Pseudogenesis Productions finds themselves in hot water after a mysterious guest passes out at a show.
This work contains CWs for: gore, casual ableism, and implications of emotional abuse/physical trauma.
Who’s Afraid Of A Red Starfish En Blues? by xexnoncores
October 15th, 2021
“Give me an inventory of who we’re looking at here.”
Robert yawns in response, stretching back in his hotel balcony chair. The Vegas sun hadn’t quite crawled up the horizon yet, but that wasn’t stopping his toes from curling in at 05:25AM. He leans back as he cranes his neck up towards a gilded ceiling.
“A memetics designer and an anartist tech, both human,” he replies. “There’s two anartists actually, but the second one’s probably not corporeal—they possess mannequins. Fourth’s a cat-girl whose past we can’t get a read on.”
The person on the other end of the line clears his throat. “And the troupe’s director?”
“Probably human. No idea. I’ll find out when I get to her.”
“I’m still surprised you’re working on vacation. Good on you for taking some initiative.”
Robert sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“This isn’t work, Dad, it’s just—”
Ruprecht cuts him off before he can think.
“Converting your interests into prospects, no matter how small they are, is work, Robert. Even if it’s—”
“Alright, alright, I get it,” he says about as snippily as he can be without being disrespectful with his annoyance. “Do you want the cat-girl for any of your country clubs? You told me last week you needed a ‘looker’ for one out in Berkshire.”
“I already picked out someone with a nice figure for that position. Just put her wherever we’ll get something nice for our troubles.”
“Into the machine she goes then. Bye, I need to get ready.”
The phone’s screen whites before Ruprecht can say goodbye back. Robert knows he’s going to take a puzzled look for that the next time he drops down in London, but it’s whatever. Literally whatever—he’s got to get up and motivate himself now that he’s committed to this little act of business.
“Vivienne…” he mumbles as he puts on his clothes. Some nobody who was as plain as they came in the looks department. You definitely will be good down in NOLA. Wonder how much I can hike up a placement fee for you.
Solomon… Short, and pale as hell. Probably good funneled into some PENTAGRAM thing. Not a very artistic fate, but they’ll probably pay for you to work on their projects.
He puts on his mask and stretches. The starfish squirming beneath his skin seem to be getting agitated by the dry desert air, not helped at all by the microclimate weather caused by the various bubbling hellspawn casinos littering the streets below.
Duplo… Who knows. Maybe Iris could pull you apart and make you possess batteries if you’re a ghost.
Or would that have been Skitter’s responsibility? He wasn’t much for the magic ends of business like this, but the past six months had proven to evermore that the arcane and technology were going to be inseparable future partners.
Donatsiva…
Robert’s mind wanders back to the photos of her. Blonde, blue eyes, with massive ears above her head. Usually wore white, like she was going to some kind of royal wedding. He understood the appeal of girls like that, but they weren’t for him.
There’s gotta be a maid cafe we can stick you in. They sing and dance there, don’t they?
He puts on his shoes as he runs through the names and the money involved with placing them. It’s a paltry amount, truly, but it’s something to do while he enjoys a good show and takes a break from the colorful rat races at work.
It could also be considered a warm-up. The worst part about vacations was that you always took them anticipating coming back to your desk. All the fun and relaxation in the world meant nothing if the next day you were gonna wake up with a big list of things to do.
He’s still surprised that he of all people enjoyed theater of any kind, even performances as out there as what these guys were putting on. He’s been nearly knocked out twice by their effects, (were they literally out of this world?) but the shows were such spectacular little lightnings-in-a-bottle. Each and every time he’d go, he’d leave with his chest emptied of the static that usually plagued his brain. The effect lasted at least a day.
Was that what they called joy? Joy from the arts?
It doesn’t occur to him that this could be reproduced on a wider scale, nor that there was a possibility nobody involved wanted to. He can only envision the bodies involved as small drops of paint upon a greater canvas, involved with a picture he’s not entirely painting but is piloting with more money than he knows what to do with.
“Okay. Don’t faint this time, Robert. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. It’s just a bunch of pretty lights.”
Against all this anticipatory happiness, the last time he went to a show of theirs it was a mess. An awesome mess, but he was vomiting seawater by the end of it. Strange matters like that weren’t uncommon since his accident, but when they were so in his face it made him want to pull out his liver and squash it.
This is just a bunch of magic lights by a bunch of silly amateurs. You’re not a stupid little kid anymore. Just go in and get them to sign some papers. Get the Director involved if things go south. Done.
“Done. Done.”
The word doesn’t feel real where his tongue should be, but when he looks up at himself in the bathroom mirror after rubbing his hands with lotion, his gaze catches itself on his dark red hair against this bathroom backdrop of gold.
You sent them a letter telling them to tone the lights down. You’ll be fine. They’ll listen. They have to.
“…This’ll be simple…”
I’m gonna fuck this up in some way.
It’s bad luck to work on vacation, after all—or so he thinks.
He doesn’t know if that superstition is real or something he justified out of his own laziness. His own father rarely spent his vacations completely “free” from work. He also didn’t believe in that kind of thinking, and consistently told Robert to ignore that part of himself.
But it was never going to go away.
It was never going to go away, this unending uneasiness.
He leaves the bathroom, looking at himself in a big hall-side mirror as he exits.
Red shirt, red shorts, red socks. Shoes were at the door, right-side up. He was going to change before he got there into something more comfortable, but this seemed to be okay for now.
Okay for now.
If it was all so okay, why can’t he stop feeling so blue?
✫
CUE ACTOR. SHOW: START!
Brine. Choking waves. There is sand, and it gives way to tide pools. Each of their lips pock the landscape in salt-encrusted pustules, appendages of radial symmetry squirming like crawling babes within. Their feet dissolve in the water while centrifugal mouths gnash in, and out, in, and out, in, and out.
There is no escaping this fate. No escaping the cut of a paternal knife. Each second passing is a strand of vascular tissue vomiting, throwing its stomach out to burn against the shimmering, broken sun. A coagulated eyespot is crushed by this rot under the weight of its own sin, under the rising stagnancy of algal blooms growing thick and growing far. Farther against the horizon than anyone thought possible, farther than any cell or mitochondria can comprehend.
Hello?
Sliced into two, a starfish can regenerate its limbs.
Where am I?
The same cannot be said about humans.
…Dad…? Is that you?
The astral bodies bleach, stripping arms and legs of their distinctions from one another. Pallid bubbles rise from a cavernous throat, fading hands reaching for the sky, where the sky should have been, anyway. Gravity does not work the same way underwater as it does on shallow land.
What are you doing?
Ah, will this hurt…?
…Are you sure?
An imbibing shadow wallows in the center of a hurricane. Viscous vitriol burns wet earth, pounding like an invisible heartbeat.
I feel…
I feel…
…Nothing?
N-No, this is causing me—
The invertebrates lament their lack of a nerve cord. That precursor to a vertebral rhythm, a cyclical process of calcium and cartilage. Each shuffling of seafoam cascades further than the heart expects, further than it can breathe, further than it can take.
Scatter, scatter, scatter. Bloat the senses with carrion, smother invigoration with the desensitization of a desecrated corpse. Each time the truth comes closer, it must be ripped apart under the water column until there is nothing left for gawking scientists to theorize on, lest their voyeur eyes sting worse than the vinegar ever could.
My lungs…!
Where are they…?!
I can’t…I can’t breathe…!
No way out of this, boy. Palmed hands outstretch as a pupil and nose dissolve under the heat of serrated edges. Enamel and a tongue soon follow, replaced by spiny epidermis visions quartered at perfect fifty-five degree angles.
I’m going to drown…!
I’m…falling apart…!!!
There is no one out at dusk. There is no one to witness this primordial scalding.
Where are my hands…?
What’s…this squirming in my stomach—
W-Wait—What now…?!
The moon has hidden its face because the hands which ate the stars have poisoned it.
N-No, anything but that…!
Dad, p-please, when you pour, it, it hurts—!
There is no universe left to weep anymore. No one to care.
Someone…!
Anyone…!
Where did everyone go…?!
