I'll be here singing 'til our heartbeats might slip back into that rhythm again
Whether it is or isn't the end, who cares? God knows that I could use a friend
--
"Forget it. We're done." The woman's voice pierced through the crowded tavern, followed by her stormy departure from her table, through the press of bodies, and out the door. Only two heads turned to watch her leave: the first, the woman's former companion, standing from her chair in protest with an arm fruitlessly outstretched; Second, the steadfast and watchful figure of the Mechanical Autonomous Guardsman.
M.A.G., from its usual position by the entrance, tracked the ebb and flow, the song and dance, the comings and goings of the place. Only a few ever minded its presence, and their protests were always swiftly dismissed. It's harmless. It's friendly. It's minding its own business.
The latter statement was only sometimes true.
It traced the movement back to its source; the woman's former companion. She was now slumped in her seat, face in one hand and drink in the other. As M.A.G. approached, it could see that her skin was flushed and her hair clung to the back of her neck with sweat. They must have had a harsh argument.
It stooped, lowering its lanky frame into the chair across from her. As its spidery fingers rested on the tabletop, her eyes shot upwards and met its own. Hers: dull violet, watery, bloodshot. M.A.G.'s: wide, unblinking. The woman stared, mouth drifting ajar. M.A.G. waved.
"Um," said the woman, pushing herself upright. She glanced to the left and right of her table, then briefly underneath it. Dissatisfied, she returned her gaze to the gleaming metal figure before her. "Who. What? Are you?"
A series of quick gestures and taps; I am Maggie, signed M.A.G.'s hands. Are you hurt?
She reached for her drink. "Whatever you are, if you're coming onto me, I have a girlf--" she broke off, then frowned. "Well, I did. Whatever." She took a hefty gulp of her drink, then slammed the cup down. The minuscule clack of the wooden bottom against the table's surface was swallowed immediately by the thrum of the surrounding crowd. Half of her remaining ale splashed out, drenching the table and her hand. She stared at it, squinting.
Maggie tilted its head. Do you need help?
The woman's gaze remained fixed on the tabletop, propping her head up with her elbow. "...could've told me she was unhappy," she muttered. "Instead of letting me take her out like a fucking asshole."
She began to trace shapes and figures into the puddles of spilled liquid with her finger. "How was I supposed to know?"
That sounds bad, signed Maggie.
"It's not like I had a choice to take that job," said the woman. Once again, Maggie's words slid off of her. Its fingers drooped, defeated, and it rested its hands on the tabletop. The woman rattled on, oblivious.
Maggie curled a hand around a nearby empty cup, like people do.
"And!" the woman erupted, bolting upright, "She was the one who wanted to get back with me! What was the point, then!? I thought this was going to be our big chance! I thought we were giving it an honest try!"
Her sudden bout of fury quickly faded, and she buried her face in her palms. "Damn it. Fuck." She began to mutter curses into her hands, and after a moment, fell silent.
Several minutes passed.
Gingerly, Maggie began to stand from its chair. The woman darted forward like a viper, gripping Maggie's wrist like a vice.
"No. Please stay. You're a good friend."
Maggie extended its empty hand and patted her gingerly on the head. Of course it would.
Summary: Sometime in the paleolithic era, an eldritch horror gets born.
Archive warning: Graphic depictions of violence.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/83177046
A very short origin story for Everett, in which you don't even need to know anything about him to enjoy. This is tagged as dnd, which is only true in that he is currently being played as a dnd character, but trust me, this has absolutely nothing to do with that.
Speaking of unclefic, I wrote this a week ago and immediately forgot to share it anywhere. his powers (not that he would ever call them that) have been really fucky lately and getting out of control. uh-oh, kenny!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
420 words | blood and injury, minor body horror
Sloane finds Kenny in a bloodied state.
This is very self indulgent and 0% canon, i was just gripped by the need to put some blood on sloane (her natural habitat) and kenny (woah there friend, how'd that get there)
The Hole to Nowhere in Your Kitchen Floor (2nd Edition)
This morning, you find a hole.
It's not huge-- about the size of your fist, punched straight through the kitchen's yellowed vinyl tile and underlying subfloor. It's dark inside this hole; a dense, viscous black that suppresses any chance of seeing the bottom. Loose crumbs from the floor, nudged into the gap, make no sound when they drop. Especially curious, given that you're pretty sure there should be another apartment below you.
You add it to your growing pile of concerns: Dishes. Food. Rent. Medical bills. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.
