try and help them. Unless it's because you pulled a hangnail out wrong or something.

In this case, it's a group of three teenagers. Best friends who have found themselves assaulted by a particular tall individual on a regular basis. And tonight, they've asked me to hurry to their place to take care of the aftermath of an...encounter. My arm's still in agony, and it's a 20 or so hour drive, but I think this journey is warranted. I'll give details when I get back, time is precious right now.

I wanted to perform surgery on the Boss before I had to go do something like this, but he can wait until I get back.

-August- Vegas

I found a number in my shirt pocket this morning, and I know for a fact it isn't the one Opal gave me.

Vegas is nice. Steele's decided to take something of a vacation and, in all honesty, it feel really, really nice to be out of the house for a while. The timing... could have been better. Elaine, I'm sorry I probably won't be back until you leave. And as for Star... well, you can all take care of yourselves. If there's any one group of people that I trust to survive locked in a house with a man who owns a Killdozer, it's you guys.

Maybe I'm just optimistic?

Boss, take a bit of alone time. Lock yourself somewhere away from Star and tend to your business - you know what I'm talking about. Do it now before it boils over and we get another incident like -Sam- Surgery. 

Right, so, a little hung over. We're stay in some high-end hotel and have a room about the size of the second floor of our house back home. While there isn't a kitchenette, the food is fantastic so I guess I'm not complaining.

(My pancakes are better.)

After... whatever happened last night, a strawberry banana smoothie sounds wonderful. Once Steele wakes up (and I'm sure he'll delight in telling me what I did last night) I think we're going to get some breakfast. But until then, let's recap.

We left the same night Steele and Spencer had their disagreement, a few hours after everything had calmed down in the house. I figured Steele needed to get away from everything at home for a bit, and I did have a delivery I had to make. Lis of No Pressue = No Diamonds had also requested a spent a bit of time with her, and after everything they had been through... well, I wasn't about to turn them down. It was a small detour to where they were staying, and I sent Steele to pick up cleaning supplies and other things while I made pancakes and tried to help them all I could.

Remember that Opal girl I delivered to some time ago? Well, Corwin had something for her. While she's listed the details on her own blog, I think I sum it up nicely when I say that it only reinforces the fact that he's something of a bastard. The way the email had been worded, the package, the place we went meant to pick up the package... a lot of it screamed 'trap' to me, honestly.

Well, until we arrived at the coordinates he had sent us, and ended up somewhere down a long stretch of highway outside a small town. A Burger King sign sat right where the GPS had told us to stop, and at the foot of it sat the package.

It was five hours to where Opal had been staying, and honestly I didn't want to stick around too long. I had that nagging sense of danger around us, and could have sworn somebody was watching us from one of the windows of inn. It was sometime around then that Steele mentioned he had booked a premier suite in Vegas.

In all honesty, a vacation was the most appealing idea in the world at that time. I love you all, but August needs a vacation and has been cooped up that house for far, far too long. You all know how to take care of yourselves, and we're both doing fine over here. Doc, I'm sorry if I worried you because I didn't call last night.

Everything's fine here, and while I'm still more than a little nervous about what happened last night, I'd say everything's gone well. Delivery was no hassle, Lis is... hopefully better, and we should be back... well, I don't know, actually. I'll ask Steele about that.

Speaking of Steele, I think I hear him in the next room. Y'all stay safe, alright? Call me if anything happens, and good luck with Star.

Again, Elaine, I'm sorry. I hope I get to see you again, and best of luck with everything.

Be home soon, guys. Try to not do anything too stupid when I'm gone, and remember; if you can't grasp how the oven works, the microwave is always a viable option.

Wednesday, 14 September 2011

-Sam- Checking In

See, I found this passageway into Narnia, and I became the queen and stayed there for thirty years killing witches and having tea with goats and all that stuff, and I just came back and it’s only been a month in this world…

…yeah I wish.

I’ve pretty much been on…vacation, let’s call it...for the past few weeks. Actually, I moved down into one of the parts of the House that nobody’s been in for years. Partly out of curiosity, partly out of everyone in this place is going crazy and I need to get out of here.