This is going to work. It has to. Please, stop screaming, this is for your own good. I’m only trying to save your future, to give you a choice. This is what all good fathers would do.
My face—My face—!
It’s…It’s—!!!
No, NO…!!!!!
STOP! STOP!!!
ANYTHING BUT THIS! PLEASE! PLEASE!
I will not stop. If you keep moving, this whole thing is going to fall apart—!
PLEASE, DAD, STOP…!
PLEASE, HAVE MERCY ON ME…! I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS—
I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN—!
I DIDN’T ASK FOR—!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
✫
CURTAIN: CLOSE.
October 16th, 2021
“Oh my god, is he dead?!”
Duplo sighs watching everyone else panic as Donatsiva’s voice rips through the room. Rarely has the group’s panic done anything for them, both positive or negatively, but they didn’t intend to come off as cool-headed in times of crisis. That was just a happy accident.
Donatsiva covers her mouth while Solomon and Vivienne pace back and forth. The room is dark, icily so, fracturing at the seams with the attendance of anxiety, all of the lights completely and utterly broken. The stage is wide, and empty.
Vivienne whips on her heel towards the unmoving body. Its dark red hair feels like a blood stain on the floor. “H-He can’t be…! I didn’t…I didn’t…!”
Duplo thinks she shouldn’t move like that. She had chronic foot pain already.
“We need to call someone,” Solomon sputters, picking at old scabs on his skin. “He doesn’t have a pulse. And the cameras showed him screaming like crazy about his dad or something…”
“Who the fuck are we gonna call?!” Vivienne yells. “Stephanie’s in Sacramento! She’s not gonna be able to help us!”
“C-Calm down Vivienne,” Solomon replies with palms out. “We can just call an ambulance—”
“That won’t help matters!” Donatsiva cries. “Let’s take deep inhales and think harder…”
Solomon huffs. “How is that not going to help us, Donny?!”
Duplo sighs as they begin watching Donatsiva, who fruitlessly tries calming everyone down while Vivienne and Solomon bicker aimlessly, gesticulating wildly at each other. The body on the floor, meanwhile, lies totally limp, gas mask lens bulbous and eerily plastic.
“We should give them CPR,” Duplo says. Be the adult, they think. That’s what everyone else isn’t doing successfully right now.
Nobody listens. Donatsiva is still trying to get Solomon and Vivienne to pay attention to her. Solutions were always the priority in her mind, but they had to come from her mouth to be considered.
And that only makes their eyes roll from behind the dozen of bodies they’re puppeting as Solomon and Vivienne quickly escalate into an out-of-tempo rhythm of barely-held-back yells. This wasn’t unusual despite the group’s close-knittedness; in fact, they were actually getting better about their differences than from when Pseudogenesis Production first came to be. Back then, Vivienne was content to use her fists as threats, a remnant from the days of her Foundation-bound mother ignoring her every query and boundary until the pot boiled over. And Donatsiva could barely hold a conversation, much less try to lead the others in coming down from a plateau of agitation.
Stephanie considered it lucky when she and Duplo first met and got along like toy ducks in a child’s tub. Duplo knew firsthand what kinds of things she had been through, after all.
Clearly, they still had a lot of ground to cover.
With a swift motion they jump over to the body. A hand to the wrists, and chest. No pulse.
Duplo quickly presses fingers to the stranger’s neck, dragging hands over smooth skin like someone descaling a fish. This tan skin looks blue in the dimness of the room.
Still nothing…actually, no. There’s something squirming within the muscle. Sporadically throbbing like thousands of tube-feet trapped within a leather bag.
They try his calves, noting that pressing into where bone should have been springs back only spongy flesh. How deep though they couldn’t precisely tell; it was hard to gauge texture with these mannequins and their metal-jointed fingers.
His waist was also slightly elevated off the floor, though. Not by much, just a few inches, but it was enough to intrigue. And enough to pique their intent to appeal to the rest of them, because this cacophony of noise they were all putting off was becoming too much.
“Vivienne.”
Their voice echoes like responsibility.
Both her and Solomon stop. Donatsiva narrows her eyes, but only for a second until she receives a nod from Duplo.
“Come here,” they continue. “I don’t think this guy’s dead. But they’re…uh…”
“They’re what?!” Vivienne blurts. Solomon pushes her away at the height of her shrillness and runs over to investigate.
Duplo would roll their eyes if they had them, but instead, they turn the guy over a few times, searching for that oddity. Did the guy have a gun on him or something?
…No. It’s…
Something flashes at the edge of their collective visions, and they groan while standing up. It feels like a five-pointed web, rolling in on a silent air while entangling their feet in crossed slices.
“…Donny, are you feeling what I’m feeling?”
Donatsiva bounces on her toes in thought. Her eyes flicker with a light as she hums a tune to assess the energy flowing through the air. A red flashes over her, not of rage, but of the frequency of power that is screaming louder than any voice in the room.
“…Can you take what is on his waist out?” she asks with a quiet sense of urgency.
They nod, and sift through his clothes as lightly as they could. They find a hard protrusion near his tailbone—their hands hook a tip without even trying.
At that, they yank it all out. Out comes a massive five-sided pyramid made out of brilliant ruby, shining like a ruby-starred knife, followed quickly by a long, serrated strand of metal as flexible as nylon.
“What the…?” she asks, her lips parted in some kind of unknown pout. Duplo slings it around for her to see more until she shakes her head as a sign she wants to stop.
“Eh, it’s not the weirdest body modification I’ve seen.”
She shivers. “It’s still… Something from that isn’t…right…”
Duplo quickly realizes she has a point. What are those symbols along the…? Am I imagining things…?
Vivenne perks up. She doesn’t seem bothered by the baleful aura pulsating through the room. “A…tail?”
Donatsiva cocks her head. “Why is it so…robotic?”
“You’ve never seen something like this?” Duplo asks the both of them.
They shake their heads.
Solomon leans down too, having stood a healthy distance away once everything got quiet. Duplo laughs internally at his souring face as they swing the tip back and forth, noting how loosely it flops.
Definitely nerve-controlled, but not wired with real muscle, they note to themselves, whirling the tail just a tiny bit like a child playing with a toy. Only once, out of curiosity, because they gave up the opportunity for body modifications like this a long time ago. Retractable too, perhaps up to a length betrayed by its current sheathing.
Those symbols pulse again, and they shudder. Donatsiva hisses weakly as Solomon scrapes himself closer like molasses.
“Woah,” he whispers. He reaches for it, but Duplo slaps his hand away.
Ignoring his frowning, they begin running their hands up and down its length, avoiding the base such as to not appear too rude. They were looking for signs of damage, yeah, but they also wanted to know what the hell this was made of, why someone with something so odd was here of all places. These things could hide bombs, or magic weapons, and what is someone with an adjacency with that want with them?
This is being controlled with occulto-kinetic tech… they think as they watch Vivienne stare doe-eyed. That would explain the symbology. Is this demonic in origin?
God, they didn’t think this stuff actually existed outside of experimental exhibits. The last AWCY member who tried something like this ended up exploding into viscera soon after they drew the summoning circle… That kind of stuff was something Duplo felt artists should never mess with, at least if they wanted their audience to stay safe (and that should be the first priority of every anartist, at least in their mind).
A pit begins forming in their stomach, but of what kind, they can’t place. What kind of power did this guy possess to casually carry something like this around? Who did he know that could bless him with this? What did he know such that he could imprison such contradicting energy in a metal shell attached to his mortal skin of all things?
“That’s so cool…” Vivienne whispers, her vinegar mood melting like ice cream under the sun. “God, I wish I could afford something like that.”
“You know there’s a lady in the Three Portlands who can shapeshift you into something like that?” Donatsiva chirps. “I sing with her sometimes…”
Solomon traces his hands over the stranger’s broken-in-a-few-places fishnet lace.
“…What do we do?” His voice cracks just in that way Duplo knows he hates. “L-Like…they’re not dead but—they’re a mess…!”
Vivienne bends down to the body too. “Maybe take off the gas mask and splash water on their face?”
That tail twitches. Duplo doesn’t notice—they’re facing everyone else right now.
