October 28th, 1931: 14th street
Pitter. Patter.
Rain, running down gutters, sliding from the rooftops down into the narrow street. First on the roofs of the tallest buildings, forming puddles to be seen by birds alone. Then flooding, gushing, first trickles into streams, then streams turn to rivers. Washing away the grime beneath, defining where men can go and where they cannot. But rivers too dry up, and men ford them when the need comes. All very majestic.
That is, if you're not standing in it.
"I don't like the look of this"
A mundane statement to be sure, but what else could I say? In truth, I really didn't like the look of the weather. It had been raining for the past three stakeouts we operated.
Pitter. Patter.
"Who asked you?"
Jeremy was in quite a foul mood. I hadn't seen him like this for quite a while now. Not that he's usually peppy, per-se, but he at least tries to be cordial. Something must've been getting to him. I wonder what? After all, there were no clues whatsoever…
Patter. Pitter. Patter. Pitt-
"Gah! It's infuriating! Why do we have to be outside, waiting, watching, constantly! I tell you, It's damn unfair!"
I suppose my mood is no better. But I think that's more excusable in my case, more in character. Jeremy giving answers I wouldn't be surprised to find myself uttering is concerning to say the least.
Pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit…
"And now the rain has gotten stronger. Fantastic…" Jeremy moaned. And he goes on!
Pit-pit-pit-pit…
"The worst part is, nothing's gained! We've never stopped anything major from happening! We're just a sideshow! Why do we try at all if we're never more than lackeys?"
Continuing his monlogue, now complaining about everything we've ever done. While I have to admit I do get fed up with everything every now and then, I don't think I've ever been this bad, have I? I've certainly never seemed this down from something like the weather, that's for sure. No, all my complaints have to be deeply ideological, of course. And it seems my ideology forces me to take Jeremy's complaints lightly.
"Are you refering to us specifically or to the UIU in general?"
Pit-pit-pit…
Kicking pebbles and with the fires of hell in his eyes, Jermy responds.
"I don't know Shile. What on earth are we doing here? What on earth does the UIU do at all? Why aren't we leaving the whole anomalous thing to the Foundation? Why are we even in the UIU to begin with?"
Pitpitpitpit…
"Do you want an answer? I'll give you one to that last question: we're all here because we found something we shouldn't have found. You know that, Jeremy. The only reason we're not in the Foundation instead-"
"I didn't actually want an answer, Shile. This whole operation is pointless, you know that as well as I do."
Boom!
Thunder, though the lightning could not be seen. Interesting to think of the seperation between the two, despite coming from the exact same source. Similar to men perhaps; despite all being born of the same circumstances, some leap ahead with greater ease through no merit of their own. Or perhaps through their merit, the result of inequality is the same.
Or maybe I'm just looking for something to mull over.
"And?"
That won a blank stare. Maybe one of mild disbelief.
"And? You serious? What more do you want? You're the one who started complaining, not me! Are you suddenly just fine with how we're being treated?"
Crash! Boom!
Pit-pit-pit…
"Well-"
Boom!
The world itself didn't want to hear his opinion. There was surely something poignant to be said there, but it just didn't come up.
"Well, you could mention how you're serving your country?"
Too weak an argument. Hardly dignified a grunt in return. Trying again:
"Do you have no pride in your values? Is it not better to suffer oneself for the goo-"
Crash!
Lightning struck the end of 14th street. A deafening roar of thunder followed. The tree that guards the narrowing alley shakes and trembles. It holds firm. Too firm. The howling winds will cause it to snap soon enough, falling into the water bellow, it'll probably be quite the mess for the fire department.
"All well and good Mr. Thinker. Just one problem:"
The lightning didn't strike at that remark. Did the elements have a sense of humor?
"How is this suffering doing any good? Who benefits from this?"
A smart retort? Who knew they were in him? Maybe cynicism and wits shouldn't be conflated. A story for another day, perhaps. More like a rant. A long, rambling rant with no coherent thesis. No structure either, that would be detrimental.
Now to think of a response.
One minute. Two.
Inspiration? Appeal to base desires? How?
Three minutes. Four.
Any movement? No?
Five minutes.
Wet. Cold. Miserable.
And… nothing.
So he was right. Yes, they were there for no real reason, the lowest of the low despite a lifetime of service. No matter what they did, how hard they worked, they would have enough knowledge to be afraid but not enough to understand. So they would lead a righteous revolution. Yes, all the three or four hundred disgruntled UIU field agents would overthrow the Foundation and the hunters and the serpents and finally discover what was really going on.
Sure, and there's a man on the moon. The world itself is laughing at me, isn't it? That's why I'm here, on 14th street, one of the last ones to have no shelter. One of the last streets not to be overhauled in newer construction. Of course I'd be assigned to the one street whose paving is uneven. The one street that always smells of cigarettes even after the rain. The worst place in the entire goddamn east coast.
Well it's not that bad…
"Well, does this whining help? As a matter of fact, you're getting me down."
Good job Shile. You succesfully ignored the topic of conversation. Now you get to stew in an endless pit of drivel with your partner before wrapping up another fruitless day.
"Why are you so… annoying? Just accept we're here as punishment and complain with the rest of us. Really, do you really expect Chappell to just show up on FOURTEENTH street?"
He was right of course. Well, at least with that last remark; the most interesting thing an agent ever found on 14th was a cigar vendor who hadn't reported on half his income. Not that any business would have success on 14th street, it's about the most out of the way place in the city. But punishment? Surely something was brewing here, no? Well, what would they be punished for? Let's see, Jeremy had that incident with the Circus a few years back… It was back in '28 when-
BOOM!
CRASH!
Movement!
Breaking out of the haze and into the ecstasy of action, now running, moving, trying! Oh how great it all felt! Jeremy would eat his words of this being punishment, but more importantly: an excuse to return to H.Q! A mad dash, dodging, moving. There's more than one. Can't tell how many in the rain and fog. An escape towards the crowds? Not in this weather! A stumble, a trip, a shot. Blood, flowing. Puddles, turning crimson.
Wait. A shot?
"Jeremy? Why did you shoot? I mean like… his abdomen… he's bleeding! Jesus Christ we're professionals, we need them alive!"
"I didn't shoot! Aren't you being a bit presumptive here?"
Was I? Training. Taken from local police, this should be easy. All the information is here… Gunshot wound. Dead within the minute. Abdomen. Abdomen? Abdomen shots would bleed nicely, but nowhere this quick. Poor health? Peculiar for a Spirit operative. And that he was, from the boots to the hat to the whisky on his hip. Now for a closer look at the wound. Gunpowder. Strange. Gunpowder would only be around if the assailant was less than 5 feet away. So… one of the other Spirit agents? Still, were they that close while running?
October 29th, 1931: UIU Facility 11
"That's your conclusion?"
He's unimpressed. Dissapointing, his approval is critical. What more can I do? I was only given so much, I can't write about what's not there. Perhaps our conduct was imperfect. Perhaps we bungled in letting the others get away? More bored than upset, it seems.
"Yes, I'm sure. My initial explanation is consistent with the facts. The wound wasn't deep, cutting at an angle through his abdomen. Additionally, the gunpowder suggests a very close shot, no more than 6 feet. Considering the distance, it's unthinkable a trained Unit Agent would cause harm so severe."
Unimpressed. Again.
"I understand he died quickly, though?"
Ughh. That struck at the heart of the matter. It pained me to be taken away from the case before the autopsy could come through.
"If we waited for the autopsy report-"
"You can't. Does your explanation provide room for this?"
"Well, poor health or increased bleeding due to the rain could account for it."
That satisfied Director Hubb. Searching for a way through without waiting to discover everything. How did he do it? Hubb smiled.
"Thank you detective. That will be all."
"But… but we still don't know everything! Why were they on 14th? Why did he die so quickly? Who was with him? And what-"
"Thank you detective. That will be all."
Of course. Dissmisal. They hadn't a shred of curiosity, a shred of wonder about the world around them. Just trudge along, always uncompleting. Well I won't stand for it! I'll gather up all my buddies and… wait, didn't I already have this thought?
A cold day.
A day where nothing happens.
