-Sam- Happy new year

We celebrated the new year by doing absolutely nothing. August puked on the stroke of midnight, so that was a pretty good summary of 2011. I still can't believe we're all alive. Beat up and drugged, but alive.

Everyone is starting to feel better, thank God. Doc is a little less high. Todd is Todd most of the time. Dr. Rivers...is still pretty bad, but somebody else is gonna have to explain that. And Spencer finally started being kind of coherent yesterday. He got out of bed, said something about going for a walk, and left.

...Come to think of it, I haven't seen him since. I hope he's okay.

-Sam

-Spencer- Pages of Theory

Y’know, sometimes we cling to the most stupid things.

we’re all irrational and in a state of denial, because we don’t have the time to properly grieve to deal with what’s happened.

i’m really no better in that regard

but i think I’m tired of leaving my messes to be explained for me. I can do this myself. As long as I have one last fucking breath left in me, i can do this myself.

 

Page theory is something you’ve all seen thrown around occasionally; Elaine did a write-up but I felt that maybe i should be telling explaining this myself. i understand it best, after all.

Let’s get something straight first.

Page Theory isn’t mine. I wrote it, but it’s not mine.

The first time I heard anything like it was one night with Matt in the desert, looking up at the stars. It’s his. I stole it from him but that hardly matters because he’s dead, and took the credit. None of you knew him. I figured he wouldn’t have minded, wasn’t that kind of guy. Wanted to help. Always, always wanted to help. Helped me after I ran, after I saw Him for the first time in my life and didn’t feel worship, but fear. But Matt was there.

He was fucking brilliant. You all would’ve loved him. They say personality is a learned quality but Matt somehow knew how to be kind and loving and utterly insane all at once despite the cult trying to beat it out of him. He ran at twelve, straight into the fucking desert, and survived for eight years all by himself. Him and Father.

They didn’t realize how good he was; just assigned him to be a lower echelon because they were too stupid to see how smart he was.

Matt had a stutter, and they thought he was useless because of it.

They were wrong.

They were wrong about me, too; thinking I was so fucking.. .a rising star, they said, it won’t leave me alone, they won’t…

it was Matt who gave me a real, proper name

it was Matt who told me to look up at the stars and think about how the universe worked

it was Matt who told me to never stop running

it was Matt who threw me into The Path, even though he claimed to not be able to use it

it was Matt who took the easy way out

 

… Matt told me that when he was out in the desert, it was hard to imagine anyone else existed. That he thought that maybe… the known universe was like an inbox, a framework.

In that framework, your view of it, your perception of the world, like an ever-changing snapshot of a whole universe.

Then I came into the picture, and my snapshot got layered on top of Matt’s. Our snapshots, our pages, interacted with each other freely. The rock on my page was the same as the rock on his page. But sometimes, we saw Him; I’d slowly see the stars swirl into nothing and Matt would just collapse to the ground and the black shit that ran out of his nose smelled awful and then He would be gone as quickly as he arrived. That was when our pages de-synchronized, and Matt was pretty sure that was the “Tall Bastard’s” fault.

We’d sit and talk then, because we didn’t want to talk about what we’d just seen and sleep wasn’t a possibility. Matt would talk about “cities” and “towns” and even “countries” and how all these people lived together in one place, how there must be SOME out there who knew about Father, how their pages must even be different from ours, how maybe even whole worlds were different. If our experiences with Father were shared but unique, did that mean that even the people we hunted, our targets, had pages as well?

It was a month afterwards before Matt tried to flesh out the idea of Loops. this was after we had stumbled upon a small one in the desert and tried experimenting with it. It was Matt who figured out that Loops were blank until someone filled them with something. It was Matt who tried to craft without any experience, trying to write over the empty space with something new. It was Matt who theorized that the Loops were the tiny spaces in between each page, that the miniscule areas could vary in size and flexibility to revisions and changes. It was Matt that figured out that you could tie the Loop so someone and let their own mind fill the gaps like some sort of infinite feedback reacharound.

Not bad for someone who didn’t even know how to read. They never taught him how, he said, because it wasn’t worth the time.

It was the night before everything went to hell that he told me in hushed tones about what he thought about Father, how he functioned like… a nail going through all the pages at once, how a nail isn’t supposed to be through the pages at all. How he wasn’t sure how the pages and the spaces got formed in the first place, but how maybe exposure to Father caused you to form your own page, how he thought The Path was the edges of the pages, so you could hop from layer to layer with ease. How maybe just because we were told that we were to be something from birth, that didn’t mean that we had to be that.