“Good idea,” Solomon replies, quickly composing himself. “Donny, get me some water. Duplo, can you undo those clips?”
Duplo hesitates for a second, and in doing so, doesn’t notice the tail twitching again, or black fingernails trembling. “Uh, sure.”
They all rise, but as they do, they hear a sharp sound, as if someone just whipped a piece of wire.
Smack!
The person on the floor jolts upright. Duplo recoils. They duck, quickly avoiding another slap, this one aiming for their face.
“Woah, watch i—!”
“Shut up.”
Coughing, the stranger turns his gaze up. Labored panting belies a closed posture with shaky arms while nails dig into skin.
Duplo watches with an intense stare as a thin strand of iridescent black dribbles out the edges of his mask. Like gasoline tainting a puddle, it stains his clothes with sticky blots, bleaching the fabric into inverted colors that flash back and forth slowly until they settle into a pallid gray. Soon he’s shivering, looking around wildly before he gags and more liquid spills out.
“Holy smokes, are you okay?” Solomon asks as Donatsiva’s pupils go wide. Duplo backs up before he can get a look at them.
“Oh he’s cute,” Vivienne whispers to herself.
Solomon sighs, ignoring her and pushing Donatsiva back again, who is staring at Vivienne like she’d just killed a man. “Care to introduce yourself, mister?”
His voice echoes with a bit of hesitation, amplified by muddying apprehension and shame. Donatsiva wordlessly tries to hug him, still staring at the person defensively.
An ontokinetic tag flashes on his wrist quickly, catching light in just the right way. Duplo sighs, shaking their head, now understanding of what’s going on.
“You a patron?” Duplo asks.
No response—he only swings his mask around to look at them. Its purple accents are hard to see in the combination of dimness and its dark gray face, but that’s all definitely custom-made. The…whole mask actually is impractical as a piece of gear, instead slickly sleek like an hourglass, most likely tailored as such and to fit extremely comfortably.
“…Do you wanna tell us who you are? Silence isn’t buying us any explanations.”
Still nothing. The visitor coughs again, covering his face with a thin, muscular arm. When Donatsiva breaks from Solomon’s stance to rush over to one of Duplo’s mannequins, he snaps his tail across her cheek.
“Ow!”
She wails like a shot fawn and stumbles. But as soon as she gets up, her entire body bristles, tail and fur on her ears fluffing up to look bigger.
In response, the visitor hunches over and starts spinning that jeweled tip like a drill. A whining drill, one capable and hungry to shred both bone and concrete.
“Woah, dude, chill the fuck out!” Solomon yells, stepping in front of everyone, particularly Vivienne, who is only following in the apprehension because everyone else is doing it. Duplo rolls silicone eyes at how fucked up her sense of safety is. “We’re only here to help!”
“Y-yeah!” she stutters eventually, as if she knows what she should be doing. “We’re only here to help…”
That scarlet jewel continues spinning, but eventually it stills. It doesn’t take long for the rest of the tail to begin moving through, darting around in spiral zig-zag patterns. Clinking against the wall, the floor, against a stray picture frame a few feet away—he even scrapes the carpet so much that it peels down to tawny baseboards.
Does this guy have any sense of respect for others’ property? Duplo thinks as they begin watching him with another mannequin they stashed in the ceiling. He should know that we don’t own this building…
Something like a tongue click echoes out of that mask, muffled through heavy elastomer.
“You have done nothing but touch me inappropriately…!” he begins, his voice soft, but poisonous with indignation and a faint, very posh British accent. “My hands, my legs, my neck! What sort of twit does that?!”
Everyone quiets as he crosses his arms and exhales. His clothes are a bit too loose for him, star earrings chunkier than what is almost fashionable considering the rest of his glam-punk clothing, halfway to gothic.
But Duplo knows the diamond studs hanging around his neck aren’t fake. He knows those chain bracelets are genuine platinum from how shiny and lacking in wear they are.
They stand two more mannequins up, and both stare with looming postures. “…You passed out,” they reply flatly. “What else were we to do?”
“You are the ones responsible for that,” he replies coldly, pointing a finger. Those nails are definitely press-ons.
They want to raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Vivienne jolts. “Wait… Were you the one who sent that…?”
Solomon finishes for her. “That..letter…?”
He tenses with a gulp as Duplo backs their bodies up and Donatsiva takes the initiative to put herself between the others and this stranger finally. Vivienne’s face drops from puzzled bewilderment to a deep, shameful red the longer she ponders.
“…O-Oh.”
The room is silent, save for her guilt.
“Th-That…”
Solomon narrows his eyes at the stranger as Vivienne runs stiff fingers across her face.
“…Th-That was you? Y-You were serious?”
Duplo takes the longest, deepest exhale they’ve taken in a good, long while.
“What, you thought I was some kind of loon?” the visitor asks, digging his hands into his pockets and swinging his head around as if he was imitating an eye roll. “Unbelievable…!”
Duplo wants to facepalm so hard, but they know they shouldn’t in front of the others.
Last week they’d all gotten some kind of handwritten letter from an unsigned person asking for the effects to be tweaked at their shows. Nobody really knew what was going on or how they were even supposed to accomplish that, because the letter was frigidly terse on details as to practically insult them, but ah, it makes sense now. It all makes sense now.
“Well, uh, you didn’t sign your name on that, so,” Solomon interjects him. He stands at nearly his height, but as soon as he approaches, the tail points in his direction, and the visitor widens his stance.
The drill noise begins again.
“And you also didn’t even tell us what was…” He pauses, considering his wording, trying not to make eye contact with where he thinks eyes are. “…What was going on with you. H-How…H-How are we supposed to know what to change when you don’t give us anything to go on?”
The stranger poises that jeweled tip above his own head. He takes a step back, away from Solomon, from everyone else, cracking his knuckles until finally, it drops.
“…You are the ones with the know-how of operations here,” he begins. “I don’t need to reveal to you anything, especially the intimate details of my private life.”
Nobody says a word at that. Duplo looks to Donatsiva for some kind of verbal back-up, and when she fails, they turn to Vivienne.
They suspect she’s having the same thought as they are—the mask. It seems to be the gravity of this situation, of where this guy’s problems lie. It wasn’t wet anymore, but…well, those straps had far too many functional locks for the whole thing to just be a fashion statement.
Duplo has the obvious, and most human reaction of all to this information. But they swiftly shove it into the back of their mind, because it was rude to ask a person like this about something like that.
“…Hey, we’re really sorry about the trouble we caused,” Vivienne begins. “We uh, we really don’t wanna hurt anyone with our shows. It’s kind of our whole…motto, yeah?”
That was more steady than they expected (and they also didn’t anticipate her speaking first). Duplo kicks themselves internally for having forgotten she worked in retail once.
“We’ll do our best to see how we can tweak the next production,” she finishes evenly. “I…I think I know what’s going on.”
Duplo eyes that tail again. It’s swiping back and forth like an agitated cat. The fact it seems to resonate every fifth movement with an invisible pitch…it reminds them of some other fringe AWCY? installations they had witnessed in the past, ones made by star worshippers who were obsessed with the concept of the fifth dimension and a so-called ‘fifth’ world. All of their work involved sculptures molded into sharp angles divisible by five, some which survived five days, but most didn’t.
Wait, so was it that, or was it demonic?
Could…you even combine those two concepts together?
The pit in their stomachs deepens.
“…Yeah,” they continue uncertainly, wondering how the hell they were going to accomplish that promise. “In the meantime, it would do you best to avoid shows that feature…”
They need to think of something to give as an example. To prove to this weirdo they, and they as in Pseudogenesis Productions, did actually know what they were doing.
…Shit, what was the show they just did again?
“…Oceanic locales, just to be safe.”
That’s completely random on their part. They’re not sure why, but this guy reminds them of a starfish.
“It’ll take us some time to dampen the ontokinetics involved with that,” Solomon chimes in. “Can you wait a week?”
That tail begins to move again, but in a curled motion behind the stranger’s back this time.
“…I can,” he says, with no hint of relief or enthusiasm. Despite everything, his voice seems to struggle to find a foothold in the open room. “That is what you should have said as soon as we started this conversation.”