People walked the streets. The rain had ended, washing away the blood, forgotten.
One has not forgotten. He walks the streets, watching. He has more ambition than aim. He wants the truth. The truth for it's own sake, not for justice.
Pacing now, anger setting in. Mannerisms aggresive, speech snappy. Anger brings in many kinds of hell, says an old Jewish proverb. Nobody disagrees; it may bring you to hell instead.
October 29th, 1931: Ambrose 11
The smells hit you the minute you walk in. The sights too, but first the smell. Mostly the smell.
To describe it would be futile, for its context was what mattered. Walking through the wet, stinking streets, escaping the constant agony of the city's hub. Then, suddenly, the smell of mud is replaced by a sensation of pure relief. So maybe it's not the smell the hits you the hardest. But it does hit you first.
Inside seems like its own little world, as if nothing outside could ever damage this perfect harmony. This is partially correct: the restaurant is contained within an extension of reality, warping the space around itself such that the only way out is the small backdoor exit and the only way in is the large welcoming door. Well, from the inside that is: in 'proper' reality, the door was a dingey little thing at the end of an abandoned alley, and the exit was never in the same place twice.
While this place was a favorite of the anomalous community in Boston, the realm of that community was larger than most. For while in New York the anomalous community was practically its own political entity, never contacting outsiders unless it was directly endorsed by the community, in Boston anyone was allowed in. Provided, they knew the password.
Some time in '23, a UIU agent from Facility 11 got their hands on the password, and since that time the place had been a favorite for agents. While illegal, most agents never came to know this. They assumed that they were being led by their experienced colleagues towards a perfectly acceptable part of the job. At least that's what most agents told themselves, the reality being…
"Hey Jeremy! Still working on that novel of yours?"
The reality being that most agents didn't really care about what the law had to say in regards to alcohol.
"I thought you would be happier about it than you are. Shouldn't you be proud someone is compiling a history of Ambrose? In fact, you should be happier than usual, seeing I'm currently writing about this very establishment!"
"You're going over it restaurant by restaurant? I thought you were writing a more general history… who's going to buy this book anyways? I doubt most of the world would find it entertaining fiction and I'm not sure how you'd spread it through the anomalous world."
"Well…"
"Hear me out Jeremy, I can find a publisher. Hell, I could sell it through fucking dreams! I just think that you'll need more feedback before your book is anywhere near the standards of today!"
"That… Well I suppose you're right. Say, how entertaining does a history have to be?"
"That's- Hold on a sec Jerry, won't be a moment!"
And there he goes to the other end of the bar. Really, calling this place a part of Ambrose Restaurants is being generous to say the least. The history of Ambrose has always been that of a respectable, well put together corporation. Still, it's what we have here, and I'd be lying if I said that any other kind of location would fit the Unit's needs. Is adaptability characteristic of Ambrose? How long has Ambrose truly been around? I've heard about him, but my history conveniently skips that part of the story.
And here comes Pfilt, back from the other side of the bar.
"Say Pfilt, would you happen to know about Ambrose?"
"Whaddya mean? Haven't I answered all your Ambrose related questions for the past eight months? I suppose not all, seeing as I'm only now discovering the scale of your work, but still! What kind of question is that?"
"That's not what I meant, Phil. I meant about Chaz Ambrose himself. I heard he visited around here a couple years back? What do you know about him?"
Air sucked through teeth can be heard above the din of the bar. Surprisingly? I suppose not, one notices their own conversation far more than the surrounding noise.
"Listen Jer, I don't like to admit ignorance, but I'll have to right here. Chaz is mysterious, y'know? This here bar was founded without his direct permission: he didn't want any locations outside of strictly established anomalous… places? But once he saw this place thriving, I think his attitude changed some. I've heard of a place in London, but I think Mila will know more about that than I will. Hey Mila! Jeremy here wants…"
Goddamn this place is bad for me. It's bad for everyone here, probably. It deteriorates the moral standards we hold ourselves to, and brings us down to the level of the criminals we give our lives to defeating. But does anyone else see it that way? No, I'm just a spoilsport for wanting to obey the law.
At least the atmosphere is nice. I suppose for some people that's the most important thing, and nothing builds camaraderie like mutual lawbreaking. The atmosphere… yes, it's very pleasant. And it's amplified by the visuals of the place, being very… bright. Very… colourful.
And the promiscuity of the place doesn't pop out at you unless you look for it, that a plus. Of course, it's not too hard to encounter the degeneracy, it's quite literally lurking in the walls of the place. And… did they change the lighting? I haven't been here since… last year? So it's possible, but I doubt it. Still, everything seems so bright…
Oh, it's because the wall was alive. And glowing. Why is this place so weird? I'm sure Jeremy knows about that…
Where is Jeremy anyway? He dragged me here and then just… forgot about me.
Oh well, I suppose I know this place as well as anyone else, and I do need to stop thinking about yesterday… Why is this place called Ambrose 11? It's not on eleventh street, nor is it the eleventh Ambrose establishment it's the… sixth? Fifth? Jeremy knows this stuff, where's he gone to?
"Shile? You don't usually come here. What happened today? Don't you find this place morally repugnant or something?"
A soft voice reaches my ears. Roughened by time of course, but still undoubtable and recognizable. But more than anything, it's an incredibly misplaced voice. Both in the Unit and this place.
It's Noelle of course, everyone's favorite faliure. Well that's not fair towards her, I'm sure she's done something very important…
"Well Noelle, sometimes Hubb makes me sick. Just today, he completely dismissed my request for further investigation! Can you imagine?"
Something flies over my head as Noelle stands over me, a tired look on her face. What right does she have to chastize me for coming here? I have a good mind to tell her exactly what I think of her. And what just-
"I can imagine, Shile. I can imagine that because Hubb is quite agreeable. You're not. What's so great about national authority that you blindly obey that you don't see in Hubb's authority? Why do you think it's so terrible to drink beer but cautionary measures are just beyond the pale? Get your priorites straight."
How rude. And abstract. Does she really think I'm going to reconstruct my entire worldview because she's pointing out the flaws within? She greatly underestimates the human ability to self delude.
"Where is this coming from? Why do you think I'm here right now? Sure, Jeremy dragged me, but I… actually I don't know where I was going with that."
A deep sigh, more and more common to hear from the Unit's Agents leaves Noelle. Well it serves her right, if she thought I'd just play along with her idle chatter. The only person I'd even consider talking about nothing with is Jeremy, and that's because it would be unbelievably akward if he took a dislike to me.
Noticing my lack of intent to respond in any way to what she has to say prompts Noelle to sit down in front of me, as if to mother me. It seems she didn't come here to disscuss philosphy with me. Well that's just dandy, I dread the day I have to listen with faux attention to the words of women as well as those of men.
"Well, whatever. What were you mulling over when I approached you anyways? You always seem deep in thought…"
"I was… I was just wondering about the name of this establishment. Why do you think it's called Ambrose 11?"
Why does she seem so dissapointed in me? The look on her face has shifted from tired to downright pitying, as if I'm a student who just asked George Washington was.
"Isn't it obvious? It's for us, for Facility 11, for keeping this place in buisness."
Doesn't that just kick the problem down a rung? Why are we called Facility 11 to begin with? We're definitely not the 11th facility and we're not situated on 11th street either.
Yet another thing to ask Hubb when we inevitably overthrow him… Yes, I've definitely had this though before.
October 30th, 1931: 14th street
"Shile? Buddy?"
An irritant. It will go away and let me work at some point. I can ignore it. Just… work.
"You've been at it for long enough. There's nothing here! Nothing of value, anyways. The cigar vendor closed last year, y'know."
Couldn't they understand? Why didn't they understand? They would understand. Just… work.
"We have other things to investigate. C'mon, put those skills of yours to use instead of… whatever this is."
Other things to investigate? Indeed there were. There were more questions, more mysteries, more to know, more to discover. More. Never enough time to finish one project, because there are others to start. Frustration. Anger. Creeping. No… just… work.
"Could you give me a minute? Please."