The House is huge. It’s ridiculous. I don’t think anyone could find me back here even if they wanted to. There’s all this weird stuff here, too. I found a whole bedroom full of creepy old dolls. I mean, who the hell lived here and collected dolls? Who even had this house before the couriers did? I’m putting these on my “ask August” list. Which I’m totally making right now.

Oh. The reason I’m posting. I haven’t been keeping up with the blog – I didn’t even know Elaine was here until August sent me 3,794 texts basically saying “IT’S ELAINE’S BIRTHDAY, GET YOUR BUTT BACK TO CIVILIZATION AND EAT WITH US.” That was a couple weeks ago, obviously. And I went. Elaine seems like a nice lady even if she’s a little weird. But anyway.

Last night I heard somebody in this part of the house. Didn’t recognize the voice, couldn’t make out any of the words. So I barricaded the door and looked on the blog and oh hello there is an insane murderer who is sharing our house with us.

I don’t know if it was Morningstar I heard or not. At least…God, I hope it was him. Either way I have to get out of here. I’m packing up and making a run for the main part of the house as soon as I post this. Just keep your fingers crossed I’m not brutally murdered on the way.

See you soon,

-Sam ♪

P.S. One of the dolls looked lonely, so I kept her. I hope that’s okay.

P.P.S. Her name is Matilda.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

~Steele~ Through the Loop?

I always sleep so much more soundly when I'm not in that House. Why is that? Isn't the whole 'home sweet home' ideal supposed to be a place you can lay your head? Without fear? With dreams, not nightmares? I have the sweetest sleep when I'm out here, in the middle of a field, in a crappy old van...out here, Proxies in the basement seem so far away.

So I can finally write about Matthew Rivers. Ex-police psychologist. Currently, private practice. It occurs to me now that I ought to recommend him to the masses, as frankly, the amount of people I've met in my years knowing our dark and handsome businessman, who could use psychological help...

Just a friendly thought. Y'know, for the next time any of you folk are in New Jersey. His blog is at Origin of Simulation, though the bloke's no longer comfortable with the idea of blogging.

"To blog would be to reveal my movements, and more importantly, my thought patterns." He said to me, after introductions. I picked him up, though not before he said goodbye to a rather sour looking lady who I could only assume was his partner. "And my thought patterns are sacred in this little game we have going afoot, hmm? But business continues as usual." His speech patterns were always very measured and dry, though beneath the rather cold exterior, you could sense a deadpan wit. That said, you could also see a haunted look in his eyes, and hear it when he slept...Muttering, always muttering. Something about the wind.

He also had a certain propensity for monologuing. You could tell by the way he spoke that he was one of those guys who were continually thinking, theorizing...But perhaps not a man of action. (After living on and off with Mr. Gung-Ho Fitzgerald for the last few years, a man of words was a welcome change.)

For instance, about an hour out of Atlantic City...Already he was waxing poetic about some of his...readings. "Every experience with the construct is different. Have you ever noticed that? Across the board, those who have this paranormal insurgence, or at least, those who record it in their blogging and video diaries, report wildly different symptoms, and symbolic interpretations."

"I don't read about other people's experiences, mate." I replied. "I live it, why would I want to hear about other condemned blokes running around Mr. Slim, achieving nothing?"
"Knowledge is key, Mr. Steele. Know the victims, and you can make assertations regarding the villain. Profile the construct, understand it. But when you rely on a self-reporting structure for all of your test subjects, how much of the information given is truly the construct, and how much is a product of the mind?"

Matt loved his rhetorical questions; I could tell he wasn't looking for a conversation, but an ear to talk off, so I remained silent and focused on the road.

"And so I come back to my original point: Apparently, every experience is different...though perhaps it is because of the subjective nature of interpretation. Some of the 'Runners' foreground the horror of their situation through the attention placed on the construct itself, while some others let him take the back seat, and focus on his "Proxies", or any otherwise human antagonistic figure. Though this is pure conjecture as you fine folk are indeed the first Runners I have come into contact with, so there is no theoretical grounding, my hypothesis would be that those Runners who focus on the construct believe their situation to be both stable, unchanging, and possess a global sense of doom, both of which are traits which have been clinically linked to depression, whereas those who focus on the human aspect are far more likely to take little victories to keep their spirits up, and attempt to maintain a semblance of life..."