Solomon growls, but Vivienne cleaves the bubbling tension before it can start up again, excitedly waving her hands. “Haha, okay! Okay! Yeah, yeah, b-before you go, uh, door’s over there—can you give us your name again, at least? I assume you’re leaving soon. We have to log this down and tell our director.”
Silence.
Pure, stalwart silence.
“A-And uh, how many shows you’ve attended? Please?” Her voice is approaching a mild shrillness.
“My name is Robert,” he says coolly and with no hesitation, as if he wanted to see her beg. “Robert Carter? I’ve attended every show you’ve put on since that one in Monte Carlo—I was surprised to see something like this there.”
Duplo stiffens, as if darts were saturating the air. Robert Carter…? they think. Where have I heard that name before…?
It sounded…like something he should know. Like something everyone should know, for some reason.
Several more of their mannequins manifest. But only those nestled into the unseen corners of this auditorium, the ones that they’re confident he can’t see.
His tail twitches towards two of them anyway.
“Oh, thank you!” Vivienne exclaims with a huge grin. “We were putting on something for Solomon’s cousin—she was unfortunately stuck as a housekeeper there for a bunch of nasty brats, without many friends to keep her company, and uh…well, I’m sure you know how places like that treat people like her…”
“It is what it is, you can’t change much about it,” Robert replies, leaning against the wall. “You need to perform more shows in places like that.”
“Too rich for our tastes,” Solomon says with a particularly hidden snarl. “One-time event thing. Sorry.”
“Hm, are you sure?”
“Um, yeah?” he says casually.
Robert pauses. “…What a shame. There’s a lot of people ‘in the know’ about this kind of stuff there—why deny them that opportunity?”
Duplo cranes their head around the group slowly. There are dots that need connecting, and fast, but nothing is going, nothing is turning. Their blank porcelain face scans for someone, any of them, to figure out what the uneasiness brewing up their multiple spines is, but nothing. Nothing.
Are they going crazy? This guy’s clothes weren’t matching what was coming out of his mouth. No, that wasn’t right—it was all too perfect, lacking in that DIY touch from head to toe that made punk what it was. Was he aware of that kind of thing or was he simply some upper-crust poser?
That wasn’t even mentioning his last name…it was a carving knife, a cartel of carcasses that swirls in their thoughts unsteadily. Somewhere before at an art show they had heard ‘Carter’ being uttered in a hushed, fearful tone…
Donatsiva, please back me up here.
They whirl a head over to her. She doesn’t. She’s still stone-jawed in anger mode.
“…Regardless,” Robert begins, as if to turn around the spotlight to drown them all, “Will your director be around in the next show? I was hoping to meet her and ask a question.”
“What kind of question?” Duplo asks, loudly. Their voice hinges on an asphalt tone.
Robert flings an even more emotionless face around to Duplo. Plastic to plastic, the lens of his mask emulate a fly on the wall. “…That’s between her and I,” he replies calmly. “But I assure you, it will be of no harm.”
“Oh, are you gonna ask her about how we can accommodate you?”
Duplo looks down to Vivienne, who is biting her fingernail with a red face.
Right. She had a weakness for goth guys. Or just any guy who wore jewelry, really. Just their fucking luck, huh? No wonder she had been useless this entire time.
“…Something else,” Robert says, shaking his head. His tail slinks itself back and forth.
“Well then spit it out here,” Duplo snips. “Do we look like we’re useless lackies to her?”
Solomon and Donatsiva swerve their heads to them, but Duplo remains stolid. Another mannequin stands on its feet, and it hides within a barely opened closet just a few yards away from Robert’s back.
“Ya Allah, you all truly have no manners,” he whispers under his breath with a volume obviously intended for only him to hear. His British accent doesn’t miss a beat.
“There are some things which can only be discussed between the heads of operations.”
“Operations?” they blurt. “You some kind of talent manager?”
Robert cocks his head, his tail lowering to the ground, but twitching erratically this time. Duplo stares intently, but they’re not sure what that’s supposed to mean. Annoyance most likely, but what if it was something more conniving?
“…No, just a simple patron with some questions,” he replies coolly, as if he knows Duplo is trying to put him on the defensive. That ruby tip taps the ground in a clinking five-time rhythm. “Must you interrogate someone you’ve inconvenienced so much already?”
Donatsiva growls. But Robert throws a glance her way and she falls back into her shell. All he does to that is push his hands into deep, baggy pockets.
Solomon is the first to break the airs. “…It’s still your faul—”
Robert interrupts him without hesitation. “Nothing is my fault here. You ignored me.”
He sputters, his voice cracking. “We…We didn’t—”
That tail raises itself and slams itself down to the floor. Straight through the nylon rug and into the wood below, whirring. It moves slowly, shredding everything in a line until it whips like it hits an invisible boundary and curves at a sharp fifty degree angle upwards.
The air crackles with the sound of bloody static. The drill intensifies, but dies down quickly, and Robert straightens his posture as if to make everyone not only saw what he just did, but the mess he made as well.
Vivienne sits entranced. Solomon backs up with wide eyes. Duplo manifests three more mannequins that snake up out of nowhere, along with two normally inactive surveillance cameras. They swing their dark lens towards Robert’s glassy ones with zero hesitation.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds, four.
Another angle drawn. More clumps of carpet go flying. As the drill spins, Robert pushes a sleeve up with cold hands. His wrist veins squirm and squash.
But before anyone can lunge or scream, he whirls around quickly, heading towards the exit. Everyone’s patience shatters as his tail flicks away arcs of uncertainty into dark snowfalls of ripped destruction, red light trails curving like long-shutter exposure.
“Phir milaiyin ge.1” he snips dryly, speaking faster and looser than he did in English, albeit his voice still struggles to rid itself of its lamb-like tone. “What an odd triage you all are. I hope you and your director will find the colleagues I’m bringing more deserving of your respect.”
“What does that mean?” Vivienne asks. “Duplo, what did he just say—”
They finally have enough and elbow her to be quiet with a new mannequin.
“Are you sure about that?” they grumble at him, glowering with as much force as collective plastic can offer. “Why come back here if we’ve been such a bother to you?”
Robert shrugs. “You’re artists. If you weren’t just a little bit out there, I’d have already been convinced I’d wasted my time here.”
“And what do you even want with us? You still haven’t answered that.”
“Do I need to? Again, my business isn’t with you. You all are admirable, but not in charge. I can tell this is a group effort, but the one making the magic happen, I haven’t seen her yet.”
Auteur theory believing jackass, Duplo thinks. He really is British, through and through.
Everyone bristles at that, and whatever was getting drawn on the floor, Robert doesn’t finish. His hand tenses, nails gritting into his palms, tail arcing upward slowly until it stands stiffly, strikingly. Like an adder waiting for the boot to leave, for the venom in its fangs is expensive.
“…Regardless, I look forward to seeing your show again. I think Miss Stephanie will find the colleagues I’m bringing with me to be to her tastes—or yours, if uh…”
He looks at Vivienne.
“…Nevermind.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
Everyone looks at each other with confuddlement. Dozens of swung and raised eyebrows exchange glances, half-shaking heads and shuffling feet, most belonging to Duplo.
Vivienne looks to the floor. “…That was…”
Solomon huffs. “He sounds like a proper douche…”
“Bad boys are kind of cool though…” Vivienne says with the guiltiest, most shameful look. Duplo wants to scream.
Donatsiva cries. “He makes my head spin on his impoliteness!”
Duplo doesn’t sound off to their bubbling uncertainties, instead watching where Robert was once standing. Red energy pulsates but dissipates quickly, invisibly staining and draining into the polyester carpet where it manifests salt.
Their mannequins still and drop (all except for one) as Vivienne and Solomon quickly attend to her. They possess two cameras outside in the hall, but it seems like Robert’s completely gone already. What the fuck?
How did you get out of here so fast?
Something smells like smoke and black abyssfire.
Duplo relinquishes the cameras as Solomon hugs Donatsiva, Vivienne tying her hair into a ponytail with a ribbon from her pocket.