You kick a rug over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor and finish getting dressed. In a flurry of shoelaces, jangling keys, and slammed car doors, it is forgotten.
But later, at work, your mind wanders to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Was it there yesterday? Was it something you did wrong? Did it happen on its own? Will it get bigger? Are you going to get billed for this?
You had only given it a cursory glance. Maybe you were mistaken. It's probably not even a hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor, it's just a a hole to your downstairs neighbor's kitchen ceiling. This wouldn't be the first time they've had a reason to complain about you. It probably won't be the last.
Suddenly it's six in the evening. You barely remember the drive home.
Inside your apartment, you kick off your shoes and toe away the rug over the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor. You stare into it. You sit next to it. You trace it with your finger. It could almost be a natural, like an animal burrow or a knothole in a tree. You think about measuring it, telling people about it, you want to drop small objects down its throat. What would happen? Doesn't everyone want to know? You want to know.
Your cat winds around your ankles. She touches her paws to the edges of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor; You swat her away and conceal it with the rug again. Somehow, it's after midnight. Your stomach churns. You don't sleep. You resolve that tomorrow, you'll tell your landlord about the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.
In the morning, you find the rug heaped in a rough pile at the opposite end of the room. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor lies naked. Is it bigger?
A warm, humid breeze wafts out of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You text your landlord. Mold problem, you suggest.
The vinyl flooring curls away from the edges of the cavity in tiny waves. The hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor sits stoic, silent, and empty. You want it gone. You want to be part of it. Is it bigger? You could probably fit your head inside it now. You should eat. A firm headbutt from the cat reminds you that she should eat too.
You pour her some kibble. You resume your place by the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Maybe it's hungry too?
You blink. That's stupid. It's just a hole. You haul yourself to your feet.
You search in vain for the rug, and with an unceremonious clunk drop a baking sheet over the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.
You go to work.
You come home.
You go to bed.
Once again, you don't sleep.
At dawn, you find yourself crouched at the precipice. Is it bigger? The emptiness inside it smells just as warm and wet as it did yesterday. You could definitely shimmy your aching body in there now.
You nudge one of your shoes over the edge. You watch as the darkness swallows it whole. You wait for the echoing impact that will never come. For good measure, you prod the other shoe in after it. Hate to waste one of a pair.
You drop more objects into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor: a spatula, a lamp, a family-size bottle of ibuprofen, canned goods from your pantry. You imagine the rush they would feel as they fall. You're beyond embarrassment of your envy of that can of peas.
It's two in the morning, and you drag yourself to bed. Has your stomach ever hurt this badly? Did the cat even bother you for her dinner?
You don't sleep. Your sheets are saturated with cold sweat. A rumble echoes through your apartment.
As objects around your room vibrate themselves from their shelves, a chorus of crashes and shatters and sweet farewells accompany the thrumming.
In the morning, the hole to nowhere in the kitchen floor is waiting for you. You pour a dustpan full of broken figurines into its mouth. Breakfast.
You pull up a chair and sit in its company. Does anyone else have a hole to nowhere in their kitchen floor? You perish the thought. You never get to feel special.
Later, your fatigue draws you from your seat and onto the ground. Later still, you lie, face against the sticky vinyl, next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. It's only a little wider than you are tall. You could slide inside it with little effort. You still can't see its bottom. Maybe it's rude to be looking for one. You close your eyes.
The rumbling, like a monstrous purr, soothes your body. Occasionally, the ground quakes. Somewhere in your apartment, a framed picture crashes from the wall.
The day passes. Crawling to bed, you collapse just inside your bedroom door. For once, you're blessed with sleep.
When you stir, the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor meets you at the threshold of your bedroom; its yawning gullet now having consumed your fridge, your stove, your pots and pans. Water gushes from severed plumbing, jetting out gallon after gallon that glitters in the morning sun before dropping silently into the void below. Your tongue is dry on your cracked lips.
Now, you seat yourself on the edge of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. You dangle your feet into darkness. You can just barely make out the tips of your toes; everything beyond them falls away from view. You note the set of small, frantic claw scratches that are trenched into the floor along the edge. She's fine, you tell yourself. There's no bottom, after all.
A knock at the door, and your attention returns in a snap. Your muscles and joints are sore. How many hours have you been sitting there for? When did the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor swallow your dinner table? Just as well, you hadn't needed it recently anyway.
There's that knock again. You wait for it to go away. The ground before your door crumbles, and you watch as the doormat slides helplessly into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor.