 

… i’ve tried to build on this, tried to find some answers, but Matt’s stuff is the best framework I’ve got. It explains so much; why we all can see Him at the same time in different places, how the Path shuttles us around, how some of the stranger, supernatural happenings can, well, happen, how M’s rules don’t work for everyone. A place like the House is a complete anomaly; how can there be a constant in a blank space…?

I don’t know.

I don’t know why the forest is suddenly invading or why the Loop is suddenly on the offensive. I don’t know why people that are dead should not be here walk through the halls when I wander.

i need more time.

Fuck. I… fixing this comes first. Then Doc can cut me open and we can all celebrate with tea and crumpets.

Not much longer.

I promise.

-Spencer-

...
She won't leave.
I tried to....
She won't.
No matter what I said
Or what I threatened to do
she wouldn't.

Couldn't.

She's going to kill herself
she's going to die.
Oh god.
Elaine's going to die.


And I...


I...


...


Can't do anything but watch it all

burn

to the

ground.



fuck.

-Spencer- Lights are on

But nobody's home.

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

Where he gets wacky ideas.

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

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

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

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

... We all knew it.

You wake up in Seatac.

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

Back to earth, narrator.

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

Dyed.

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

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

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

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

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Everything about this man makes-

made me want to puke.

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

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

"And here I am."

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

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

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

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

Oh dear, seems my bullshit alarm has reached critical.

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

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

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

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

"... anything else?"

His grin falters ever so slightly.

Oh fuck.

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

My smile stays plastered on my face like a Disney attendant and for a second it occurs to me that I might not be able to stop, even if I tried...

The nausea hits me like a ton of bricks and I look at the corner of my eye, try to ride the wave out, and the walls of the cafe seem very, very far away and for one /stupid/ moment I wonder when it became empty. The table is dwarfed by the towering white; blank expanse as far as the eye could see.

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

"Oh you son of a /BITCH/!"

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

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

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

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

God grant me the wisdom...

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

I can feel it now between my fingers; sand.

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

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

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

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

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

afraid

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

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

Then you see Him.

... sound.

Screaming.

You wake up in LAX.

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

Sultry and smooth and spiteful and sneering.

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

I am Jack's failing liver.

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

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

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

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

"What stain, Fitzgerald~?"

"This one."

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

Twitch. Twitch.

Writer is fighting to keep his composure.

"I'll take that as a no."

"Good plan."

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

He stalks out without another word.

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

That was my cue to go offstage.

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

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

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

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

wait

Wait.

Isn't that....?

Looks like we might have a guest.

Seems like tonight just got a little more interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

"Blog. Now."

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

He looks older than he should.

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

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

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

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

Don't test me.

And as for this whole Star situation...

How about a story, hm?

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

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

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

I still haven't found any answers.

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

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

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

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

That's right.

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

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

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

... Stay safe, alright?

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

...

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

So it goes.

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

But I really am an idiot.

I make stupid friends.

I make stupid decisions.

And it doesn't get much worse than this.

...

Remember that Proxy I shoved into the bathroom in The East Wing once...?

Well, we've got another one.

In our basement.

Locked in a room. so there's only one lock between us and a psychotic insane jackass who's going through the withdrawal of his life.

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

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

...You know.

Maybe I should start from the best part?

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

Wait.

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

Focus.

"You ready?"

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

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

It gets blissfully blank from there.

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

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

No. That came before the explosion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well who's the idiot now?

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

I smile. I grin.

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

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

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

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

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

...?

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

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

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

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

I laugh as he struggles

I laughed as he struggled

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

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

my right hands moves back towards my side and-

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

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

Bang.

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

Me.

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

Still grinning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then we better go /fucking/ quick."

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

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

They wouldn't stop shaking

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

"DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE!!!!!"

And here we are.

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

Yet.

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

For once.

And as for our house guest?

Well.

I'm pretty sure you're all well acquainted by now.

-Spencer- Team, I really, really should know better

But guess who's the idiot who went on a delivery based on a cryptic phone call?

Guess who's the idiot now dragging a COFFIN to god knows where?

(There should be awards for this kind of thing.)

Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

It started with at, where else, The House. I was in The Wing, trying to figure out my way around Todd's head in the most efficient way possible (which is a great deal more difficult than you would think), when the phone rang.

More specifically, my phone rang.

I've never given the number out to anyone, aside from the team. The general assumption was, if you had the number, then you needed me stat. No questions asked.

Of course, in practice, all I got were pranks calls and creepypasta hunters.

"City morgue; we put the fun in funeral~!"

"Spence, Baby~! Or do you prefer ████ ███████████? "

... There is not one person alive that knows that name. This guy means business. Serious business.

"... You need a delivery."

It's a statement now, not a question.