That guy…whoever he was…
The sizzling of a summoning circle rings in their non-existent ears, the sound of waves and squirming podia collapsing in their mind.
He needs not to come back.
October 19th, 2021
“Vivienne, he’s not going to date you.”
“Hey! I’m over him, thank you!”
Duplo shakes multiple heads as they string up a set of black wires. God, how unlucky it was Vivienne caught wind of Robert after her seventh failed Tinder match this month. They kept telling her to just go find a nice teacher from the Three Portlands, but oh well.
Stephanie performs breathing exercises as several orbs glow beneath her proxy’s feet. They hiss and sputter with black fractals, their glass faces reflecting all over mirrors scattered in front of the stage.
“Thirty minutes to show,” she calls out. Despite using someone else’s body (it was always consensual and a paid arrangement beforehand), she still sounds the same. Duplo tightens the last plug and salutes to Solomon.
He and Vivienne nod. Donatsiva crawls out of a corner and yawns, watching Duplo climb down a ladder to approach her with a thumbs up.
“You manage to get that remix incorporated, Donny?” they ask.
“Sure as ever,” she replies sleepily.
“Awesome,” Duplo replies, hi-fiving her before approaching Stephanie. “Proud of you.” As soon as they slip out of her earshot, their voice dips into a seriousness on par with the blackness blanketing them all in this empty studio.
“Stephanie, you have a moment?”
“Yes, I do.” The shadowy shell hovering over her puppet’s form pulses like a wave rippling in time to a metronome. This proxy is powered by a similar technique to Duplo’s body duplicity.
Spilling breath catches in their throat. “D-Did you ever manage to look into that name I gave you? It was really important.”
“Ah. No, I did not. I have been terribly busy. Can you get the ticket book and repeat it for me?”
Nodding, Duplo pulls a roll of rainbow paper from a compartment on their leg and hands it to her. “I need to know if the name Robert Carter rings any bells for you.”
“Robert Carter? Hm…”
“I’ve heard it somewhere before,” they mumble while silicon joints shake. “A name like that…it’s…it’s…”
Vivienne and Solomon banter jovially to Donatsiva a ways away, all sharing a bunch of energy bars and lime sodas from a setup well done. Their smiles are as warm as sunflowers and rock candy.
“…Carter…” Stephanie murmurs. “Carter, Carter, Car—”
Her hands freeze on a red ticket, that name shining with red edges. Behind it, a blue ticket and a yellow ticket shine with the same disdain, the words ‘Iris Darke’ and ‘Chrysophilius Marshall’ glittering openly.
Her voice plunges into a despondent apprehensiveness. “…Oh no.”
Duplo twitches. “What? What? You know who he is?
“Keep your voice down.”
The both of them cast glances back to the other three, carefree and now sharing a bag of chips as Donatsiva sings a song that plucks golden notes from the air. Solomon and Vivienne laugh, beaming wide, filming her with their phones.
“Huh? What’s going on?” Duplo tries their best not to make too much noise with their plastic hands. “God, he only visited the theater once—tell me he’s not going to be even worse news if he comes back—”
Stephanie puts a hand on their shoulder to pull them in and points to the last names on each of the tickets.
“It’s not about him by his lonesome, Duplo.”
They shudder, the coldness of her skin icy, polar almost.
“He would be no issue like that—it’s the coworkers he’s brought with him.”
Fuck, he did say he was bringing people with him… they think. Why didn’t I stop him?
Stephanie continues without dropping a beat. “These three…I’m going to guess that they belong to that loathsome entity known as Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd.”
“Ltd.?” Duplo cocks their head. “As in…like, a corporation?”
She nods. “Yes. A corporation which sustains itself by…”
Stephanie bites her lip as Duplo’s jaw drops to the floor by her feet. Almost literally, too. They try not to reveal too deeply the embarrassment flooding over them of their suspicions being confirmed, of the duality of Robert’s rather modest clothes paired with his richer-than-acrylic attitude and noxious disregard for others.
“That poser,” they spit, before returning to Stephanie. You looked like shit in that tank top and earrings anyway, bitch. “What can we do? Can we knock them out in some way as a kind of ‘fuck you’? To make him and his corpo friends leave.”
You deserved every second of misery you endured, jackass.
But they catch themselves once that thought finishes and wonders if that’s true. Maybe the guy was…all of that, and belonged to…something worse, but did thinking that make them worse than AWCY? and their fatal fire-shows? Their callous art which refused to differentiate between participant and bystander, often spraying them both with corrosive paint?
Would using Pseudogenesis in some way against someone like that be equivalent to…?
She shakes her head. “I’d rather not risk anything.”
“But Robert was unharmed—”
Yeah, he was unharmed, Duplo tells themself. They try not to think about how much Vivienne cried once he left, having briefly thought for a moment she had actually killed someone.
Still, they don’t know what to make of her rapidly shifting moods. It hurt them in a way that asserted the uncertainties of their friendship; Duplo didn’t want to be the one who knew more than the others, but that was the crown they had been saddled with. It was the crown they had been gifted with, just their luck.
So what were they supposed to do when it slipped?
It was just an accident… Just an accident…
“It’s not about whether or not they would be unharmed,” Stephanie corrects him, pulling her tone back when she realizes the intensity of her words. “It’s about keeping ourselves out of the eyes of the shadow not with them.”
Pointing to the blue ticket again, she sighs, swallowing, while Duplo tenses. Their joints lock and scrape against each other as they watch her as they convince themselves they’re supposed to do.
“I’m going to assume this is the lesser Darke,” Stephanie begins, “and not the Percival I’ve heard so much about, thank god. But nonetheless—if we even so much as scratch her filthy heir’s face, not even the entirety of the G.O.C’s hell-gates will be able to save us. Did you know they hate her so much that all of their files on her are highlighted in red?”
Silence. The air ebbs in its flow, dipping from comprehension to overlush closeness, nothing registering in Duplo’s mind except pure, unadulterated shock.
“Hey, Stephanie?”
“Yes?”
Duplo watches where her eyes should be intently. They pause before continuing.
“Forgive me for asking this—but how do you know all of that? Did you just, like, quote Global Occult Coalition intel to me? You?”
You’re crazy. But you’re a crazy person I’m glad is on my side.
She snickers treacly, turning her head and smirking.
“Haha, I did. Silly me. I meant to tell you all about those escapades of mine sooner—but I suppose later is better than never.”
A second shock hits Duplo like a meteor. “There is no fucking way. No fucking way—”
“Duplo, you act like others don’t do that kind of tomfoolery all the time.”
“Yeah, except those people are crazy! The people I spy on are a bunch of people with paint that makes your eyes change color! The G.O.C have like—computers powerful enough to blow up the moon if they wanted to!”
“So they do. Several actually—I heard we have four instead of just one, but the average person can’t see most of them.”
They chuff at her nonchalance. “You’re supposed to be an average person, Stephanie!”
“Is anyone in theater really average, Duplo?”
They shake their head, swirling their head around on its joint. “Cut the crap, please…! Please!”
Their voice is begging more than they’d like. But they can’t help it now.
“I…I…Just, cut it out, please. Be a normal person for me again. When did you stop being our production manager? When did you know all of this? How?”
Their voice echoes like lightning. Like clasped hands over sweaty metal, clinging and trembling.
With a longing quiet, Stephanie does nothing but smile flatly, crossing her arms while looking back to Donatsiva and Vivienne.
“…It’s a long story I must save for later, after this show. I’ve always been your production manager by the way, and I will forever continue to do so as long as I am allowed, but—”
She begins tapping her foot quietly.
“…With those two, I have found myself drawn to dire measures. Not out of a desire to advance in politics, but out of a necessity to protect them from the brutalist human supremacists, fascistic anartists and senseless gatekeepers who would seek to either exploit them or have them destroyed and locked up. That goal has led me down many a rabbit hole, and thus, many a know-how about the who’s who and what’s what. Sometimes that means I learn about people with guns, with bombs, and with guns that can become bombs.”
Donatsiva stands up and Duplo swerves their face to her, watching her carefree attitude infect Solomon and Vivienne utterly. They wish they could be so blissfully ignorant. It’s hard to keep their bodies all connected to each other now.