There. I gave a response. Good job, they'll never notice the turmoil. Wasn't so bad now, right? Jeremy would listen. Hubb would. They all would, in time. Deep down, did they not all seek the truth? I can give the truth! To one mystery, one project, one thing. And then another. Nobody would dispute the truth that came of thouroughness.
"We've given you enough time, I'd say. Your'e rummaging through trash by this point. We can come back tommorow if that's what it takes."
Was I? Oh yes, I was. It was a sensible thing to do, when all else failed. The trash by the side of the road could be quite telling of its surroundings. And surroundings were all I had. So let's look around. Cigarette butts. Nothing notable there. A ruined costume, peculiar. Can't make it out, seems animal-like. Noted. Bullet casings. Multiple, all around the edges of the street. How was this never noticed before? Were we really so weary we never looked at our static surroundings? More importantly, a shootout? Here? Noted. Klan Emblems? Why here? Why? Noted. Whisky bottles. Probably not from the Spirit, we've never seen them here bar yesterday. Not enough time to throw around whisky carelessly. Noted anyways, maybe the police could use this.
What now? What more was there to do? Only two wittnesess, myself being one of them. No good there. Maybe someone viewed from the windows? What buildings are on 14th street? No… a warrant would never come for something this far fetched. I wonder if….
October 31st, 1931: 14th street
Sorting. I was relegated to sorting through the objects of the deceased. As punishment, obviously. Maybe Jeremy was right after all…
I was to tag the objects with who they came from (We don't even know who most of them are!), a summary of the object's function and some basic filing. All very incomplete. Can't complain too much, can you? You weren't fired or institutionalized for your insane behaviour. This temporary demotion is really the best that could be hoped for.
I can't believe that. Sure, intellectually, maybe, but I can't really take it to heart. Why am I being punished at all? This makes no sense. I should be rewarded.
Maybe this is a reward? Maybe they think I prefer sorting through endless items to freezing in Massachusetts weather. Maybe maybe maybe. Probably not. They couldn't handle the truth if it bit their nose off. So I'll show them! I'll continue my investigation from here. I'll try to at least. Let's see… A Klan Emblem? Interesting. INTERESTING! I found one on 14th street! Maybe this means that-
Stop. Klan emblems can be found all over. Nothing to get excited about. It is notable that this came off of a Spirit member, I've met my fair share of darker skinned Spirit members. Members? Did they have some title like 'Agent'? Who knows: not me.
This note has paint on it. And it glitters. Huh, that's weird. What does this other note say?
"From The Desk of Richard Chappell: We're ditching the toy store. As for Chester, leave him be. If he wants to wake up to burning crosses every night, we won't deny it from him. That business isn't gonna last with or without our help."
From Chappell? This is high up there! Seems to be a directive to all Spirits then. Burning crosses? So… the Klan? The Spirit were protecting someone from the Klan? Did they have that kindness in them? Apparently not, they've abandoned this 'Chester'. Toy store? The Spirit used toy stores? The plot thickens…
Nothing to see here. Nothing to see anywhere. Someone runs out a door that leads to a wall and a toyshop opens for another day in the middle of a crime infested city, but that's just politics for ya.
Logic has left and only chaos and confusion remain, the threads of life connecting in meaningful and meaningless ways. But that seems an unfair assessment, no? Every connection has meaning, every coincidence has consequences. For example, two people are walking towards a toy store. They cause a commotion, they storm out angrily, and they leave.
Luckily for them it's a quiet day, and nobody has seen them.
Late November 6th, 1931: UIU Facility 11
"Bungling Idiots! Did you just… forget your civilian training?"
"That's not exactly fair. It's not our fault you keep us to night time operations and managerial positions. Maybe we have forgotten our training, but only because all your new guidlines make it obsolete, you fucking retard!" Even if it's true, I can't say that. Doing so would be tantamount to treason. What's a fitting response, Jeremy?
"We carried out a plan authorised by the Facility 11 operational committee. Despite complications, we followed protocol where possible."
"You think you can just walk into a store and arrest the owners? No warrant, no pretense? We're on shaky ground to begin with! This is unbelieveable."
"Does it matter what I say if you ignore it anyways? Well, maybe if we were kept up to the standards of any other group we work with, this could've been avoided. But no, you can hardly spare two Agents and a day to deal with… what? An ex-Spirit supplier? That note really wasn't much to go on, Hubb. You just tell us: 'Look at what our lead detective found! You two should follow up on this, before anyone else can turn them their way!' I didn't even know we had a lead detective! Why do you keep us in the dark? Are you really that incompentent? Do you have a mental disorder? Or do you only care about following all the new protocols? And why do you think Noelle and I were the perfect people for it? We haven't exactly had a great background of public relations!" Definitely don't say that. Calm down, it's not the end of the world to have Hubb angry at you. Especially since his standard of success is so arbitrary. Noelle, it's your turn to answer.
"We may have forgotten our civilian training, but it wouldn't have done us any good. The guy was a nut, running a massive toy store in the middle of a crime-filled area, surrounded by K.K.K! Do you really think we could reason with a black guy who wants to take on both law and outlaw? And what was the mission statement exactly? What can you say we did wrong apart from being blunt?"
Yes Noelle, that's exactly right! What were we meant to do with that half crazy old dude? Well maybe he wasn't that old, but he was obviously insane looking at it now! Hell, Hubb might get reprimanded for this! Maybe we can elect.. Marcus for Facility Director? Ah, who am I kidding, those Foundation guys love Hubb, he just does whatever they say.
"You're pathetic. You had plenty of other ways to go about it! You could've scheduled a meeting, offered lawful protection or just… looked around! Now if we ever want to continue this avenue of investigation, we'll have to get over this first impression."
Time to step in, be a macho man, Jeremy. Hubb has no idea what he just said.
Also Noelle isn't of the most stable constitution, she'll start apologizing if I don't back her up.
"That's it? You think that it's all because of us? You don't have the best record yourself, Sir. We're a joke. You know this, and you do nothing. We just do whatever we're told by Foundation or Hunters or even The Church at times! If this guy is as big a deal as you think, he probably already knew about us. He would think that we couldn't protect him like you said. And if he isn't that big of a deal, what are you getting so uppity about? Woo-hoo, we have one less informant, we don't even do anything with half the informants we have. There wasn't much potential here to begin with."
There, he'll… well he won't apologize, Hubb never does. But he'll make an excuse, and we'll get off the hook, because deep down he knows we're right. We'll get some minor punishment like janitorial duties for a week or whatever.
"Well, if you're so sure that this can be pulled back from the brink, tell Shile to interrogate the store owners."
The nerve. I should be the one interrogating the prisoners!
November 3rd, 1931: Ambrose 11
The introduction of UIU agents to the social makup of 'Old Ambrose' was a jarring one at first. Most patrons had broken the law prior to ever entering the establishment, and even those who had not quickly did so after entry. However, the agents who would've caused a fuss quickly faded away under mysterious circumstances.
Those that remained were willing to skirt the law and turn a blind eye to certain activities. As a result, the agents at Facility 11 could be divided into two social groups: those that attended Ambrose and those that did not. Most new agents were exposed to the place within a month of their posting, and shortly thereafter fell into the prior group. The evaders had quickly become a minority.
There are certain rumors surrounding this dycotomy that I feel I must address, as a frequent patron, agent, and historian alike. While many agents were prudish, none went so far as to expose their fellow agents and their questionable habits (despite the stories you may have heard of bungled operations based on this disagreement, I can assure you they were all plain incompetence). All these rumors seem to have originated from the patrons of Ambrose themselves, some of whom weren't too happy to see law enforcement at their favorite watering hole…
"Hey Noelle! Why are you here so late?"
"No reason Pfilt. No reason whatsoever"
"Oh come on, I know that's not true. You don't seem torn up or anything… did you get a promotion?"
"Well… kind of? How did you figure it out so fast?"
It couldn't have been difficult Noelle. Pfilt doesn't let the alcohol go to his head and probably noticed you were practically swelling with pride so understood it was work related. You don't have much else going on, do you? On that thought, I don't have much going on outside of work. That's really depressing…
"Jeremy? Shouldn't you be gone too? It's not a good idea to stick around after midnight…"
"Why? The cops won't raid the place, surely?"