"There's been some... complications. I need you to pick up a package at a certain street corner in Philadelphia at a certain time."

"Planning on telling me WHAT corner and WHEN?"

"Spence, you SHOULD be able to tell this for yourself. You are, after all, the best of the best, right?"

The one and only.

"..."

"You shall NOT open the box. Ever. Oh, and the drop-off is in New Mexico."

I don't flinch anymore.

"I should know the time and place? Excellent. Nobody ever said the CLIENTS had to provide good service, right?"

That comes out a bit scathing. Cool it, Spence.

"... that being said. Why should I trust you, shady phone man?"

"You've got acidic blood and a body that doesn't heal. I protect time and space. Together, we fight crime?"

"... You know what? If you know that, I'm going to assume you're a friend. How stupid does that make me?"

Oh god, I'm going to be the death of me.

"Considering your choice in friends? No more than usual."

I can feel my smile twist into a smirk.

"Cute. You owe me big for this."

"You're getting a set of sticky notes that I poured time and energy over that will get you out of a jam in the future. You owe ME, and you know it."

And the smirk turns into a frown.

"If I owe /you/, wouldn't you already know it...? No, you know what, don't answer that. not in the mood. Seems I've got a delivery to do."

"Oh, and keep it somewhere dry and cool. Not COLD mind you, but not hotter than 75 degrees."

"Almost make it sound like... heh. Will do."

I can almost hear the question on his voice as I hang up.

Good.

I look around the dusty room I'm in, slowly folding up my papers, my theories, their theories that they're not around to share anymore. Is that all I am? A presenter of thoughts of those who can no longer speak for themselves?

It's hard to say.

The Wing would be fine without me. It was stable enough for the night without me IN it, and at this point, I didn't think anyone would want to foray in there.

Let them try.

I was going this one alone. Had a bad feeling. Wasn't going to get anyone else involved in this mess. God knows I've messed them all up enough lately.

"Amanda, dearest, you're in charge while I'm gone, alright~?"

I don't give her enough time to protest, or even ask questions.

I've got work to do.

They've probably never seen me like this, and I'd rather they didn't. Let them all think this was all a lighthearted romp where nothing could go wrong and then we all roll in riches.

Something was seriously wrong with this one, and my ass would be grass if I made one wrong move.

I end up puking my guts out once I get a few blocks away. Didn't even turn on the radio.

Yeah. Have you ever tried to use The Path while in a car....?

Didn't think so. It's far from easy, and even farther from SMART.

So I waited.

I waited for a sign, because yes, let's just not follow the shady telephone guy's instructions. THAT SOUNDS EVEN SMARTER.

But then it started. The faint buzzing at the base of my skull, a tiny tremor that would end up growing, getting worse and worse, the tugging, the feeling that my body was a magnet getting attracted to cold, hard metal-

(God, I need to get laid)

Shit was going down, shit connected to the Slender variety.

So I hopped in the van and floored it.

More accurately, I lumbered into the driver's seat (being prepared for me means a thirty pound coat filled to the BRIM with a concealed arsenal WITH more on top of that, plus my shovel) and respectfully obeyed the speed limit until I found the place where the buzzing got worse.

A few things happened at once.

A few injured men in suits (fortunately, not of the faceless variety) were chasing a young woman. She positively SOARED over that fence while the dumbasses had to lumber over.

Nice.

The buzzing intensified to the point of static.

Oh dearie dearie dear. I was about to have company if I didn't leg it quick.

... have you ever looked at something and feel like everything has slid out of your chest?

It was a coffin.

MY "PACKAGE" WAS A COFFIN.

IT DOESN'T GET MUCH BETTER THAN THIS, LADIES AND GENTS.

It took me a good five seconds to locate the thing at all. Five seconds I didn't have. I had maybe ten until Slender Himself showed up to give me a nice, big hug, fifteen for those suited jackasses to show up and give me hell, and twenty for those two unmarked vans to run me over.

... it's a tough job, but someone had to do it.

It was here when everything started to go wrong.

The street faded to monochrome.

Sound seemed to stop.

And the architecture started /twisting/.

.... fuck.

I started dragging. Strict time limits, you know. Too bad I'm about as muscled as a thirteen year old comic-book obsesse.

"... need a little help~?"

I gritted my teeth.

Loop. I had been looped like a rank amateur and I was about to pay my price.

Most people's Loops, (or Labyrinths, for whatever fucking reason) are filled with their dreams or nightmares, the what-if's and the can-be's.

Not mine.

Mine were filled with a group of seventy-four.