“…Do you really think they can hurt us that badly?”
Stephanie nods. “If we gave in and fell into their snares, yes.”
“Do you think—”
“Duplo, whatever you’re thinking they can do, double that, triple it, and then add an exponent. Two if you’d like. If they got their hands on you, I doubt you’d be working as an artist for them—there’s a good chance they’d dismantle you for someone more loyal and entertaining to play with.”
“D-Dismantle me…?!”
She nods. Donatsiva swerves her gaze over with wide, cat-like pupils, her singular expression encompassing the smothering fear and trepidation tarring Duplo’s back and legs.
“Yes, dismantle you, until you can no longer possess anything else. Piece by piece, joint by joint, until you’d be nothing but a lifeless aggregate for others to ooo and ah at.”
Is she telling the truth?
…No. Stop doubting her, dumbass. She loves you. She loves you.
They don’t know why they’re giving into this now. Why this won’t leave their mind, won’t leave their soul. Perhaps it’s the flurry of thoughts pelting them like a plague, like a hurricane’s winds seizing and blowing them away. Perhaps it’s the sheer overwhelming amount of information assaulting their senses, their sense of safety which has now been totally and thoroughly violated.
Somehow, they still struggle to reconcile the mundanity of Robert’s image with her words. He looked like any kid who grew in the Three Portlands—liked dressing in black, spoke multiple languages, involved with the occult in some way—fuck, he even had the red hair a lot of the sidhes had. It was darker, but it was still there.
Vivienne…
God, she was going to be crushed. They try not to vomit thinking of how she was looking up information about him yesterday.
“…I-I see. Should I tell the others th-then—”
Stephanie holds a hand up. “No. I need to investigate whether or not Marshall, Carter, and Dark are aware of what we can really do. Don’t tell the others until I know that. I can’t predict how they will react to the news, if they may cause trouble because of it, and we cannot afford any slip-ups with these people.”
Her face darkens in a way Duplo has seen only when she mentions her daughter.
“…Alright,” they reply, standing up straight. “I assume you have a plan then? That aligns with a way to keep us all safe…?”
“Do you trust me, Duplo?”
They stare into where her eyes would be. She had never seen their real body, but they had seen hers—once. Nobody had bluer eyes than her, eyes which matched the dark of a theater curtain, of a draped night dancing across the horizon.
“…I am scared of these people more than I trust you, ma’am. I am sorry to say it, but it is true.”
Their mind wanders back to Robert’s tail. A sliver of fear pricks them over the idea that he could summon demons on command because of that. Or maybe set someone on fire.
That drill could probably kill someone, too.
“…That’s fine,” she replies, with a heavy, breaking sigh, full of a miasmic echo. “Just stand back and watch me work, then.”
Duplo knows there is nothing permanent meant by the gesture, but it still hurts them deep down. They should have been stronger, no, they need to be stronger…
Both of them catch Donatsiva staring at them. Her wide cyan eyes are belying ears bent down to the lowest they can go.
“Shit, she knows we’re—”
“It’s fine, Duplo. Donny!”
She waves jovially at her. “Donny! Don’t worry about us! We’re just worried about the show, that’s all!”
They both know she’s okay with white lies now. It was part of life, part of prepping for the time when the real truth needed to be heard. Her ears perk and she smiles, sliding back behind the curtain she was holding to join back in with Solomon and Vivienne.
Stephanie huffs, and puts her arms out. “It’ll all be fine, Duplo. It will be fine.”
A deep breath. Their mannequins crawl slowly out of the woodwork to watch her steel herself.
“…It will be fine, because we will give these heathens a show worth more than all of the money they could ever possibly hope to burn.”
Deer College Odyssey
The Buck Stops Here
| THREE PORTLANDS | OCTOBER 23RD, 2021 |
SPECIAL EDITION
PLAYED BY PLAYWRIGHTS: MARSHALL, CARTER, AND DARK HUMILIATED
By Bailey “Baller-Joint” Chu
Hey, you know things that go thump in the night? Monsters under your bed your parents tell you aren’t real, scary strangers that apparently exist everywhere? Well, they were right to an extent, in the same vein that tinfoil hat crazies were, because whether we like it or not, there’s always been a few players controlling the world stage, controlling the flow of magical goods, paratech, mercenary business, and the like.
Anyone worth their salt in the Three Portlands knows the name Marshall, Carter, and Dark. They practically run half of this place through shell corps and fancy condos bought exclusively to host parties nobody’s ever been able to get into, and that’s not even mentioning Deer College’s favorite summer vacation spot: Little Havana. Who doesn’t love a week at the Royal Palm?
But knowing the name has never been enough for any of us. It’s never been enough for the tattoo parlors they employ as fronts for demonarcotics trafficking, never enough for their bio-paratech startups that commit more human rights violations than Guantanamo Bay on a bad day. Never enough for the ghosts they’re turning into living jewelry, never enough for the poor factory workers they exploit on a daily basis.
The Three Portlands, whether we like to admit it or not, has been changing over the past decade into something unrecognizable. While the suits go about their business, faceless with their black sunglasses and nameless if caught, we’ve been losing the anarchy and pizzazz that truly made this place special, made it a haven for the weirdos and the fuckups who can’t live anywhere else. Our disco cafes are closing down in favor of android stores, the schools are unable to keep track of their funding, and the magic flux storms that keep throwing out everyone’s power won’t stop because of the cantrip pollution definitely caused by the factories they’ve erected on the outskirts of town.
None of that is mentioning their total ruination of our local anart scene. Marshall, Carter and Dark’s involvement in Little Havana have brought many of their upper crust clientele into our backyards, and those clientele want to play with the latest, shiniest technology. They’re funding androids built for walking, talking, and fucking, built either in the style of cutesy anime girls or dogs with six legs that can do backflips on command for spoiled babies who pay other people to do their grocery shopping for them.
Because of the Three Portlands’ free port status, it means that any company that wants to come here and experiment without a normalcy org breathing down their throats is given absolute free reign to. This has led to a gaggle of startups flooding their way into the Prometheus Plaza, followed by a plethora of car-loving rich kids from places like NYC, LA, London, Karachi, Hong Kong—which has driven the local taxi companies out of business and the regular folk like us who already lived here having to buy actual cars or rely on overpriced rideshare services. How the hell did Uber get their foot in the door here? Who the fuck invited them, huh?
These moves, combined with the newly built Androidmeda District, zoned entirely for business and with no housing units whatsoever, has created a diaspora of anartists who are on the brink of homelessness, or are wandering these parabolic streets like shells of their once vibrant selves. Rising rent prices in conjunction with relaxing rent control laws like we’ve enjoyed for so long are eroding us, eroding our colorful streets once alive with moving graffiti, with holograms that could change how long your hair was, with Sidhe cantrips that summoned a pot of clovers on your windowsill every Spring Equinox.
How is one supposed raise a kid here now? Faux post-industrialism will be the death of us all.
So imagine my surprise when I got to meet the gentrifying namesakes in person at a Pseudogenesis Productions joint! Not just one, but all three! Iris Darke, Chrysophilius “Skitter” Marshall, and Robert Carter are the culprits here, and they were definitely not the geezers I expected, I’ll tell you that much!
It sounds crazy, but it’s true. Watching a bunch of diamond-studded billionaires standing amidst a lobby of Deer College students was a sight for the ages. The great Stephanie Pseudo (thank you for the contributions to our learning cervidae family!) loomed over them like a crocodile with a zebra corpse, her eyes boring into them in a way which I can only describe as spine-chillingly adversarial.
If any of you guys are curious about what these mystery executives look like, the good news is you won’t miss them if you run into them. The Darke is nauseatingly tall and paler than a wet sheet of paper, the Marshall a gaudy bobcut blonde brat with his ill-fitting suit (you spent how much money on that sir?) and the Carter is the worst offender of them all. With his ugly gasmask and evil-looking tail, he comes off as garishly trite. What do all of these guys need these weird getups for anyway? Is it for intimidation purposes? To make the rest of us feel like we’re inhuman? To rub in our faces the powers they exploit with their callous iron fists?