He talked a lot. Some of it was interesting anecdotes, though most of it was along those lines...Studying Runners, and studying 'the construct' as he so very much liked to put it. Which I did get a little annoyed at at one stage, I will admit.

"You're looking at people in the same situation as your own like they're lab rats or something, mate." I said, as we pulled over at the motel for the night.
"Same situation...somewhat. As I have said before, the experience changes depending on multiple factors, particularly the participants and their respective set and settings. That said, there also appears to be a sense of stability once a modus operandi has been established within a continuity, but..."
"Plain English would be lovely right about now, darling."
"Simply put? My Slender Man is not your Slender Man. Not exactly. And I'd like to find out why."
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." I said, grinning, not realizing at that moment that I was doing little but tempting fate.

I definitely found out the night before we got into Nevada, though.

The lights of the Vegas Strip had never looked so inviting after that.

"So what exactly are you looking for down this way?" I was sitting on my bed as he typed away on his laptop at a dimly lit desk. The wind was rattling the windows outside, so sleep wasn't exactly an option quite yet.
"Answers." He said shortly. Which was odd for him. I was going to inquire further, but then I heard a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" I called, hopping off the bed and walking to answer...

No response. Strange.

You know that feeling you get where something is wrong, but you don't know quite what? That sudden inclination that you're walking along the razor's edge?

Taken by this feeling of doom, I stayed my hand at the handle, and instead moved over to the tacky lace curtains next to the door, peering around to take a look...

Two girls. They couldn't have been more than 10 years old...looked like twins. They each had brown, mousy hair (or so I could see in the slight fluorescent light from above the door) tied back in two pigtails, with slightly angular faces, wearing two dresses of identical make: one green, and one yellow.

But I wasn't looking at any of this. I was looking at their eyes. Shining black, as if their pupils had consumed their iris, and then the rest of the eye surface, just two inky marbles rolling around in their skulls. I was transfixed, and the feeling of doom screamed in the back of my mind.

"Let us in, Mr. Steele. It's cold outside."

"Leon, I want you to close the curtains and come back here." Rivers was now paying attention, his voice calm, though his eyes were wide. I felt my mouth speaking, as if I were a third party in the room, spectating. "But they're cold. It's very windy."

"Let them freeze. They're not little girls anymore."

I turned back to look at the girls, and came crashing back down to reality when I saw them grinning at me maliciously, jagged teeth, sharpened to points, as the wind grew to a crescendo, howling and smashing into the walls of the building like jackhammers, as I fell back from the window with a slight yelp. The little girls giggled, and tapped on the window, and suddenly there were taps from all the windows, and shadowy figures behind the curtains, as a cacophony of laughter exploded, "Let us in, Mister, let us in!" as Rivers shut the blinds and picked me up off the ground...

"It's beginning. They'll be gone by dawn, Leon; don't worry. And they can't hurt us without permission to come into the building...or so the stories go."
"So we're safe in here?"
"If we weren't, why would they ask? Why wouldn't they just come inside? Break the glass or something?"

I checked my watch and tapped the glass, hoping, praying that the second hand would start to tick again, but to no avail: indeed, it started to tick backwards, then forwards, like a metronome, taunting me, even as I ran to my bag to find some extra ammo clips, and maybe something to dull the experience a little.

"Mate, we've got a long night ahead of us." I said, pulling out a bottle of Johnny Walker and taking a swig, before looking deeper into the bag to find some other form of painkillers. You know, in case one of us got attacked.

Rivers had a bemused smile on his face as I offered him the bottle. "Really?"
"Well, you say we're mostly safe if we're inside. Unless...something else appears. All we can do is ride this out. And frankly, the less of it I can remember, the better."

Flawless Loop logic. Rivers couldn't argue with that.

He found glasses and ice, and poured himself a dram, before strolling over to the mini-bar to find more supplies. The children giggled and squealed outside, and the storm continued.


