"Did you hear about the waterfront having a weird ocean now?" [Jim, technicallynightvale]
“I did hear about it.” she couldn’t deny her curiosity, and she couldn’t deny that she was curiously melancholy that the place-spirit probably wouldn’t be able to reclaim the waterfront. shame, that.
the landscapes extend in their overlapping places, flecked with their usual respective features, washed in off-kilter colors, and marred with intermittent holes, identically placed in each. the holes follow a tipsy path, and the first ones are only a few handfuls big and rather far apart. but follow the path—it is harder to tell in the desert, but from the others it is clear that some creature dug these holes. frantically, urgently clawing out the strange dirt from these many holes, holes that were larger and deeper and closer together than the last, until there are several in a row that were a foot or so around and almost as deep as a person's arm could usually reach, if the person was laying on the ground.
no dirt, no sand, no substance sits piled next to these holes.
the path of holes wander, dazed, until the point where a follower's mind might slip out of focus, and then the follower would fall into a hole much, much larger than any of the other holes. it is at least eight, ten feet wide and several feet deep, but it is frantically clawed out like the other holes, and any piles of displaced ground are nowhere to be seen.
something tall sits, looming, in the middle of this hole—a tree. a cactus. an immense and vibrant pillar. like their landscapes their colors are off-kilter, but their colors are charged, buzzing ominously.
at its base is sprawled a figure, leaned up against it. clothes are ripped and filthy, worse at the knees and elbows. hands are so covered and caked with dirt, with sand, with buzzing ooze that they could be made of the stuff. each land's earth is smeared all over the figure's mouth and cheeks.
it had gotten harder to ignore the itch to dig, to dig and bring hand to mouth and swallow, dig and hand to mouth and swallow, scrape and scrape and devour and swallow, swallow the muck and the grit and the bright, fizzing ooze that slipped through fingers. that was the hardest to get, the itch craved that bright impossible sludge the most, but it was runny near the surface, and that wouldn't do. something runny wouldn't fill, not properly. it was thicker deeper underground. it must be had.
but the deeper the figure dug, the more that was swallowed and packed and filled, the more that itch wanted, dig and dig and scrape and scrape and more and more and more.
then the figure spotted the tree, the cactus, the pillar. even from a distance the looming, buzzing beacon buzzed all the earth inside the figure and whipped the itch into a frenzy.
until there is now only a deep hole, and a figure sprawling against a tree, a cactus, a pillar.
even when lying still, all that's inside the figure groans and gurgles. there is nothing left to stretch, no place left to make hollow, nowhere left to pack in tight.
but the cactus-- no, the tree-- or the pillar? it still looms, and still buzzes, and in turn buzzes all the earth so tight inside the figure.
more.
the figure's head lolls stiffly to one side, staring blankly at the ground to the side. seams in cloth and seams in skin whine in protest.
a mouthful.
a hand claws at the ground, pulling up a little sand, or ooze. . . or no, it is dirt. from this angle it's dirt.
or is it sand? but sand doesn’t ooze like that.
more.
another scrape. another. another and another until it's an overflowing handful. it drips or crumbles, depending on the facet's angle. it fills out one cheek, but it's not a full mouth.
a full mouth is difficult to swallow, especially when full up to the top of the throat. this mouthful of sand—ooze?—takes up too much space and is hard to swallow, and that makes the pillar—or the cactus-- no, the tree—impatient. its buzzing grows to a rumble, shaking and shaking until the thin separations between landscapes begin to dissolve to merge field and desert and incomprehensible plane, and in melding the dirt and sand and ooze all must occupy the same space—the ooze fizzes and froths and devours the dirt and sand, glowing and growing and starting to seep from the figure's seams until they just can't hold and--
she startled awake with a yelp. she didn't sit up but her eyes darted around the room, though it was still dark and little to see, save the bathroom door and the edge of her desk.
wait, desk? she didn't have a desk in her room, and even if there wouldn't have been facing it anyway, she was facing Ted's back.
but no, she wasn't looking at either of those things, she was looking at a wall. but why would she be facing a wall? the wall was on the other side of her bed.
that didn't make sense either, she didn't have walls on either side of her bed.
she sat up and rubbed at her eyes and face. thank Zarquon that nothing was stuck to her face, but that relief was immediately chased away by how strange her hands felt on her skin. she held them out in front of her, and though her eyes had slightly adjusted to the dark her hands looked out of focus. she ran her hand over her face again, but flinched and pulled it away again---it felt like more than one hand was touching her.
then she looked around the room, and nothing stayed in focus. at one turn she could see her closet, but then it flickered into a plain wardrobe, then a flat wall. a desk sat where Ted should have been, but the stack of books sputtered and flickered in and out like it had bad wiring. she shook her head and rubbed her eyes and looked ahead.