Whatever the answer to that, none of it worked. They were in her territory, after all—I knew nothing would save them as soon as they approached Stephanie. They had walked right into a production meant for the good of us common folk, to relieve each of us from the miserable secrets we carry around like lead weights. After all, we usually feel shame following acts of atrocities against our fellow man. We usually find a deep knife in our hearts upon lying, stealing, killing and exploiting someone else, even if it feels good at the moment.
The confrontation went about as well as you’d expect for them. Stephanie called them out, blaring a white spotlight out against the normally pitch-black theater. Instantly we all knew they weren’t there to enjoy the show; I’m not sure if that was Stephanie’s magic again or simply the diamonds on their sleeves, but whatever the reason, an argument quickly ensued.
To my surprise, it was not the Darke who spoke the most, but the Carter, with his Fifthist memorabilia earrings that were as tacky as they were disorienting. His voice was soft in the disgusting way congealed milk is, like a knight in shining armor waiting to attack you. How a freak like that manages such a prestigious position is anyone’s guess. How much of Marshall, Carter, and Dark is mired in nepotism? Perhaps that’s the subject for my next investigation.
He and Stephanie argued as the other members of Pseudogenesis Productions booed him from various directions in the theater. Their voices ebbed like water, waves falling up and down against a seashore that had never seen opposition before, and oh man could you tell! Mr. Carter had a mechanical tail unfurled for the entire show, and the longer he and Stephanie swapped words, the crazier its swiping became. It twitched like a motherfucker, scraping back and forth and back and forth like it had a mouth crazed for blood. I thought it was gonna kill someone by the end, honestly!
It was a total landslide victory. Pseudogenesis Productions’ famously affective hermeneutics didn’t seem to affect the trio, but it didn’t really matter in the end. They were completely and utterly powerless to do anything after the audience and Stephanie made it clear they were not welcome, which I imagine came from the fact they weren’t actually in a real space. Everyone knows that these shows are just souped-up illusions, hyper-advanced tricks of the mind. Magic doesn’t work in a cognitive space if the showrunner doesn’t believe it can, which seems to lend some credibility to AWCY’s Auteur Control Theory, the idea that perception abnormalities are most connected to the one perpetuating and evolving them. Take that with a grain of salt though memetic science students! I promise I’m not stepping out of my lane here. Just an observation!
Funnily enough, I don’t remember the rest of what happened. I emailed Stephanie requesting transcripts of the show to include in this article, but she hasn’t replied back. It makes me wonder just a little bit if I was crazy, if it was all a trick of my mind. Did everything I just describe really transpire? Did I actually see those cloaked in shadow finally reveal themselves? Or is all of this some kind of secret stored deep within my brain…? A secret not to be touched until the right time…?
Whatever the answer, Pseudogenesis Productions’ next show is titled The Best Day of Our Lives and will take place on November 13th in Jackson, Mississippi. Don’t forget to purchase tickets if you’ll be in the area folks, I know this one’s gonna be a blast!
That’s all for now folks! Until next time when your beloved Bailey “Baller-Joint” Chu catches another hot scoop!
Duplo
Glad you enjoyed the show Bailey. You’ve been to every one of our productions so far, right?
hehe, yeah. thanks for inviting me as always
Are you actually going to publish that article about it you sent me or
dunno. it’s a first draft and I wrote it while sleep-deprived, high and on 800mg of caffeine so it’s pretty bad all things considered.
if so its not gonna be as corny
God who writes a news piece without checking to see if it’s of interest to your publication first
me? sometimes i write articles just to write. deer college be damned
Why are you so crazy
my best one yet was one I just submitted to my editor and was like “see if the school will allow you to publish this”
I hope everyone with the paper isn’t as unprofessional as you
cant be any fucking worse than the show i had to sit through. Jesus Christ
Yeah. Solomon had to vomit afterwards from the ordeal
You’re not *actually* going to publish that, right
With their names in it and everything?
idk
Don’t
what
Just don’t
Don’t even consider it
These guys aren’t a bunch of pushovers
oh boohoo they’re a bunch of rich snobs with magic toys. they can’t be worse than say, Elon Musk or whatever (rip bozo). gentrification isn’t going to explode my face yk
Didn’t all the computers at Deer College suffer some kind of leak yesterday? A data breach?
Tell me your article wasn’t stored on the school’s network
you are being insanely paranoid over a bunch of people who got their asses handed to them in a theater of all places
especially ones who don’t even appreciate the arts
You are not taking this seriously enough, Bailey, holy shit
are they even capable of feeling anything? capable of being moved?
What
no but seriously, do you think people like that be moved by art in any way
you know, corpo billionaire types
people who only ever see others as dispensable, invisible, or subordinate to them
who have more cars than the population of texas
Stop being philosophical while there’s literally a risk that piece of junk is out there where they can see it
lol
just admit you’re not winning this argument 😝
Anger is a response to art too, you know
Bad art especially, because of its trashiness, trashiness which is the result full of the artist’s fleeting, initial, flawed impressions upon it
And that crudeness will always get a rise of people
you’re calling what I wrote about your production art
What else would it be. News is an artform, if a utilitarian one
touché
There’s an art form to stuff like leaked sex tapes and private Twitter accounts where the full, unhinged range of someone’s life is on display
Completely devoid of any kind of polish or second guesses which might go into an actually finished product
yawn. i have DnD in an hour I hope you know
I am 100% serious here Bailey
It’s likely the breach put your ugly first draft in someone’s hands already
And if they find it
Who knows what that could bring
Do you not get what these people’s wrath is capable of
yeah duh people like them stiff me on tips and throw tantrums when someone scratches their yachts or whatever
I already met one of them personally and talking to him felt like swallowing nails
Find somewhere safe, seriously
Tell the headmaster or something
ill be fine, promise
i genuinely, seriously doubt any of those twats can do anything to me
God
doesn’t 3ports have some kind of law or whatever that says you can’t sue students anyway
if they can’t do that, what are they gonna do? kidnap me? kill me? please
From: rupcarter@mcd_intmail.mcd
To: robcarter@mcd_intmail.mcd
Subject: Your Accident
Robert,
You are a disgrace. An embarrassment to this company. To the entire Carter heritage and all of the blood, sweat, and tears we have given for you to occupy the position you do today. I cannot believe you are supposed to be my nephew, let alone my heir.
A bunch of thespians? You let a bunch of mud-bourne thespian sods humiliate you in some kind of—what even was that nonsense article about?! It was the most loathsome piece of ‘journalism’ I’ve ever read in my life—disgusting, lowbrow, tasteless nonsense! Fit for the tabloids, not something with our names in it!
All of this happened with Iris in tow too—did you gimp her somehow as well?! Why did she not do anything in response to their recalcitrance?!?! Did your psychotic stupidity, your nonsense blues or whatever you keep taking all those pills for—did you stain her with it too this time?!
We look like a bunch of fools, Robert. A bunch of bloody fools, whipped by prissy art types who don’t know a damn thing about anything. Why are you trying to encroach upon that sphere? If you were interested in an arts-based venture, you should have asked Chrysophilius or Amos—anyone involved with the Marshall team—what the options were and how to approach it.
But no. No! The first time you think for yourself, the first time you actually try something outside of the comfort zone you always insist you stay in—look what happens! Look what happens when you don’t listen to me, when you insist you know everything! Look who gets hurt whenever you decide you’re smarter than everyone else, smarter than those of us who have been working here for longer than you’ve been alive!
I want this shut down and taken care of. Now. Drop everything you are doing and take care of this little insect and their disgusting publication before it gets out to more than just a bunch of idiotic Deer College students.
If you don’t, there will be consequences. You will not like what I have in mind if you fail again, boy.
Ruprecht
October 25th, 2021
Robert runs gloved hands underneath a rushing faucet, black grease draining as a cut liver does. The knife rolling in his palms feels like a second skin, hard plastic handle stoic like rocks in an atoll.
His breath is still, his nerves pulsating. Dull machinations of frustration beat against what he can only describe as the endoskeleton he calls his body, but even those quickly begin pumping as he turns to his objective, a pair of veiled men in black suits holding up a black body bag.