"So this Loop thing...This is a new phenomenon, one which is curiously a feature of your, and your kin's experience with the construct." Rivers said matter-of-factly, sipping from his glass as the lights in the room flickered dimly, the shadows dancing and playing around us, the endless 'tap-tap-tap' at the windows and doors going unnoticed. We had habituated to it after the first hour. "On the other hand, these children are directly related to the investigation me and my partner have been carrying out, and so they are an experience related to MY construct." We had pooled resources in the centre of the room; a veritable pile of alcohol and nicotine, which we sat around like a campfire.

"So what you are saying is, because we are undergoing an 'experience' together, the individual natures of how we perceive Tall and Slender kind of, merges?"
"Precisely." Rivers nodded, as I reached for another cigarette. "This has implications for the reciprocal nature of how the construct is created. The creature clearly has physical properties, I'm not saying he's in our heads...but there is something about our perception which drives the construct to adapt."
"You're losing me, mate..." I admitted, exhaling with a grin as he topped up our glasses.
"The construct, upon his inception into this world, probes the minds of those who perceive it, and use details from their memory to fill in details about him...of course, this is just a working model."

"So, what, you just really hate children?" I queried, motioning to outside. Rivers snorted. "Quite. I have a certain theory about that, actually...And why the Slender Man myth seems to change regionally. I have a couple of suspicions about this American...well, Western, I suppose, iteration..." His words became more disjointed, as he was clearly focusing on lighting up a smoke. I waited patiently, not even realising that the tapping outside had stopped.

"Ever heard of the Man in Black urban legend?" He asked, back into it.
"What does Will Smith have to do with this?"
"No, the sightings of these men around any paranormal or extraterrestrial activity...Roswell, Mothman, Kenneth Arnold and the like. The secretive government agent, black suit, hidden eyes, covering up UFO sightings, has been a trope ingrained in the Western consciousness since 1947. Whenever someone considers 'is there anything out there beyond ourselves?', invariably their minds will either go to aliens, or God. And for those who believe in aliens, the Man in Black is their greatest antagonist."
"So you're saying Slender Man works for the government?" This man's theorizing...I was struggling to follow his jumps in logic. All I could do was follow along, watch him work, as the walls melted around us and there was only black.

"No, that's the beauty of it. I published a preliminary study of this on my blog earlier in the year. The Men in Black are a feature of culture, not of government; they're an easily identified symbolic icon for the paranormal, for secrecy at any cost. And if a construct without a definable form was to enter into the human subconscious to look for a form which would symbolically communicate that purpose, secrecy, protection of us from that which is a way, to gain our trust...What do you think it would automatically gravitate towards? This being from beyond...latches onto the symbolism of the times, in order to communicate an unsaid purpose. In medieval Europe, to the serfs, he was Der Ritter - the Knight. The purpose and drive of the nobility was one that was similarly unfathomable to those who saw it. What if our little Man in Black is here, to protect something...up there? Something bigger, and more unfathomable?"

I poured myself another scotch.


I was shaving for the third time tonight, when I finally heard birds chirping outside. "Rivers? Rivers!" I shook him awake, shaving cream still on my cheek. He had opted to let his facial hair grow as a means of keeping track of time; he looked a far cry away from the professional figure who had entered the motel about 8 hours ago. In real time.

"The sun's rising, have a look!"

And so we stood by the window of our crappy motel, admiring the first strains of red to appear over the horizon, still drinking to avoid the terrifying hangover we knew we were going to develop eventually...

"Oh shit, I still need to drive you to Nevada, don't I?"


After about 6 more hours of slow, yet terrifying drunk driving on both of our parts (We were driving along a perfectly straight road, in the desert, and we STILL managed to roll off into the sands), we arrived at the destination, off the interstate, just overlooking Las Vegas Boulevard...the parking lot of a musty old diner. "You know, when you said Nevada, I was thinking you were going to be holed up in one of the casinos, not roughing it out here, hun." I said, critically crinkling up my nose as I imagined the quality of their bacon and eggs. And oh god, the coffee.