"Ha ha ha. No, it's just that around this time we tend to get some very… special patrons. I don't think you'll like them, that's all."
"It's adorable that you're so worried about Jeremy's approval Pfilt, but I think he can stomach a few more unsavory characters, no?"
That sends a worried look up Pfilt's face. He probably thinks Noelle has gone insane. It's funny, but I should put it to rest before he gets any ideas.
"Noelle is probably just drunk out of her mind. She's not thinking straight."
"She had… what, two shots? How is it even possible to get drunk that easily?"
How is it possible to get drunk that easily?
"Come on Noelle, you've gotta be ready for tommorow. Add it to her tab Pfilt."
"I'll add it to yours instead."
"Fine."
November 4th, 1931: UIU Facility 11
Why is he putting me in charge? It's too much. No it's not, calm down Noelle: I'm the most qualified, I was at 14th street, I've been an agent since '24, I'm one of the most senior members of Facilty 11. As a matter of fact, this is a long time coming. Yes, I should've been put in charge of an operation Unit long ago, I've proven myself many times since the Circus incident and even before! Now who to choose for the Unit? No, summary first, then Unit. But who knows who'll be avaliable by then? Better start with the Unit.
Should I give a break to overworked Agents? No, they're usually the most trained. That means… Dandor, Marcus, Jeremy, Denvad and Leila. Best not Dandor, he wouldn't fit into the toystore enivornment. Denvad… well he wouldn't really fit any possible role.
Joner? No, I've had enough of him lately. Wouldn't want him coming on to me too hard.
What about Shile? He's been on sorting duty lately, he'll want to have an excuse to leave it. Five people…
Best do things the standard way, how the paperwork shows it:
| Role |
Lookout |
Organiser |
Muscle |
Get away |
Paperwork/Backup |
| Agent |
Shile |
Noelle |
Jeremy |
Leila |
Marcus |
| Reasoning |
Ex-detective, would be best at noticing danger from experience |
Assigned task by Director Hubb, Seniority |
Accuracy over 70% for ranges of up to 90 feet, best of given candidates |
Proven organisational record |
Equal distribution of misery |
Perhaps that was a bit cruel to Marcus, but someone had to do it, and I've done enough paperwork to last me a lifetime. God, why are official channels so inefficient?
November 4th, 1931: UIU East coast command
"Do you think… it's worth it?"
That's an interesting question, Artur. It can refer to many things. Is submitting our authority worth it? Is trying to comprehend our position in this dangerous world worth it? Or perhaps you're being philosophical? Are you wondering whether existance itself is worth the trouble?
The man that asked me this question is sitting at his desk, looking out towards the sea. A large, imposing bookshelf is situated behind him, full of books most people are probably better off not knowing about, let alone reading. The dimming light from the sunset is almost null, seeing as the sea lies to the east and the sets in the west.
Still, he refuses to turn on the overhanging light. Perhaps he feels guilty about the extensive electrical systems in this remote headquarters while most active Agents have to get by not much better than people have since the country's birth.
"Sure it is. Of course it's worth it."
A silent sigh leaves Artur's body. Unsurprising, with his positon in central command he probably wishes he was never born. The years have taken their toll on him, giving him the appearance of an ancient marionette. A crumbling mask of serenity is all one sees at first, but a closer inspection shows it's been shattered long ago.
The ancient seeming body heaves itself towards me. Staring me straight in the eyes, as if asking me if I'm really human. As if asking me if I really think about what's in front of me. The tired voice can be heard once more:
"But Hubb… it doesn't seem worth it. It never does."
I can tell he's at the edge of his patience. He doesn't want my platitudes anymore. But habit is a cruel mistress, and quite clearly one he invited. Or maybe systems that were in uproar tend towards stability when given a chance.
If so, do systems that are in rest tend towards excitement?
Back to the matter at hand, I need something to distract him. If I can get back to Boston safely tonight, all will be fine. God, I haven't been home for days now… please Artur, just let me go.
"What you need, Artur, is inspiration. You haven't been focusing on reality lately. Listen, the western purging campaign may have yielded subpar results, but we need to look to the future. I heard of a cult of hunters in Vermont that would could pose a threat if left as is."
In truth, the western purges were a complete an utter faliure. Instead of rooting out native magicians, all it did was sway local further towards native protectionism as a counterbalance to the big bad government. I can only imagine how much easier it would be to operate if state governers didn't act as if they were independant nations.
"Why do you assume my problem is inspiration?"
Oh come on! He replies to me about the vague statement I made instead of the concrete one? We're here to do buisness, so get down to it Artur! Such an attitude requires harsher treatment from me. I know you're tired and beaten down, but you knew what you were getting into two years ago.
"Well… maybe it's your mopiness? Come on Artur! This is no way for the head of an F.B.I branch to act! Maybe we wouldn't constantly be in such a weak postion if our leader took some decisive action!"
That… came out wrong. The scowl forming on his face really brings out those old scars of his from the-
"Is that what you think of me Hubb? Is that what the Facility directors think of me? That our weakness comes from the top? I know, I know, we blame the bottom too much, the agents can't be expected to deal with what we put them through…"
A long pause. I set off some kind of spark there, he's making connections I never pointed out. I never said anyone else was of this opinion. I never brought up blame of the agents. But he just tumbles along, leaving us all lost.
"Artur. Turn around to that bookcase of yours. Or to the Window. Or to the wall. And think for a moment. What's this about blame? Calm down. Pull down a bible or something, and be inspired! We're not meeting to assign blame. We're meeting to disscuss budget. And Facility 11. And Ambrose."
"Ah, yes… the bible. Always there for me, aren't you? Like you've forever been. Giving me hope, guidance and wisdom…"
Well, that wasn't the part I wanted him to focus on, but it's better than how he was before. Let's see what he comes up with…
Nothing apparently, seeing him throw the book to the floor. Still open.
"I think they're messing with me Hubb. And I'm too tired to be messed with. I… can't go on with this forever Hubb. They'll get to me."
"That's a bit much, no? I doubt the Foundation can force you to open the bible at a certain point. It was just bad luck."
"Bad luck seems to be all I'm getting lately Hubb. Dissmissed."
This isn't good… he dissmisses a meeting after 5 minutes? With nothing assured? He should rightfully be scared of a coup! He should rightfully be scared of the Foundation! Not since he came to power in 29' was there a problem this inherent in the UIU…
Leaving the room, it seems a waste not to peek at that verse that made Artur dissmiss me. Let's see, book of Daniel chapter 2 verse 1?
"Leave, Hubb."
Well, it can't be that important. And the road to Boston is long.
"Goodbye Commander."
November 5th, 1931: UIU Facility 11
"Yes! I'll defintely join!"
"Oh that's nice of you, but protocol says I first explain to you the reason for the operation before getting a final say from you."
Protocol? What use is it? And this one makes no sense, if an Agent is really needed, they can't reject the request for long before being disciplined. Even if it's for the officialy supported reason of 'Moral objections to the mission statement'.
More bureaucratic jargon.
Whatever, listen and you can get closer to 14th street. Probably. Being honest, I just want to get away from this endless paperwork.
Oh, I've been thinking over the all important 'reason'? Whatever, it's just a long boring chain of bureaucracy; from the latest order by the Facility Director, to the history of relevant action to the initial discovery by some random agent.
"-and I think you'll want to hear this one Shile! This action by Agents Noelle Antonine and Joner Locke was initiated by a discovery made in the sorting department by Agent Shile Schweiz pertaining to direct orders from Richard Chappell, suspected head of the 'Chicago Spirit'."
Wait, this whole thing is because of me? How did they track the place down so easily? There was next to no information in that note! Did I critically undersell our investigative prowess, or is something else afoot?
Well, there's only one way to find that out.
"Like I said, I'll be happy to help. What role do I play?"
They walk. They plan. They try so hard, they really do. And their intentions so pure, oh how tragic it all was!
Feeling sorry for them? Never. There was nobody there to feel sorry in the first place.
Still, one can't help rooting for such underdogs. That store can't stay open for long, what with the K.K.K and the hunters around.