“Open it,” he demands, and they comply. Out pops a face paling in the rust and dank of dirty walls and a filthy iron floor. Bailey tries to scream through the black tape wrapped around their jaw, but they fail. Miserably.
“Why so frightened?” Robert asks, chuckling as if a battered lark was trapped beneath his mask. The image of their face gawking at him as he verbally battled with Stephanie has been hooked into his heart since the confrontation, wide brown eyes ogling him in what must have obviously been voyueristic disgust.
Those words written about him…those ugly letters that twisted and distorted what he already felt was shattered and broken…
“Oh, don’t scream now… There will be no one to listen. But it’s not like anyone needs to listen to you, anyway.”
Bailey thrashes violently. Robert takes his knife and presses it against their forehead. Careful to cut only skin deep, he drags it down the very symmetry of their face, careful not to prick the tape.
When their blood beads, the tightness in his chest releases. That image of them and every other cretin in the theater falls to pieces as he watches them struggle, twitching like a rat that knows of its imminent dissection.
And the scolding of his father fades as soon as he laughs, as soon as they try to lunge as their final stand. Both of the men raise fists to break their jaw before they even so much as come close to sullying Robert’s starched and dry-cleaned suit, which will need another round once he’s done here.
“Worm. Worthless fly. Unreared bitch. Gadha.2 Harami.3”
Robert wonders to himself whether or not he should use English with them. Ruprecht seemed to know when he was cursing, even when he didn’t understand the words.
His fists shake.
“…This is for making a fool out of me,” he whispers, and his tail’s drill begins spinning.
“This is for thinking you could get away with making me look like a fool in front of the only people that matter in this world.”
Bailey wails with an echoing cry, and Robert’s tail lunges into their eye socket.
“This is for your putrid little pleasures that rended apart all the good things in my life.”
Cracking bone sprays as their eyeball pops, vitreous fluid exploding like a gushing fountain. He does not hesitate in taking a brick by their feet to smash their skull in, does not hesitate in letting his tail take on a desire of its own as the lips and face he does not have want to. Squelching tendons burst as vertebrate splinter, splitting and gushing bulbous payloads of viscera and bodily fluids.
Another lash. Red-hot spirals of sensation splash down his face as that whirling corundum bit continues, spraying oozing, fetid chunks of skin all over.
It’s a wild, beautiful thing. So full of muscle and power, an extension of spinal exertion. Every flex is a snapping tension, every movement a tendon releasing and mashed.
Robert lets himself breathe when it is all over. When their head is little except sinewed confetti, their chest a pile of ground meat.
His chest’s burning is soothed. For real this time, it has to be. The scent of fear is salty, and salt water is the best flame retardant—it not only douses the flames, but steals the life to feed it that could grow from fertile soil.
His tail flicks off the mess as his men zip up the body bag again and begin drawing a pentagram behind them all in. A hazy glow slowly envelops the three bodies, and before it reaches its peak, they look to Robert with wide eyes behind their jet veils.
Robert stares back. Their eyes will be gone soon, just like his have been since…
“…Your families will have their debt wiped for your service and sacrifice today,” he says, hoping to lead them both to a sense of calm. “And, for your coolness, your unflinching obedience without a single line of questioning to me, a small sum will be deposited into their accounts.”
They nod as the light crescendos and a five-pointed mouth with twenty-five tongues and fifty threats bursts from behind to devour them all in a single bite.
Robert adjusts his tie as that salivating orifice swallows, licking its lips. It’s gone as soon as it came.
Everything is quiet now.
He finds himself breathing again, tail bobbing around. Smoke congeals and dissipates, weaving itself into every nook, cranny and crevice it can find.
Nothing of value was lost, despite his reaction. Not just his, but Ruprecht’s too. Chrysophilius already tracked down the pictures Bailey took and corrupted them beyond all recognition. Iris took care of making sure their family would never remember they existed.
No money was lost, no profit soiled. This was merely a waste of time, a low-risk one at that, so why can’t he calm down?
Why does the frustration stay so long? Why does it fill his body up with rocks and then dull his thinking and movements afterwards?
In, and out, in, and out. Robert imagines he’s a starfish for a moment, pumping water through its body in that path of least resistance demanded by physics. He doesn’t question why the image brings him calm anymore, because he has no time for that. He shouldn’t have to care or question himself.
As soon as he’s about to leave, his phone rings.
“Hey Dad.”
“Hello Robert,” Ruprecht says on the other line. “You finished dealing with that little whelp yet?”
“I have, yes,” Robert replies. “Their soul was just reclaimed by Hell.”
“Any value to it in particular?”
“No, unfortunately. But I know Bephelgor and Eisheth Zenunim always appreciate when we send down Deer College students.”
Ruprecht clears his throat. “I keep telling Percy we should try and infiltrate the school more often because of that—but ugh, you know how old-fashioned she can be.”
Robert pauses for a moment before replying. He’s not sure whether to agree or disagree.
“…I suppose. Though it could be considered a waste to give them merely as gifts.”
Ruprecht’s voice rises just a bit, but in something akin to confidence more than rebukement. “Look now, I won’t criticize your opinion, but such a thing is just not right. They’re nothing but layabouts and middle-class trust-fund delinquents—I’ve seen them before and I know Deer College inside and out. They’re worth nothing more than that, I assure you.”
What you know is of two visits you made twenty years ago, Robert wants to say, but he doesn’t. His tail wallows on the floor, sliding back and forth.
“Of course,” is what actually comes out, and Robert can hear Ruprecht smiling.
“Wonderful. I’m glad you understand. Oh, that reminds me—”
Please hang up already, Robert thinks.
“You know I hate getting upset at you Robbie, as much as it needs to be done sometimes, so I ordered a couple of things for you. They should be at your Salzburg mansion by now, if those lazy Amazon delivery drivers didn’t fall asleep at the wheel again.”
It almost makes Robert laugh. Many found Ruprecht’s temper funny, and he wanted in on that action too. He wanted to follow along whenever Iris snickered at him berating his amateur waitstaff, wanted to copy Chrysophilius whenever he cracked a joke at how Ruprecht was always a boiling teapot.
Everyone made it look so easy being amicable with his father—what was wrong with him for finding it just the smallest bit intolerable? Was he not seeing a shade of him he was supposed to, a missed line in the play of his life Robert was forcefully made a part of?
His father wasn’t always right, but he still was his father… He was the one who chose to adopt him when Robert’s real father passed away.
“Thank you,” is all he can say to that. “I will open them as soon as I find the time.”
“Love you!”
Fathers don’t normally do that. Chrysophilius’s didn’t. You should consider yourself lucky, he said to Robert once. I wish mine cared about me like that.
“Love you too. Bye.”
He hangs up without another word and liquid begins to pool in his mask.
A facsimile of tears, because he has no eyes anymore. Where his face should have been instead lies a massive hole, glistening with a wet, iridescent sheen like the surface of oil on a deep, black puddle. It stretched long and deep all around his skull, sinking his cheeks in, dressing him up like a cavern.
He was told so many times he was lucky he still had anything there at all.
I did it for your own good, Robert. Just because it didn’t work doesn’t mean you can blame me.
Haha, Ruprecht genuinely sounded…he genuinely sounded…
A tail tap on the ground. There’s no time to think about that right now. No, no, none at all. Robert looks down at his phone to distract himself further and ends up pulling up an email from Iris. He begins typing a reply mindlessly as massive drops from his face pool at his chin. He undoes the mask so as to let them fall freely.
She’s asking what his next move with Pseudogenesis Productions will be, if there is one.
Everything falls to the floor in streaming, oily drips. Staining, styming, stealing from what was supposed to be relief.
Someone could call his face art, if they could get past its hideousness, its otherworldliness, its oddness. It would forever taint him as out of place after all, a human starfish out of water.
He tells her nothing will happen except that they will be blamed for the attack. They’re merely ants, not worth fussing over, but they’ll be lucky if they manage to find work within the Three Portlands for a good, long time.
That will show them to be afraid.
And more fear can’t be bad for putting him back on his feet.
.jpg){kind=link}
.jpg){kind=link}