"Oh, I'm not roughing it out here by any means, Mr. Steele." Rivers said, reaching into his suitcase and taking out a particularly thick envelope. "This is just where you and I must part ways. I have...other friends to take me the rest of the way."
I pocketed the paycheck he offered to me and nodded. "I'm going to head into Vegas for some R&R anyway, it's no trouble for me to take you the rest of the way."

"Leon, I'm not going to the Strip. I'm heading south a ways." He looked over my shoulder and nodded, prompting me to turn around, noticing two men in dark suits standing by a black luxury car...looked like a Lincoln. "I'm stopping off down by Groom Lake. Catch some of the sights."

"Men in Black, huh?" I said in a neutral tone, though I was intrigued. "Looks like you know a lot more than you letting on, mate."

"You just didn't ask the right questions. Don't worry, it happens. All that has happened is, my research has had some interest taken in it. No big secret here...I'll get in touch sometime. Take care." And with that, he was off in the Lincoln, the only indication he had ever been here being the wad of what was hopefully cash, sitting in my back pocket.

And his curious words, still floating around my mind.

Monday, 12 September 2011

-Doc- Self-Repair

I’ve just gotten off the phone with August, but I would like to post the full story here so everyone else knows Im going to be okay too. My head’s foggy, I havn't slept in over a day, and I’m having ttrouble typing, but I’l be better by morning.

So Boss kicked me out of the house so I could deliver to this guy. I wouldn’ thave expected Wyoming to be this exciting. I parke my car about three miles from the drop point, snuck through the woods for awhile, but foun that I had to take a more open route for the remainedrd of the trip. I heard rustling in the bushes, whipped around in time to see this extremely pale, skinny man tackle me to the ground, smacking me across my face for good measure before grabbing my satchel and bolting. Cracked glasses be damned (nothing too unusual, I need a new pair after nearly every delivery), I leapt up, pulled out my knife, and pursued him. He barely made it ten yards before I stabbed him in the back, about two inches medial to the glenohumeral joint. I felt the knife hit and scrape the scapula slightly, and he gave a good scream and dropped the satchel. While he was busy whimpering, I pulled a syringe from my pocket and stuck him with it. He groaned a bit and hit the ground like a sack of lead, so I took my bag back, re-adjusted my glasses, and continued on my way.

Not five minutes later, I heard more rustling. Luckily for me, I hadn’t actually put my knife away (which was still dripping with the first man’s blood), so I was able to jab this new guy, a tanned blonde man wearing a blak domino mask and a trenchcoat like a fucking flasher, in the side when he made a leap for me with a knife of his own. He dropped it painfully, then started spouting some nonsense about how he’s on a crusade, and how I’m supplying the enemy…I didn’t feel like sticking around to listen to it, so I tried to lunge for his neck with another syringe in my left hand. This was my biggest mistake: I hardly saw the gun before I heard the deafening BANG, then felt the hot slug burrow into left arm, about half an inch superior to the trochlea. I cried ou, dropping the syringe, but luckily for me, we weren’t alone. As he was going in for another shot, the skinny guy came out of nowhere and punched him. I don’t know how he was standing, I gave him enough tranquilizers to put out an elephant. But Blondie just turned his gun on the skinnyguy, catching him in the leg. He staggered a bit and screamed, and I was about to turn adn run, but I once again found myself in the gun’s sights. But I didn’t feel like puling two bullets out of myself tonight, so I stabbed him in the chest About three times, if I remember: my mind was fogging, filling with pain and adrenaline. Sufficiently covered in the blood of three people and hearing two sets of sirens, I decided to hotfoot it out of there. I have no idea what happened to those two, but I imagine the skinny guy is having a wondreful nap in a jail cell right about now and Blondie’s watching the dragon burn so he can forget about the holes in his cesht.