'Hunters'? The slang around has seeped in.
One must keep with the times.
"14th street? This toystore is on 14th street?!"
"Well yes, if you had bothered listening to my brief of prior action you would know this. Well Leila, what escape routes can you see from the shop? This here's an emergency exit, but it's four feet off the ground, may cause trouble in a hurry."
While they debate schematics and blueprints, I can only sit here stunned. It's not right, I know, but what else to do? I find a note and it just so happens to relate to the biggest thing in my life at that moment? That can't be coincidence, can it? I'm on lookout too? Has God preordained this to happen? No, think straight! Don't go off the deep end like old Willy with that Circus… Jeremy never did fully get over that…
"So Shile, do you need any special equipment for the lookout? Here, this is roughly how 14th street looks. I suggest you coordinate with me and Leila, we've already looked over for escape routes, though I suppose lookout and escape are quite different."
Special equipment? What I'd really love would be that new test we came up with to test for trace bloodstains and general investigative tools, but I can't see any feasible way to disguise that under the guise of 'lookout equipment'. How does one get equipment…
"Shile? You're spacing out again."
I suppose I could send a request through the distribution committee, but I doubt they'll fall for it… Most equipment requests come through operational units.
"I'll look over it, but I doubt I'll need anything."
I can't go back to work. I have to be ready for the mission tomorrow. What a great schedule we have, less than a full day of planning. If it's really major, we get a week. This is the real reason we're the butt of the anomalous world, not our level of training.
I still don't see how Noelle got leadership of the mission, or how they found out about who the note was talking about. It doesn't sit well with me at all.
And why is Noelle in charge of the mission? Why not me? Hubb would know that 14th street meant a lot to me, why would he want someone as uninvolved as Noelle as the leader? And why now, after 11 years of service? Again, the questions pile on and on.
Why is Hubb so useless lately? He used to be motivated enough, why is he now failing his obligations?
November 6th, 1931: UIU Facility 11 Director's office
"Marcus? Could you come in here for a moment?"
Uh oh. Noelle's briefing is soon. Hubb doesn't need to know that I have no idea what we're doing.
"How come you need me now? The briefing is soon. You know, the one that you requested three days ago?"
"Ugh, don't tell me you're another one who thinks… no, that's not fair on you."
Huh?
"You know what? Don't worry about it. We won't be long, I promise."
I'm not sure I believe that Hubb, but what's there to do about it? Hubb is the director after all. Not a bad one either, I suppose.
"Sit down Marcus. Do you remember when I took over this Facility? Two years ago? Do you remember what I told you all?"
"I suppose I do, Hubb. You said that we had an important job in protecting the American people and that-"
"No no, that's not what I mean. Not… the stock stuff. I finished off with a peculiar remark, didn't I?"
This… is going nowhere good. The usually comforting smell of perfume in this office seems… menacing. As if the flowers on the desk are trying to lure one into their gaping maw. I wonder…
"You said… that if we were to succeed, we had to accept uncomfortable truths. You said that the day would come to challenge these truths, no?"
"Yes… yes, I did say that. I said that there are truths out there that are uncomfortable. But what's more accurate is that these truths are best left unknown. These truths are so uncomfortable that's it's best to ignore them. But… it's time to confront some of them. I'm telling you this becuase I trust you haven't tried looking into this in the past, correct?"
Well, I'm guessing he's talking about the Foundation. Or some such thing. But… from the tone of voice, and from the leading questions, I don't think that's the what's going on here. I… ugh, Noelle would lap this up. She would enjoy this much attention from Hubb. But she doesn't need any more pressure on her right now.
"You're talking about something inside the UIU, right Hubb? Don't worry, no one seems to know much about that. It's hard enough getting through just Facility 11, no one has time to think about the larger framework."
"I'm glad to hear that Marcus. It shows I was successful. Too successful, I fear. I think it's time to start dialing back that success."
He always does this. Everyone does this in this business now that I think about it. We all dance around what we're trying to say, because of the looming fear… of what? Here I am, doing it again! What on earth am I scared of thinking?
"Hubb… I think I know what you're talking about. We're lost in this beauracratic jargon and endless paperwork… so we don't think about what's behind the veil? So we can fool ourselves into safety? Into regularity in a world with no absolutes, the anomalous world."
"That's… close. It's very close, Marcus. But a bit off the mark. I think… the rot has gotten to me too."
A clouded look crosses Hubb's face. He seems ready to shatter. I feel ready to shatter. The softness of the cushions on the chair suddenly feels like a trap. A soothing, comforting trap. Can't we just stay in this unknowing state of mind forever? Can't we complain about leadership, go on simple operations and come back before midnight to Ambrose 11? Why does there have to be so much depth to the world?
Why me?
"I think the rot's in all of us Hubb. I think we've learned to forget that there was a time before the rot. A time before all meaning of our operations were lost."
A twitch crosses Hubb's usually sterile face. His scarred nose twitching upwards.
"That's what this mission is about Marcus. One of us hasn't let the rot seep to his core. We're using that. It'll give him… closure. It's a reward for investigation. For determination."
Ah yes, Shile was going crazy over something on 14th street. But this still feels off. This isn't the full picture, is it? If this was all, then wouldn't that make the note Shile found fake? Won't that make this operation meaningless? No, something more is going on…
What am I doing? Did Hubb know this would spur me into a flurry of thought?
Is this a good thing?
"Thank you Marcus, that will be all. And… don't tell the others about this little chat. They'll all come to realize something similar in their own time."
What is this all really about?
November 6th, 1931: UIU Facility 11 briefing room.
We're ready. It's all been organised. Shile needs nothing, Marcus is grumbling (So I gave him some more Substantial work within the mission), Jeremy has all the firearms he could want, and Leila has her grappling hook and rope. Time for the briefing. It's fine, everything's done correctly. It's still immensely stressful, and this drab repurposed break room doesn't help.
Remember protocol, even if it's a joke.
"Hello Agents, as you know we shall be undertaking operation 'Stoicism'. Our stated goal is to ascertain the nature of the relationship between the owners of 'Dr. Wondertainment's World of Whimsy' and 'The Chicago Spirit'."
Deep breaths, nothing will go wrong. Remeber protocol: after mission statement, ideal mission execution. Then, individual mission descriptions. Then multiple likely eventualities, then questions. All worked out way ahead of you Noelle, sometimes beauracracy could be useful.
"Ideally, Jeremy will enter the shop from an open front door. We're aiming for the end of buisness hours, so there should hardly be any other customers. Next, Jeremy feigns some kind of insult and demands to speak to the owners. It's up to Jeremy's acting skills and quick thinking as to whether this part will work. Meanwhile, Marcus is to watch through the skylight overlooking the counter, where Jeremy is. He is to have his requested sniper rifle with him. Jeremy is to apprehend the owner, owners or staff. In addition, he will warn them there are snipers trained on them should they make one wrong move. Marcus is to fire a warning shot to prove this. By this point the door should be locked and the streets deserted, all customers having left due to closing time. Jeremy is then to interrogate the owner/owners of the establishment under the guise of a criminal looking for information on gang rivalries. Once done, Jeremy shall leave through the front door. By now, Marcus, Leila and Shile will be on the roof of a neighbouring building. They'll lower a rope to the ground and once secure with Jeremy, will pull him up. Any questions?"
Any questions? This plan is terrible! No wonder it took Noelle so long to be put in any leadership position! First off, what complaint can Jeremy come up with at a TOY STORE?? And what if the timing doesn't work out and there are still customers? Actually, what is the plan exactly? Hope that the store will shoo away bystanders but let the one with complaints stay and talk to the managers??
And if these guys really had a connection to the Spirit, why do we expect them to fall into line so easily? If they're willing to stand up to the Spirit, I doubt they'll bend to us! And when exactly does Marcus leave the skylight and get pulled up? And if Marcus needs to watch, doesn't that mean this whole interrogation takes place in the storefront? Even if it's dark and freezing outside, that's still a risk! And what about…
There are so many flaws, I think it's best to stay quiet. Don't analyze too much, Shile.
"Just one. Why are we doing this?"