You hear the rattle of a key entering the lock, and then the clack of the deadbolt. When the door swings open, your landlord is silhouetted against the hall lights outside your apartment. What is he yelling about? Why is he here, again? He should just leave. Can't he see you're busy?
The floor beneath you tremors. You lock eyes with him. He's saying something to you. He's reaching for you. Your lips move, but your words are lost to your ears. The color drains from your landlord's face, and he takes a step backward in fear. His footing slips. Arms flailing, key ring launched from his grip: From the edge of the crumbling floor, he topples headfirst into the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. His scream is cut short as he is engulfed. It's like he was never here.
You release your held breath. Lucky bastard. Maybe your cat will bother him for kibble as they fall together.
Alone again, you lie down next to the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. Your body trembles and your limbs are leaden. The ground convulses violently beneath you. Across the chasm, your living room wall has just fallen in.
You fill your chest with the warm, humid air. You extend a hand toward the ink-black brink of nothing.
Meanwhile, our couch is consumed, followed by your TV. Your coffee table tips over the edge after them.
You inch your body toward the precipice of the hole to nowhere in your kitchen floor. The rolling growl chatters your teeth. Your heart skips several beats.
Your front door collapses. Long tongues of hallway carpet dangle into the opening, soon joined by toppling chunks of drywall.
You close your eyes.
You slide yourself forward, past its jagged incisors, down, down, into its embrace, into nothing, into everything.
If there's a bottom, there's nothing left of you when you find it.
"You know how on roller coasters they always warn you to keep your arms inside the ride?"
"I'm really bad with knives."
It was practically a rite of passage in working with Sloane: The latest bushy-tailed same-faced rookie, fresh from their second successful mission, emboldened to ask what happened to her arm. Most of them received a disdainful look, a tap of ash from her cigarette, the contempt of a weathered guard dog, tormented by nipping milk teeth.
Most of them would vacate their positions as a smear of blood and viscera on someone else's wall. Some of the lucky ones had enough remains for a closed casket funeral.
The ones who survived long enough might eventually get an answer.
"Hibachi grill incident."
"Just came loose one day."
"Lost it in the divorce."
It was always bullshit, and she refused credit to those who could smell it. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. The ones who balked or apologized got reclassified: working with them was babysitting duty. The ones who laughed, though? Saw through her bluff, with a smirking *Yeah, right, good one.* Somehow, she thought, they just might make it.
"I got real hungry."
"Well, when I said my car cost an arm and a leg--"
"Dishonorably discharged."
There was something different about her newest team. Sebastian was plenty capable; she'd admit under duress that his methodical nature balanced well with her belligerence. He had experience. He'd avoided the dead-before-you-can-blink bottleneck. He was careful.
The kid, though. He was a bag of bones in an oversized cotton Hanes, an endless stream of rash decisions, a fraying snarl of insecurities and severed connections. But how could she blame him? When she was-- how old was he? Fourteen? Christ, it was like looking in a mirror.
It was the work of several miracles that she'd made it past forty.
She ground her molars to dust, the long hours meant for sleeping filled by endless visions of her team's demise. God, she'd lay down anything for their survival.
If either of them ever asked, she would have to tell them the truth. They deserved the real story.
"Arguments best heard through the wall of a neighboring apartment" | ~1,700 words
Exploring some of the tension between Kenny and his daughter Emily, aka "guess who just got yeeeeelled aaaaaaat"! This takes place a few weeks after Alice beats the shit out of him and destroys the cursed tape recorder.
Emily had slipped her glasses off at the sight of her father's apartment, massaging the bridge of her nose, tightening her lips in defeated acceptance. Her worry lines etched themselves ever deeper between her brows.
Kenneth said nothing. Her reaction was justified. The place was a disaster.
At least he'd had the forethought to hide most of the clutter away in his bedroom: gutted cassettes and tape players, patents, schematics, repair manuals. But, the scribbled impressions of other worlds still papered his walls in slapdash rows. His cabinets and doors sat in unhinged stacks on his floor. A sheet was slung over his vanity mirror. There was still blood in his carpet.
All the same, she stepped across the threshold and shut the door behind herself. She was here for a reason.
"Sorry for the mess," he tried. A wary step onto sheet ice. His voice crackled a little. "Can I, ah, can I make you some tea?"
Emily sighed, swept a lock of hair behind her ear, crossed her arms.
"It's-... Fine." She shook her head. "Yeah. Sure, thanks."
Well, it wasn't a condemnation. It was barely even a critique. He might have considered that a win if it weren't for the edge of pity in her voice, a sharp prick that might not bleed, but still itched in the back of his mind for hours.