I finally made it to the drop point. Ridley was waiting there impatiently, and I pulled the package out and handed it to him. I was still bleeding, and I ended up leaving a bloody handprint on the package,. He didn’t seem to mind, however, and he just asked what had happned. I could feel the first stages of shock setting in, and I tlkaed fast. Probably gave more details than I had to, but he seemed fascinated. Offerd to takeem back to his “place,” but I wasn’t interested. I belive I said something along the lines of, “I hate to cut our little meeting short, but I need to pull this bullet out of my arm before I faint from shock. Good night, sir,” before taking my leave. The trip back to the car was a blur. I changed my shirt and stopped the bleeding as best as I could, found a shady motel and got a room. Seven missed calls from August. Shit. I pulled the bullet out, shot up sme morphine, took a shower and made myself comfortable, clalled him back. Hew as in tearswhen I told him what happened. Then I logged on to make this post.

I don’t feel well, but I’m going to livr. Good night, Internet.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

-Spencer- Team, you all really need to cool the hell down

After all, it's your Boss's job to promptly /freak the fuck out/ at any given opportunity, puke in the foyer, then shag his girlfriend.

And I /wish/ I was making this all up.

In between cleaning up my own puke and trying to figure out what to do next, August found me when I had my brainy specs on. Embarrassing, but something about him....

"Blog. Now."

And he swept off towards the garage, probably where Steele was brooding.

He looks older than he should.

So here's what's going to be happening. Not what I WANT to happen, but what's GOING to be HAPPENING because you all seem to forget who's paying you, keeping a roof over your head, and, more importantly, is keeping you lot alive.

First off on the Doc issue, I get it, I invaded the space in which she set up shop, but here's the thing; it's my House. So let's be honest here; I'm going to do what I damn well please. She didn't HAVE to take Steele's room; there's how many spares that we have from all the dead couriers? Twenty? Thirty? Superstition is not something that is a fair excuse.

So she made it clear that she'd rather not stay in one of the spares, so I sent her on a delivery. It may be a hard one but the pay is good and, really, she NEEDS to get out of the basement. Don't you all worry your pretty little heads; Doc is my oldest courier, and is more than capable of handling herself.

Steele, you're right. About everything. But we're past the "Spencer is mean and keeps secrets and is smelly and gets all the hot guys while I don't" (Don't deny it) stage of our relationship. I've been perfectly clear; I've made my point, and shown you what I have to do.

Don't test me.

And as for this whole Star situation...
How about a story, hm?

A long long time ago in a really shitty little town, there was a kid that asked too many questions in a group of fifty. They called this group "The Titles", and it was their job to become the bestest little sociopaths they could ever hope to be.

And of course, like every good narrative (or shitty one, depending on your preference), they were wheedled down one by one.

He wondered sometimes, y'know. Wondered about normal kid stuff, wondered why sometimes they were forced to /watch/.

I still haven't found any answers.

It got to a point that they were all old enough to be afraid, because that's when it starts, doesn't it...? Nothing matters when you're not afraid, when you don't look out of the corner of your eye because you really don't know better.

So he stared; the kid who asked too many questions. Stared at his own eyes for as long as he could, because he didn't want to forget. they could take everything else away, but they could never make him forget that look; the look of being afraid.

I hadn't seen him very often; maybe once or twice on the street, in photos, a few times in dreams- I never had contact, not like Elaine did. It only took one glance. That look. I'll never forget that look, because that kid was I. Was me. Was the author of this post.

That's why. Because I know what it's like to be lonely and afraid. I know what it's like to play a role, play a part, dance on strings because that's the only way to stay alive. I know, I know, I KNOW, we all know. We all know that look, because we see it in the mirror whenever we sit down and decide that a little vanity never hurt, every single one of us.

That's right.

I went in on this because Star is a scared kid. That's all. Not for shits and giggles or because Elaine wanted me to.

Everyone deserves a chance, right? And we give them that chance, no matter who they are.

That being said, Doc, I wish you the best; I guess if you can't sleep in a proper room, you'll have to sleep in a car.

... Stay safe, alright?

Anyways. Star's out of the basement, Elaine and Steele have sort of stopped with the "come at me bro" thing they had going on, and, well, otherwise...? Things seem to be going well. Too well. I can't help but wonder...


I can't help but wonder if He's up to something.

So it goes.

~Steele~ Home-ish.

Rivers is in Nevada, safe and sound.


I'd LOVE to tell you all what that means, in a lovely long post. But right now, I'm pissed off.

Want to know why?