That sends a cold shock through the room. No one likes wasting time, I know, but that's why I've asked this. I have to know. It's impossible that this mission is entirely based on discerning the meaning of that letter, no?
"Well Shile, It's being done for a very simple reason. And that's that it's been ordered by Hubb. Any more questions?"
That's not an answer. And I don't really see why Hubb's word is law anymore. He hasn't proven himself to be much of anything, has he? Sure he's our superior, but that could be for any number of reasons! Competence and leadership rarely coincide.
But this raises another question. Hubb isn't known for being hasty, and he isn't known for being inquisitive. So what's this really about?
God this plan needs some work. She should've consulted me. Oh well, it'll do Shile some good at any rate. He was quite torn up about that random Spirit dying too easily. I hope he hasn't gone off the deep end, but he may have if so minor a mystery set him into a depression.
This'll do Noelle some good too, she needs some command faliure as well as endless faliures on the field. Really, she overestimates how easily I can subdue up to three people with nought but a firearm.
Well, three firearms and some rope.
I've hardly been mentioned. All the hard work of putting together an escape from locals, Spirit members and police now seems like an unnecessarily complicated getaway.
This sucks.
"Alright, no questions? Good, now to talk about some probable hiccups."
Wait, that's not the right order! This isn't going too well, I can see they think my plan is overly optimistic. I have to trudge through this mess though!
"The first one is of the skylight. What if it's blocked or inaccesible for one reason or another? Well, then Marcus can join Shile as additional lookout. He's not 100% necessary as sniper anyway. Secondly: What if local gangs come along? That's what Shile is for, he'll signal the escape, which I very much hope he's worked out with Marcus and Jeremy already."
There, that's set some thoughts running! Not such a mess now, am I?
"Third…"
They disscuss and debate, think and argue.
What a wonderful time they seem to be having. Wishing them much luck, it seems they'll need it. But even if they are a joke, everyone deserves a chance, every thought worth entertaining. What did a wiseman say?
'It is the mark of an educated man to able to entertain a thought without accepting it.'
Those who discard them off the bat, maybe they're the real joke.
November 6th, 1931: Dr. Wondertainment's world of whimsy.
Closing time.
A man walks by shelf after shelf of toys and games, looking.
It's easy to project our own thoughts, beliefs, and opinions on this mans actions. We can say he's searching aimlessly through life, with no purpose or end goal. We can say he's decieving himself, drowning in the now to distract from the future. We can even say that this search represents his ambling way through life, his actions never leaving him perfectly satisfied. There may be merit to some of these interpretations, there may not be.
Ah, he's found what he wanted, an old looking teddy bear. It eerily reminds him of one he used to have in his boyhood, before his father was sent off to the war. He doesn't think about that, too painful.
Closing time.
A boy looks around in awe. He's surprised that there's this much beauty in the world.
He has no troubles, only awe; and perhaps ambition. Empty some would say. Fullfiled, others.
Closing time.
A woman in the back of the store works hard, flipping through books and histories.
We can again project ourselves onto others. Her task is fleeting, unsatisfactory, and ultimatly pointless. She reads through the works of those greater than her, and knows she shall never match them. And yet she tries to emulate them, in vain. Is this futile and pitiable, or inspiring and hopeful? Is her dedication to her failed work a lesson in perservernce or sunk cost? Again, the truth is probably in the middle, it's up to us to say.
She's found what she wanted, an old spell that binds her will unto an object. She sets it down and concentrates, then close her eyes and rests. There is still much to do before her task will be done.
Closing time.
There's a rustle from the window, a stray dog has found his way in.
He does not truly have an aim, merely looking to survive. Maybe security, family, but he doesn't know that. It is even easier now to see ourselves in this poor wretch, how our struggles are animalistic in nature, our goals forever unknowable until attained. The truth of this is debatable, and has probably been debated, in fact.
The dog finds his way to the counter, there's a half eaten sandwich there. The man at the storefront doesn't notice until it's too late. He doesn't have the heart to shake the poor animal off.
Closing time.
The man at the storefront looks around nervously, he has been for a while now. He's searching for a lack of something in the darkness. So far he has done well. Ah, a foul beast has his food. It's too late now to do anything. Better let the poor wretch have it, though it won't save its life for long. What is there to say of his relief that another day has passed plainly? What is there to say of his forgetting of long term worries? Not much. We can only project so far.
The man sees movement outside, panic grabs his heart.
"MARIA! Quickly!"
The light inside the shop suddenly vanishes. Like the first rain of the year, it shocks in its expectedness. I knew something would go wrong, I was resigned to having this chance crushed.
And yet, I can't help but feel my heart seize up when I hear that familiar, feminine shrill. Despite the fact the last time I heard it was around two years ago, it feels as if it were yesterday that Noelle first saw a man die in front of her. Compared to that, a light turning off seems hardly worth a reaction.
But it was worth that reaction! For what it signified was that a plan had gone to ruin. No, that undersells how important this is to Noelle.
Unfazed, Jeremy tries to remedy the situation. I'm sure he thinks that this'll be a fun footnote in his book one day, but I highly doubt Noelle sees it that way. As a matter of fact, I'm not too sure I see it that way.
"Okay Noelle, so it's eventuality f? That's okay, we know how to deal with this, we're just… slightly underequipped."
Jeremy opens with this non-sequiter. The fact that we're underequipped for eventuality f is so baltant that it makes me doubt that we can even pull a plan of that type off. When was the last time anything around here went to eventuality f, the use of force to neutralize potential threats to Agents? Wait, that makes no sense, we're not yet in a postion where the danger to us is so great that it comes before maintaning normalcy and the mission objective!
So, gathering all my strength for yet another long winded argument about overly techinical manuals with Jeremy and Noelle… I realise that's a terrible idea. It's best to just go with whatever Jeremy has to say.
As if sensing my approval, Jeremy nods, sending his gaze towards the shop. And with his husky voice from years of smoking, he takes up the role of a father figure for this occasion. Even if his dead blond hair seems to ruin the illusion a bit. Ah well, less important in the low visibilty anyway. He continues:
"Right, so all we need to do is get in there and restrain the subjects, correct? There shouldn't be too many in there for the time being, so we should hurry before they can call for backup. Marcus should still be covering the door, so we have Sniper coverage. Only that'll be slightly harder once we enter…"
He seems almost jovial about this. As if this situation has been exactly what he was waiting for since that day in the rain. Is this the exact opposite of that day? Is today everything within our power? Is today a day where things might change?
After the Great war, the old lands were thrown into chaos. No one knew who would end up on top, and no one stopped to think about what they may be resureccting in their fervor. The old lands became a battleground for normalcy as well as politcal supremcy. One cannot know which was more important or which is more holy and noble, though I am inclined towards the latter. What is known, however, is that many have fled from the continent. These refugees have shored up in all sorts of peculiar places, one of them being an old Oregon town. Seemingly overnight, what was once a few shacks and an office turned into a hub of trade and travel. All the while, the inhabitants planned a return to their homelands where they were strongest, where the people still knew some of the old ways.
And of the old land's recipies. Yes, a widely heard tale of Ambrose's origins is that of Russian refugees, fleeing the civil war and subsequent activity in the anomalous world that always arises with such great upheavels.
However, as you may already surmise by my attittude and the wealth of other theories I have presented, I find this idea highly unlikely. Many things contradict this theory; the first concrete evidence we have of Ambrose is rumors of an exquiste chef in the brother's war, serving with the Prussian army. However, no rumors have spread of Ambrose coming with a wave of German immigrants, and we have no reason to believe he emmigrated to Russia and then fled to America. Further, many claim to have been served by Ambrose aboard the Lusitania.
Despite the obvious ridculousness of these stories, it goes to show that such speculations and claims are variable and widely spread. It is my opinion that this was started by Ambrose himself when he first began to gain notiriety in order to protect himself from agencies such as the Foundation and the UIU. The irony does not escape me.