there was a door at the foot of her bed.
there was no door on that wall, there should've been a window there.
there had never been a window on that wall, the only window in here was ten feet up on the wall behind her.
but how could a window be back there? these ceilings weren't that high. and there was a window on the wall next to her, wasn't there?
the walls still couldn't decide where they were, but the space at the foot of the bed was clear, so carefully she crawled out of bed there. and for a long moment she only stared at the door, or rather where a doorknob should have been. the door finally creaked open on its own accord, opening outwards as this door usually did not do.
there shouldn't have been a door here in the first place.
the door did not open into the dark or brightly lit hall as it should have, or even to the outside eight stories up as it might have. it was only vast and mostly white, save for the wash of grey in the distance.
curious, despite the impossibility, she started to walk. she could walk, there was something under her feet, but it was impossible to tell the difference between the ground and the landscape. occasionally she touched her face or her arms—it felt strange, but at least it reminded her that she felt.
the grey wash grew as she walked, and then all at once became a great wall, shiny like obsidian and swirling with dark and mercury grey smoke. she had somehow approached an interior corner of this wall, and its sheen beckoned her closer. she heeded, but each step closer brought further dread until she came close enough to see her own reflection.
but it was not her expected reflection. in that mirrored corner stood three women, two within the smoky glass, all with the same face and astonished eyes. at first glance they looked similar enough, but when she shook her head to look again they had all changed—one in jeans, one in a skirt and flannel, and one in a black dress accented with yellow. two wore uncomfortable smiles, two had dark circles under her eyes from weeks of worry. one was streaked with paint, one was covered in stitching, one was full of cracks. but looking down at herself and between her two reflections, it was impossible to tell who was who—one of them should've had green eyes, but when she peered at the dumbfounded in one side of the glass or the other the color sputtered and swirled, indeterminate, mocking.
astonished, exhausted, streaked, stitched, full of cracks—and as she brought her hands to the mirrored walls she could see that it too was full of cracks, now feathering away from where her hands rested. she pulled her hands away and staggered back, but the cracks continued, growing larger and larger until there was a great snap that shot across the whole thing.
Lucy startled awake with a yelp, and whimpering she immediately pulled the covers over her head and curled up.
[Lucy?]
she barely registered Ted's muffled voice above her, but she only curled herself tighter.
[Lucy, what happened?]
she only shook her head with a small pathetic sound.
[Was it a bad dream?]
a tiny yelp, but a slight nod. Ted buzzed with confused concern. he could hear the dream's bitter copper in the back of where his throat would be, but there was nothing he could do. he didn't even know where to begin, if this was bad enough for her to hide like this and not say anything.
at a loss of what else to do, he reached over her for her phone on the nightstand, and gingerly typed a message:
[txt •jim] hi Jim, this is Ted. sorry to wake you, but I think Lucy's had a very bad dream and I have no idea how to help her. she's buried in blankets and won't tell me anything, and if you're able I'd like your help.
Melanie puttered around with some various shapes while Finch got ready one morning. things were calm, she was at ease, and yet that unwelcome slurching sensation crawled out from the shadows.
You know, the miasma drawled, it’s astounding how ridiculous you are.
she rolled her shoulders, but did her best to ignore it.
Running around junk heaps, claiming there’s some spirit there--
“There is,” she retorted in thought.
There isn’t, it scoffed. Spirits, are you kidding? Next you’ll try and insist fairies are real.
“Who knows, they might.”
Oh please, this is rich---how are you so gullibly juvenile? You’re making all this nonsense up!
“I have pictures.”
Of graffiti.
“What about the duck?”
You found some filthy scrap and took it home.
“It was a gift.”
From a hallucination! A delusion!
“Aren’t you a delusion?”
she could practically feel its slick, smug grin. Oh dearheart, we both know it’s not that simple.
“That spirit is real.”
So then what’s its name?
“. . . He doesn’t go by one.”
Because it doesn’t have one, because it’s not real. Though if you haven’t named it, that’s one mote of sane hope for you, I suppose.
“Hey Finch?” she called.
You poor fool, he’s either going to lie or tell the truth.
Melanie couldn't believe it, it rattled strangely in her mind—stranger still when she learned it was possible to visit such a book. how could that be? to exist in a book, to visit a book, it was absurd.
but it was possible, apparently.
there was a book, and somehow Finch was there.