Sure you do.

So, I drove back at about 4AM, parked the car, and found our little bespectacled doctor sound asleep in my bed. Snoring, actually, it was almost a shame to wake her up. She seemed to think so as well, because she elbowed me in the goddamn face. She tells me that we, a courier company, are currently keeping a psychopath locked up in our basement (HER basement), pay, no thanks...

We're keeping him locked up WHY? Because we're Good Samaritans? Because Spence has a hard-on for being a big damn hero?

I guess this is basically a post to let August know I'm home safe, and he doesn't need to keep fucking calling me at all hours whining about how I never let anyone know where I am.

And it's also a post to Spencer.

I am SO not cool with this.

Get rid of the fuckup, Spence. No, I don't mean kill him, he has as much of a right to life as the rest of us.

But that's just it. We ALSO have a right to life, though you clearly have forgotten. Judging by how blatantly you are infringing on it. Not because of big ol' secrets from your past, not because this is somehow, someway for the good of the company and we should all be thankful to our glorious leader.

Until you fucking explain otherwise, you're doing this because you can.

Doc can HAVE my room. I'm sleeping in the van.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

-Doc- Eviction Notice (Or Lack Thereof)

Most of the time, I try to choose my words carefully, but I don’t think any amount of waiting to “cool off” can allow me to voice my indignation in a kinder manner. Spencer, you’re the Boss and I love you to death, but you would never make it in the rental business. Evicting a faithful resident without advance notice so that you can house someone like Morningstar is poor form, and inexcusable. What the hell is wrong with you? Couldn’t you have found a better place for your new buddy to crash for the weekend?

Granted, I’m not usually one to turn down a patient, but this is ludicrous. You may have him under double locks, but consider this: if he breaks the lock on the first room, even if he doesn’t escape into the house to murder us all in our sleep, there will still be a raging madman loose in my home. I keep all of our medical supplies and records, as well as all of my belongings, in various parts of the basement. Your eagerness to toss him down there has made me think that you don’t understand why this is bad, so let me put it this way: imagine, for just a moment, that I decided to bring a rabid wolverine into the East Wing and tell you that you could not go back for a then-undetermined period of time while said rabid wolverine “detoxed.” You’d have no way of knowing if the wolverine was doing damage to your things: all you’d hear is its scratching, howling, and crying. For all you know, it’s peeing on your bed and ruining the carpets. Running its claws through the drapes, chewing on the furniture, doing unmentionable things to the horrors that lurk in that place. You would be understandably pissed, just as I am now. I slept in August’s room for part of last night, but the poor boy couldn’t sleep with me in there. I’m going to seek alternate housing until this all blows over.

I won't be far. Please don't look for me unless it's an emergency.

Thursday, 8 September 2011

-Spencer- Team, maybe you haven't noticed by now

But I really am an idiot.
I make stupid friends.
I make stupid decisions.
And it doesn't get much worse than this.


Well, we've got another one.
In our basement.
Locked in a room. so there's only one lock between us and a psychotic insane jackass who's going through the withdrawal of his life.

... do y'think it's justified to duct tape him to a chair or something...?

And did I mention his name? Now that I think about it, that's kind of important.

...You know.
Maybe I should start from the best part?

Explosions. Had to set up a distraction because hell; it's never a good raid unless something is in danger of tearing off a limb and whipping it to Arkansas. But the attention is off us; a major plus. Down a hallway, creep creep creep, dear god my legs /hurt/ my coat must've weighed about fifty pounds /why did I need so much of my arsenal/


There was something before that; right, the car ride, Elaine sharpening her knives like an OCD crack addict, so jumpy that-


"You ready?"

Her voice had woken me out of my fog. Something was... don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutit. "Like you have to ask." Down a hallway, creep creep creep, dear god my legs /hurt/ my coat must've weighed about fifty pounds /why did I need so much of my arsenal/

Pistols are in my hands. Guns. Okay. Look in that door no don't go that way. He's right in the middle. Is he expecting...? Has Elaine told him? No. Job. Always the job. Focus only on the job.

It gets blissfully blank from there.

"Alright. Winging a rescue mission. Should be fun."