Kenneth busied himself in the kitchen, starting the kettle and fishing the last clean mug from the depths of his door-less cupboard. This was another area of his apartment that had descended into chaos, but at least mounds of dirty dishes in the sink were a completely mundane sort of disarray.
"So, then," Emily began, brushing an invisible crumb from the cushion of his sofa and seating herself. "I'm here. What's so urgent?"
Urgent? He rolled back their last phone call in his head. Had he sounded urgent?
"Oh, no, it wasn't-... I had just heard that you were in the area."
Emily frowned.
"For a work conference," she said curtly. She folded her hands in her lap. "An hour away."
"I-... Yes," he faltered. "Yes, I know that, but..."
Emily took a long, deep breath, and Kenneth swallowed the rest of his words.
"But?" she prodded.
"W-well, listen, it's almost the holidays. And I haven't seen you since the Las Vegas trip." He hadn't seen much of anyone since then. He kept that fact to himself.
She began to speak, and instead turned her head to contemplate the sketches pinned to the wall near her: An imposing ziggurat, constructed brick by brick with lovingly rendered grandfather clocks. Next to it, a dark and serpentine hallway. Next to that, a perfectly normal bowling alley. Across from that, the artist himself, nervously fumbling open a tea bag.
She studied him. The keen eye of a critic, picking apart his performance, his affectation, his presence. He was a far cry from the tidy, even-tempered man who had raised her. To her, he still had yet to earn back the role of Kenneth Song.
"Since the Las Vegas trip," Emily echoed. "Yeah." If she still thought about what she had seen there, she never mentioned it to anyone.
Then, after another breath, "That's all? You just wanted to say 'hi'?"
"No, not-... I mean, not necessarily—"
"Then what am I here for?"
"It's... Nice to see you occasionally. Is that so wrong?"
The room grew achingly silent, underscored by thudding upstairs-neighbor footfalls and the occasional jangle of keys in the hallway. A dog barked. A door slammed. From somewhere in the bowels of the apartment complex, a one-man shower opera reverberated through the plumbing. But here, in Kenneth's apartment, the world stood still.
Finally, a chipper little jingle from the kettle pierced the stillness as it signaled its job well done. Kenneth filled Emily's mug and set it on the coffee table. She sighed a small "Thanks," though the drink remained untouched.
There was room for him beside her on the couch. Even so, he pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite her.
She furrowed her brow, smoothing out a wrinkle from her shirt sleeve. "Okay, I'll bite. What happened?" A snake striking from the grass.
Kenneth choked and stared back at her. "I-... E-excuse me? What do you mean?"
She gestured toward the brightly colored cast that encased his wrist.
"To your arm. What happened?"
"My-... Oh." A tiny sigh of relief as the focus of her interrogation narrowed. His other hand drifted over the course plaster, his palm resting over its curvature, as if to shield it. He took a breath, a futile attempt at calming his racing pulse. "It was a-... It was an accident."
Emily's gaze bored into him, hunting him for information, a tell, a flinch.
"Of course it was an accident. Who breaks their arm on purpose?" She laughed a little, though it carried a lilt of frustration. "But what happened?"
"I-... Well. It doesn't matter. It will heal." Kenneth waved the thought away, and dared to meet her eyes. Beneath her fierce expression, they were the same warm brown as his. "Now, how have things been with you? How is your fiancé? Matthew?"
"Did you fall? What happened to your cane?" Emily plowed forward. She always preferred a take-no-prisoners approach. "You didn't have it with you in Vegas, either."
"Sweetheart, please. Can we change the subject?" Futile. Bargaining with his daughter had only ever been successful once, when it was a matter of convincing a seven-year-old to eat broccoli.
"God, you do this every time. You don't want to tell me. Is that it?"
"No, no, I-... It's-..."
"Look, if you need help, you have to say so. I'm not a mind reader. When was the last time you saw a doctor?"
"I'm doing fine." Spoken through clenched molars. Why did this feel so familiar?
Emily narrowed her eyes, brushing away another lock of hair. There was an unignorable glint of silver at her temples.
"Does it have anything to do with your—" Emily began. Kenneth braced himself as she trailed off, searching for the right word. "—paranormal friends?"
It was one of the nicer ways she could have put it. He winced anyway.
"There was a.... Disagreement. I-... m-made a mistake. And I broke my wrist."
"So they were involved?" She leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"Emily, please," he begged. There was a waver in his voice. "Can't we just have a pleasant conversation? Why don't you tell me about work?"