Finch was gone. a struggle between his body and his tree to occupy the same space had taken Finch away, and he was gone. she knew that.
but there was a book. somehow Finch was there, and it was apparently possible to visit.
could she?
they'd had time to find closure as best as they could, all things considered. was this a stray opening that needed attention?
should she?
this wasn't just her decision to make—it wouldn't do to intrude, and Finch had never been terribly keen on surprises. she should ask. ask, and be satisfied with whatever answer came back.
one could ask a book questions by writing a note; if it was someone else's book, you wrote it on something removable. she didn't want to trust her hands in the moment, so she wrote her note the night before, and carefully slipped into the library the next morning to find the shelf just as Za had told her.
It was a sunny, chilly afternoon. Nothing much was happening, Delia wasn’t working but trying to avoid all her usual haunts thanks to her stalker’s efforts at finding her, and there was nothing fun to do at home. After an hour or so of laying around, listening to music without her heart in it and wondering if anyone would be interested in coming by to make out for a while, an idea struck her.
It was one of those funny little throwaway thoughts, a ‘wouldn’t that be funny’ moment destined to be forgotten, except this one was so perfectly ridiculous that she couldn’t let it pass. With newfound energy, she reached for her phone and dialed the one person she knew would be able to help her with this silly little scheme.
“Jim? Look--no, I’m not calling about that again, I swear, I just need to know if you’ve ever assembled a Rube Goldberg machine.”
There was a lengthy pause as Jim considered, and then, “. . . yeah? Why?”
“I have something in mind and you’re the guy to help make it happen. Meet me at that tiny little coffeeshop across the street from City Hall. My treat.”
It took several hours of intense planning, scribbling on notebook paper and working things out in one of Jim’s fancy design programs on his laptop before they felt ready to begin. They split the shopping list between them--without being asked, Jim offered to acquire the pricier components, which Delia was silently grateful for--and parted ways.
Two days later, after night had fallen and City Hall had been deserted by all those who worked there, Jim and Delia met up on the front steps. Jim had his hood drawn up, and was anxiously and pointedly not glancing upward. With a sympathetic smile, Delia kissed him and whispered, “Ready to do this thing?”
With a crooked, somewhat dazed smile, Jim nodded. “Yeah. You’ll have to do most of the hard stuff, but I can tell you how.”
They worked through the night, making plenty of noise and sharing an alarming number of swears between them. It wasn’t until just before daybreak that they were finished with the work, quietly retreating across the street to grab breakfast and await the results. As they settled in, Delia whispered to the morning, “Hey Eris, you might want to pay attention to this.”
The sun rose to reveal an enormous and highly elaborate contraption built tightly around the entirety of City Hall. It reached the full height of the walls, with some pieces actually crossing parts of the roof. The purpose of this contraption was impossible to discern, but some distinctive features included a shark tank with live sharks, a hunk of swiss cheese the size of a buffalo’s head, and an actual disco ball.
It wasn’t long before the first employee showed up. They paused, took in the structure around the building which had been erected overnight, then shrugged and let themself in. The opening of the door tugged on a length of fishing line, which dropped a bocce ball down into a metal track up near the roof. It rolled along, triggering several components as it went; some of them set other balls in motion, others tripped levers or moved pieces of track.
For a little while, there was only the sound of balls rolling, and the quiet motions of small things shifting into place. Other employees began to arrive, each one of them setting another bocce ball on its quest to cause unknown but undoubtedly chaotic effects.
And then things started to come together. Balloons of all colors were released into the air. Fireworks went off, whistling and screaming into the sky before exploding dramatically in showers of sparks. Several windows were broken by bricks and bowling balls, and through one such window were released four chickens, numbered 1, 2, 4 and 6. Loud, dissonant music began to blare from a turntable which had been activated in part by ball bearings rolling through the hunk of cheese. Lasers powered on and hit the disco ball, reflecting every which way and startling passerby and neighbors. Marbles were ejected in all directions, setting off at least a dozen car alarms in the process. Glitter rained down on an unfortunate clerk who had stepped back outside to see what all the fuss was about.
On and on it went, building to extremes of ridiculousness, until at long last, a giant pendulum was released, smashing into the window of the room where City Council was known to sleep. It was greeted with startled yelps and demands to know what was going on, and as several bleary-eyed members came to look out the window, they were overcome by a wave of water as the shark tank was tipped over into the room.
Delia lost her composure entirely as the shrieks of outrage and terror reached their ears. Tears flowed from her eyes as she snorted in laughter. Jim was grinning, too, though his cheer was more subdued by his exhaustion.
“That was fun.”
“Hell yeah it was. Thanks, dude, this was the best.”
“Again sometime?”
“You know it.”
Later, after they’d parted ways, Delia sent a single text to Discordia: “I hope you enjoyed that.”