However, the aformentioned theory of a Russian escapee does possess a kernel of truth to it; much of the current anomalous community is still bent out of shape over the village witches and spirit seekers that escaped to a safer haven. One such person is well known to me…
Out of breath and into the darkness runs a pale woman. She thinks to herself that this situation is familiar. It is as if she is a young woman once more, fleeing the Whites and Reds alike as they try to stamp out the last vestiges of the tsar. Never mind the fact that the assembly never said a good thing about the tsar since the day she was born.
But that did not bother the Reds. They knew little of the ways of the rural folk, of those still connected to the old ways. What little they knew of wonder they used to find and stamp out the rest of it. Suddenly, it seems too much to bear; how could one flee their home and past to go somewhere new? How could one retain a dream other than survival through that? How could she still want to bring back the ways of wonder?
These thoughts are not productive, she tells herself. I know that it's what she tells herself, because I've thought similar thoughts to her when I was in her place. And now she comes to me, for my advice. Or maybe advice is too strong a term for what passes between us. Reassurance is more accurate. And just like that, our little dance begins.
"I know you're there." Says that panting voice into the darkness. "I know that you see what's happening." She ascribes me this power in between gasps for air. She knows how to pull at me, for I cannot resist the urge to correct all misconceptions about myself. When you're a nobody, every bit of identity is precious. I cannot have even the slightest fact be doubtable.
So I must reply truthfully, or I will be seen as some sort of all knowing deity. And if she remains the only one that knows of me, that might end up being true. Straightening my collar and adjusting my voice such that it will be heard but not overheard, quiet but not raspy, I reply: "And how would you know that, dear Mariah? Do you perhaps have your eyes on me at all times, as a mooning lover? How would you know I'm not equally in love with you?"
I know she can hear me trying to to laugh, but she should save her breath before scolding me for immaturity. I hope she realizes she has very limited time here, and I'd love to get involved, but sadly all I can do is give her some advice. I can't even tell her all I'd like to tell her, that would be unbecoming of a nobody such as myself.
It seems she's learned at least some of this, as she doesn't skip a beat to get straight to the heart of the matter. Still, I'd have enjoyed some banter, it's nice to talk to someone once in a while. "Chester is frightened about someone outside the store. I told him that he didn't need to worry about the Spirit already, but he won't listen. I thought he was just being paranoid, but maybe he was right."
While I'd love to tell her that it's just the UIU out there and that they're probably harmless, I doubt that'll help her. I also doubt I'm even allowed to tell her that. Well it's not as if old Yevgeny will scold me, it's all a question of how exactly he set me into this body hidden from the world at large. So instead I need to say something useful. Anything useful, or at least nor harmful, would be better than nothing.
But nothing is what comes to mind for a nobody, so for what seems like an eternity I'll simply… be here.
All was quiet in provisional site 12.
Head parapsychologist Hardin leans against his chair as the cool night air comes in through the permanently open window. A report has been left on his desk on the classification of crowd behaviour as anomalous. He already knows what the report will say, and he already knows what his opinion on it will be. He decides to leave it there for now, he has much work to do.
Through the small Accacia wood door comes in a mirror of himself. Or so it feels to him as he views his younger brother, the only man who Hardin has ever been able to feel particularly strongly about. That strong feeling being mostly annoyance or hatred. Still, despite their many personal and proffesional disagreemants, they were far more similar than Hardin liked to admit to himself. The graying hair that so irked him was less noticable on his brother, perhaps due to how he took it in stride. The scar from the breach that destroyed site 41 on Hardin's cheek had no equivalnt on Callion's rather handsome features. But apart from these, the two men could be confused for each other, and in fact often were in their younger years; the jawline, the facial structure, the bridge of the nose, the slight build, all were near identical between the two.
In their behaviour, the men were perhaps more different than in looks, however that did not stop both men from independantly being recruited into the Foundation for their work in the field of emergent human behavioral structres. Callion, having been recruited the better part of a decade before his older brother, viewed himself as the more achieved of the two. Hardin, being the head of the departmant, of course saw things differently. Callion claimed that his longer time within the Foundation's structure taught him that he would be freer to pursue his research from a less senior position. Hardin saw him as a sore loser. In all fairness, Callion's approach to emergent behaviour would never rise in the Foundation's ranks. Even were he the brightest, most motivated, most talented, most able group psycologist there ever was (which he might have even been), he would never run a department.
"Brother, I believe you simply must see this!" exclaims Callion breathlessly as he stumbles forwards. Seemingly enjoying himself, Hardin doesn't deign his brother with an immediate and pertinent reply. Instead, content to let him stew in his anxiety as to his response, Hardin sinks further into his chair. Slowely, as if each and every word holds immense importance, Hardin replies: "Please, researcher Morgan, keep formality and schedchuling in mind. I believe I'm not to have meetings at this late hour. I have one more report to review today before I retire and you can ask me what you will."
Formality such as this, of course, is part of what led Hardin to the top while leaving Callion in the dust. It simply came naturally to him, and he enjoyed every moment of the stiff formality. In his mind, order could only emerge when all followed the same invisible rules of class and conduct. Whether this meant that emergent behaviour was only possible when such rules existed was a matter that neither brother nor any expert in the field could sufficiently answer. And this, more than anything was what differnetiated the two brothers. While not diametrically opposed, they fell on opposing ends of the argument. Hardin, as has been mentioned, believed that emergent intelligence only happened when strict rules were observed. While this opinion allowed less structred groups to act in an emergent fashion, Hardin believed these groups couldn't act intelligently or towards a unified goal. Pointing out the disunity of purpose in structes such as fandoms, communites, or even liberal democracys. Callion was the staunchest supporter of the opposite view; in his eyes, any social construct or group would move towards a system of further complexity and autonomy. Pointing out the similarites betwen biological and social structres, Callion was the chief proponent of "the living state" model. Pointing towards long term geopolitcal realities and strategies that make no sense under the traditional model of the state as an amalgamation of human actions and institutions, Callion truly believed that groups had their own will and life.
Unfortunatly for both men, this disscussion couldn't remain purely academic. As members of the department of paraphsycology, it was their job to detect anomalous behaviour in groups. Whether it was a daevite or fifthist cult hiding in plain sight, or even a harmless organistation of non anomalous individuals who happened to coalace in a way not deemed natural to the Foundation, it was their job to classify and detect it. And so, many pleasent summer evenings were spent in endless arguments over the nature of gatherings and groups.
All this was constantly on the top of both brothers minds whenever they came into contact. And so it was, that Hardin saw this visit of his brother's as just another ploy to convince him. He probably had another paper on some unorganized group that had some real social impact. "Sure, good example of an anomaly" Hardin'd reply half jokingly. More than a few fandoms and interest groups were shut down by the foundation over fears of a paraphyscological contamination. And as long as Hardin was in charge, such things would remain the norm. Really, it was no different from the other actions the Foundation constantly took to keep the world from itself. Why, who knew what scientific discoveries would be seen as anomalous if the Foundation got to them first? Would the very nature of reality as subsisting of subatomic particles be seen as an anomaly to be kept from the public? Such were the questions when the principles of parapshycology were applied to the Foundation itself.
But Callion surprised him, by utterly ignoring the way things were meant to go and taking a new tack in the conversation: "No no no! This changes everything! I fear it's all over Harding! What are we meant to do!?". This sudden exclamation disturbed Hardin for multiple reasons, chief among them a disruption of a pet theory of his about the application of the principles of mass analysis to much smaller dynamics. Dynamics such as two siblings for example. Under the theory, if anything happened to break an existing dynamic, it would be done at a such that the regular dynamic would be least disturbed. However, nothing could be further from the truth in this case; Callion always came in at odd times which he knew would bother Hardin just to debate the things they'd gone over a million times before. If he was coming in with truly startling news, it would make more sense that he came in at a convenient time for Hardin, both because that way he'd have his full attention to devote to the issue at hand, and so as not to disrupt the regular dynamic between them. His theory was either lacking, or it was truly urgent.
And so, having thouroughly convinced himself some earth shattering event had occured, Hardin dropped the proffesional facade to his brother and asked carefully: "Whatever it is, it can't invalidate everything we've done. Our results can still be valid!" What a strange thing to say, thought Hardin. The world could be in danger, and I'm consoling myself that my theories still hold water? How strange. Despite the self reproachment, Hardin simply couldn't find himself worried over the fate of the world more that the fate of his academic career.