"Talk. Or I'm leaving."
Kenneth drew a sharp breath, then sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He wouldn't look at her.
"You won't believe the full story."
"I'll be the judge of that." And jury. And executioner.
"You didn't believe me the last time I tried explaining it."
"I didn't believe you because you weren't telling the truth."
"Not telling the— Emily, honey, I have never lied to you!"
"Never?"
"I swear!"
"Then talk. You invited me here, and something is clearly wr-... Going on with you." She was standing now, with her hands on her hips. She was not a woman of stature, but she loomed over him like a thunderhead. "I need you to stop dodging my questions and tell me what's happening."
Kenneth's head spun. He was on the back foot, and she was out for blood.
"I don't know how to explain it to you."
"Tell me what's happening."
"Emily, please."
"TELL ME. WHAT'S HAPPENING."
"Alright! Fine! The truth! Nothing but the truth! Just like you want it!" He rose from his seat now, his arms thrown into the air in exasperation. "I took something I shouldn't have, and it changed— It changed everything. I ruined everything."
He swallowed, and let the room fill with silence. In that moment, every breath in the building was held.
"There are things in the world, things that are-- Oh, Emily, things I could never in a million years explain. But that song-- It was so beautiful. It was magic. Don't you understand? Magic, Emily. "
"No," said Emily, through bared teeth. "No, we've been through this."
"You've seen it. All around you. At the casino, when Charlie— A-and that entire side of the family— And when I was gone— And when I came back—"
He paced the length of the room, trembling hands running through his hair, gesturing wildly, grasping at air.
"It's right in front of you; why don't you see it? How can I make you understand?"
"Stop."
Now he was facing her. For a split second, he might have seen a flash of horror across her face.
"That song— That tape recorder— It's broken, I've been trying to fix it, maybe if I fix it--"
"Let go."
"You wanted the truth. Look at me. Magic is real. I can show you. You can learn. I can teach you— Just like your mother taught me!"
"Let. Go."
"Let go of what—" No sooner than the words left his mouth, he looked down. There was his hand: clenched in a vice grip around her forearm. There was her face, livid with fear and rage. There was his heart, pounding in his throat. He pried his grasp open and staggered backwards. His foot caught the leg of the abandoned chair, and he crashed to the floor.
He gasped. "I'm sorr—"
"Don't."
Emily rubbed her eyes in denial of the tears that had welled there, though her voice remained steady.
"I'm done. I'm not doing this again." She brushed herself off and strode toward the door.
"I don't understand— I'm sorry—" A fruitless attempt at picking himself up from the ground.
"Oh my god." Her hand was on the doorknob. "You seriously don't remember, do you?"
"I—"
"We've had this fight before."
"Emily—"
"It was the last time I talked to you before you disappeared." The door was open.
"Sweetheart, please, listen to me—"
"Bye, dad."
She latched the door behind her. It was a soft, unassuming punctuation. The next time they spoke was still too soon. At least they could agree on that.
@entropyking don't worry, i'm still planning on doing the other guy, but dogmark first!
I never really gave up on
Breaking out of this two-star town
I got the green light, I got a little fight
I'm gonna turn this thing around
(Read My Mind - The Killers)
And so, you walk. Miles since your feet began to blister, and countless miles yet to go. The severed ends of what once tied you home tangle and snarl behind you: caught in the fences you jump, the rides you hitch, snared around your ankles.
You've only been this far west once; you were ten, crammed in the back seat between your brother and the family's suitcases.
Here, your father's favorite radio station had long drowned, gasping beneath swells of static and unfamiliar mattress ads. Billboards and all the the respite they promised sailed past you, their siren's call totally lost on the captain of your family's four-door. Your jacket still carried a faint scent of home. You clutched it like a lifeline.
Here, you craned your neck until it ached, just for a glimpse out the window. Just to see the hills and bluffs you once knew, as they settled into ripples, into plains. For the first time, you could see the whole horizon. For the first time, you understood how small you were. Never again would you discount the safety of a roof and four walls, no matter who you shared them with.
No matter what it took to tear you away from them.
No matter what you lost as they crumbled behind you.
Tonight, you spend a third night beneath an overpass.
The stars might be pretty, if you could convince yourself to look. Instead, the heavy sky of concrete and steel, the thunder of traffic above. The night is warm, at least. You can rest.
But tomorrow, you will return to your feet. You will continue to walk, each step a further distance from the smoking crater you left behind. And countless miles yet to go.