"Winging? You act like I haven't given this an ounce of thought."

No. That came before the explosion.

So back to that door, we're not stupid enough to go barging in. Quietly around a corner

"Ominous hallways. That's all there is...? Will they kill us with anticipation?"

"It /is/ a large warehouse for, what, six people now?"

"Six people that should be aware we're here. Something is up."

"With any luck, only one of them knows and isn't about to sound the alarm."

... true that. And there was something before that; right, the car ride, Elaine sharpening her knives like an OCD crack addict, so jumpy that-

"So what do we do? Burst in, guns a blazin'?"

"... five against three? Easy. Lets do it."

Nobody ever said the idiots weren't well trained. But we had caught them by surprise, obviously. What we were doing was incredibly stupid. So stupid, actually, that nobody had expected us to go through with it.

Well who's the idiot now?

One vaults towards Elaine and another tries to get behind me while mooks flank my sides. Yeah, right. Cute. And now they've got perfect little holes in their heads to match the holes in their broken little hearts. That big one still lunges towards me and my leg shoots up and kicks him right in the torso, so hard that I can /feel/ his ribs crack; blood as a fine mist leaks out of his mouth and he /slams/ into a wall.

I smile. I grin.

"Here little kitty, I haven't /KILLED/ you yet...."

Samedi. That's the one Elaine is going toe to toe with and I couldn't care less.

"Oh there there, Darkhorse~! Are you afraid of littl ol' me? I'm just a helpless courier~!"

He tries to scamper backwards, but there's a wall there, there's a wall there there's a wall there and I crouch down to look at him and my palm slides over his face.

"Scream for me, little kitty. Give me a /SHOW/."


He screams. He gives into my command and it /echoes/ in the room, in the hallways in the void in the world.

Elaine ignores the scene to her right in favor of the man in front of her, taking down a random mook who tries to interrupt her work.

"Nonono, this is just between you and me, you sick fuck. I haven't forgotten what you did when you kidnapped me~ And now you get to pay." Another stab, the strike designed to maim, not kill.

He's to the clawing stage now. Trying to rip out his eyes, his hair, whatever he can get his hands on.

I laugh as he struggles
I laughed as he struggled

She lets out a /giggle/ at the sound of the scream and keeps slashing at Samedi, who is starting to seem thoroughly outclassed. Direct combat was never his strong suit, was it?

And he's a mess now. A wide eyed, trembling mess. Tears run down his cheeks and his lips shake but no sound comes out. My palm is still there, and my left hand raises with the pistol and I press the cold metal to his forehead, slowly, like a kiss-

my right hands moves back towards my side and-

he looks at me with his eyes clear before they move up to the gun and-

there was something before that; right, the car ride, Elaine sharpening her knives like an OCD crack addict


The feeling of the warm blood splattering into my face, splattering against the wall. The sound of the shot seems to wake Elaine up from whatever was going on in her head; her smile fades and she slashes Samedi's throat, letting him fall before moving back towards


"Come on, we need to get out of here."

Still grinning.

"I do believe I outrank you, m'dear. Shouldn't /I/ be the one giving orders...?"

"... Spence, snap out of it. Come on."

I feel my head shake, and the delightful fog leaves me breathless. Then it leaves me alone.

"R-r-right." I stutter. "How are we getting out...?"

I can't hide my sleeve going to my face, trying to wipe some of it away.

"How about the door? We have to move fast before the big shots get here."

I shirk off my coat, and I can hear the floor /crack/. nothing like a little overkill to get the job done.

"Then we better go /fucking/ quick."

There's barely a second before she has my hand in hers and we're gunning it through the hallways.

Was she holding his hand too...? At least they weren't looking before. i didn't want them to see my legs

They wouldn't stop shaking

I toss her the keys and I'm carrying him bridal style by this point, /diving/ into the back seat so quickly that my head /smashes/ into the opposite door.


And here we are.
My head is pounding, but I'm not hurt. Neither is Elaine. Neither is anyone else.


I'm not counting my chickens before they hatch. But we're trying to do some /good/, I think.

For once.

And as for our house guest?