And so Callion, having seen his brother's recognition of the severity of the situation, began: "Oh no no no, don't worry about that! I fear it only confirms my greatest of theories. Oh Hardin, how I hate to be right. My conscience is split over this. But I must first explain. As you know, we cannot possible sift through all information on the internet at once. And so, while it takes our webcrawlers exponentially more time to sift through new content, we find less and less time to go over old material. It all started when I found myself going over a blog from 2008 that triggered top priority for manual review. So I-"
Utterly shocked and disgusted, Hardin couldn't believe what he was hearing! Callion was breaking a social dynamic for the sake of something over a decade old? Perhaps Hardin simply had standards too high for his brother, and he got set off too easily? Impossible. Callion must be taking this supremly seriously. And it's a dozen years old. So it must be of the utmost importance. That was what went through Hardin's head as he rose to interrupt his brother. And so what he ended up asking wasn't something along the lines of 'why are you so worried about something from 2008?', but instead he cooly asked: "So the manual review system is working? It truly did go off for something of paramount importance?".
"Oh yes!" Was the immediate reply by Callion. Enthusiastically, almost excitedly, he continued: "This blog… oh I fear. There's nothing anomalous about it, not a cognitohazard, not a phsyco breach, nothing of the sort. Oh, you simply must experience it yourself. But I won't cut to the chase. That would demean both you and I, brother. So I invite you, read it yourself. I know you haven't the time. So here, it's all on the microchip. Won't take more than a nanosecond for it to all be there, in your brain. Oh I know you don't like it, and for good reason, but you truly must see this, and as soon as possible. It may already be too late, but I'd want to know if it truly was. And if the chip is truly too much, here, I have it all in print."
The wind's howl rose to a crescendo as Hardin picked up the book. The bland brown cover didn't scream "Earth Shattering!" at him, but he chose to trust his brother's good judgement. And as he sat down and began to read, his heart dropped.
Callion turned around and closed the door behind him, but not before one last parting shot;
"That will be all for my report tonight, Department head Morgan."
In the beginning, there were no stories.
But the ape on the ground could no comprehend it all without a lense. What was the light in the sky? Who made the ground he walked upon? And why was it there in the first place? And so, he told himself a story. It was a grand story, about the sky and the earth, the sea and the monsters it housed within it. About great beings all around, and about the peculiar orange growth that seemed to be everywhere.
The story was so grand, in fact, that all the other apes wanted to hear it as well. Some were more eager, and some less so, but in the end they all agreed that it was for the best if everyone knew the story.
But with time, the story changed. It was no longer wonderous, but instead cynical and brutal. It told of vengeful, petty beings, not at all what the apes saw around them. And they wondered, who could've wanted to tell such a miserable tale? Why would the story bend itself into a shape that could only cause discomfort? And yet, the story in all its variants was spread and spread, as if it had a will of its own.
But the apes were so caught up in their stories, they did not even notice when the final weapons test for orbital station twelve began seventy miles in the sky. And by then it was far too late.
"Callion, this is ridiculous. I don't know how this could even come to be. It's as if the very existance of it is both predetermined and impossible. As it is, it's utter garbage."
Callion is unfazed by his brother's brash and immediate dissmissal. He'd had more than enough experience with him to know when he was indeed taking things seriously. This much emotion surely told of some visceral fear inside Hardin that he was simply in denial about. Either that, or he was concerened about Callion's breaking of the social dynamic. Oh yes, he knew about Hardin's little pet theory. How neat would it be for intereactions to be that classifiable? Oh, and what neat logic too! Instead of searching for some deep complex symmetries and repetitions in the incredibly complex sea of human thought, boil it all down to isolatable intereactions. The theory went that what most people would calssify as a repetitive dynamic would be the only thing that really mattered, seeing as the behavior being described was the behaviour of average people.
Of course, this was the most obvious theory and the easiest to put to the test, and so to both brothers' dismay as young behavioural phsycologists, they found their novel idea was thourougly disproved long ago by men much greater than they. Of course, Hardin would never let that slide. Like everything else, Hardin took it personally. And so, since before his time at the Foundation, he had been trying to modify the basic theory in order to make it work. To Callion's knowledge, his only real breakthrough was to introduce the idea of abnormal intereactions as reaction to some outside stimuli instead of some complex, unexplainable process in the brain.
Callion had been contemplating rebutting this idea, but it was framed so generally in Hardin's paper that he really didn't know where to start. How did that ever get published? If anyone should be able to understand the meaning of his brother's jargon, it would be Callion. As it stood, Callion strongly suspected that Foundation help had something to do with it. Damnit, how could any real progress be made when the human sphere of social experience was neutered by constant Foundation action?
Or at least, that had been what he thought. Until he found that damn blog.
It was written as purely as anything could be. The words simply flowed, with clinical analysis occasionally spliced with biting sarcasm or surprising humor. He hadn't believed it possible, but it was all framed so beautifully that he didn't want to rebutt it. But to his great astonishment, even when watering down the ideas to more mundane and then more technical terms, the ideas held. It wasn't just that the method of delivery fit perfectly with the contents, it was that the contents were, to his knoweledge, irrefutable.
But if anyone could poke a hole in even the most majestic of analysis, it was Hardin. That the department head was the person that should be contacted on such things anyways was just a nice touch. However, seeing his brother's heated behaviour, Callion feared, or perhaps hoped, that even he could find no substantial flaw. God, how he hoped that there was some underlying flaw in the argument.
"What bothers you about it Hardin? Is it the fact that you didn't think of it yourself? Honestly, it's right in line with what you've been pushing all these years, isn't it?" Opened Callion. This was either going to be long and drawn out, or Hardin would quickly capitulate and start to work alongside his brother towards a brilliant solution.
With a disdainful sniff, Hardin sits down across from his brother. The cafeteria may not have seemed a good place for such a disscussion, but there was nothing that really needed to be kept secret. So, by the third table from the door, next to the all but untouched health vending machine, in the squattish and short hall was where the brothers chose to meet to disscuss the future of their entire field, the entire Foundation, the entire human race.
A junior researcher was getting all excited about something or other on the news, yelling and making bets with his young friends. The AI making the meal and manageing the entire site had decided to stroll around in a vaguely humanoid shape today, and was disscussing the price of bitcoin with the twice widowed Anderson representative in the site. She sighs and takes out a cigerrate, thinks better of it, and applies a nicotine patch. A window is closed, it's snowing you know! The fifty-something year old GOC representitive was eyeing up Hardin as she had since she began her job as ambassador at provisional site 12, her interest clear to all but Hardin himself of course.
That was because Hardin always had something on his mind, and mindless infatuation was still a thing he dissmissed as worth modeling. After all, how could it ever have an effect on some populational level? But especially today, If the most beautiful women of the world offered themselves to him, he would notice it less than if a fly had landed on a page of the heavily footnoted and stickered book he was now opening.
Because Callion was right. And Hardin knew not whether to weep as one who grieves or laugh as one who has won all he has ever wanted.
Morrison's Dragon was a wonderful thing. Morrison would be delighted to be told this, his Dragon less so. This is mostly because Morrison viewed his life's purpose as serving the Dragon and elevating it to the status of god, as it so deserved in his eyes. The Dragon would be less thrilled at this assertion, mostly because it would never admit to being Morrison's in any sense, but also because it would demand much higher praise than simply being wonderful.
As a matter of fact, being called wonderful would probably seem as quite a benal statement. Morrison's very world was the most wonderful thing imaginable, full of vibrant color, teeming imagination and purpose. No one's life was benal, no avenue a waste of time, and nothing devoid of an all encompassing wonder.
And at the heart of it all, were the dragons. There were many a tale about the world after the dragons first came. They generally told of either a great hero who in the end brought back the dragons or who defeated some great evil that had forced them away in the first place. Far fewer tales were told of how most men led their lives in this dark era, but the few that were told were generally ignored as entirely too unrealistic to be worth any contemplation. And even if those tales were as wonderous as everything else, the Dragons didn't care for them, and so how could humans?
Per 