Hollie put a hand on my shoulder. "Long time no see, Spencer! Not nice of you to avoid visits here." Her fiery auburn hair was cut short-

"You know better than that, Spencer." Hudson spoke from the rear, and I felt another pair of hands help with the weight of the wooden box-

"Have the newbies been doing well? Not going to end up here, I hope~!" Norrin laughs from beside me, already knowingly helping me with my coat-

"Norrin, you're so full of it. Have the scars gotten worse, Boss?" Lenna runs a hand across my neck, across a scar-

"Do y'really think they would get any better at this point? You lot...."

Matt.

Matt.

Matt.

My head whipped around. No need to carry the box anymore; there was already a set of hands doing it for me. My eyes went wide. There he was. That stupid choppy brown hair and those STUPID green eyes and-

"No, fuck, not again-"

Because the next thing I see is Hollie, tentacles bursting through her chest-

"Boss? You alright?"

Hudson, eyes wide, laughing in the rain, and my finger tightens on the trigger-

"Spencie...?"

Norrin, tears rolling down his cheek as the proxy presses the knife closer to his quivering-

"What's wrong?"

Lenna, chiding me for my stupidity as she steps off the twenty-third story balcony-

"Spencer, Spencer, listen to me!"

Matt. Matt, that night, the path, red across the pale sand, red red red redredredredredredredred

Down. Puuuuuuke. In the corner of my eye, unmistakeable red hair and a curled grin. It doesn't matter. Start to laugh and cry. Feel myself shaking. Everything is just static now.

Static

static

static

...

Something at my ear. Cold. Plastic.

A voice. Try to focus. It's Harper's voice, isn't it? No, fuck, Spencer, focus

"Hey boss, just checking in." The farmboy is stifling a hefty yawn. "How're things at the House?"

"... August...?"

clear the fog, clear the fog, clearthefog He laughs. At me? With me?

"Who else, Spence? You've been drinking, haven't you?"

Smile. Smile godammit this is August you're talking to. He's alive.

"Darling, you know I can't get drunk anymore. Ended up on a last minute delivery. How are things with you...?"

Laughter. Not mine. From the left. Is it...?

"You know I have to ask, Spence. Nevada's gorgeous, but I'm getting horrible vibes off of this notebook. Gonna be glad when it's out of my hands."

A pause. He notices.

"Something wrong, boss... ?"

"Sounds like you've got something like the book of the dead on your hands. I'm hoping you won't read it."

Ignore the question for long enough and maybe it'll go away.

"Just... meeting some old friends."

"...Spence..."

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

"Yes, my darlingest little housewife~?"

No nonononononononononono

"... You don't sound right at all."

It's low, almost... afraid?

"Where are you?"

"In a Loop, I think. You can imagine how I'm faring."

I laugh. Me. It's mine. Everyone else falls silent.

"... Not seeing /them/ again, are you?"

"Always, August. As much as I'd like to fake it, Clowns are the least of my worries."

He actually manages to laugh at that one.

"You know they're not your family anymore, Spencer. The ones at home, and the one right here, are the ones you need to keep safe. Can't do that when you're stuck in that Loop, can you... ?"

The static eases.

".... How many times have you talked me out, kid? It's hard to remember."

"Enough, Spence, enough."

The gentle smile drifts through the speaker.

"Enough to keep our family safe."

"Alrighty. You stay safe, alright? I've got a delivery to do."

"I do, too. Think maybe I'll sleep before three AM hits... ?"

He laughs. Dear god, he /laughs/. It echoes like thunder in this desolate place.

"You too, alright? Good luck, boss."

"August. Thanks."

And the line goes dead.

... You wake up at Seatac, SFO, LAX. You wake up at O'Hare, Dallas-Fort Worth, BWI. Pacific, mountain, central. Lose an hour, gain an hour. This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time. You wake up at Air Harbor International. If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?

I wake up in Santa Fe, right on time, the box beside me, open air making me cough once or twice.

I was out.

Remind me to give the kid a raise once he gets back?

Last part. I get my hammer out of my coat (god, how much shit did I HAVE in here) and pry out the nails. Rule one of the service;

We NEVER look inside.

I turned tail and started walking.

The stack of notes was clutched in my palm.

Seventy-four.

Three more than last time.

...

Be home soon.

-Sam- Surgery

Okay. I think I’ve finally calmed down enough to post. Damn voices still won’t shut up though. Anyway.

Some…weird stuff just happened.

Steele and Amanda sent me down to the damn basement to get some more tranquilizer for Todd. Apparently, he’s shifting between personalities like crazy and it’s hurting him or something. I made Amanda tell me exactly where the room with the dead coyote is so I could avoid it. I totally forgot to ask where the tranquilizer was.

The basement smelled horrible, of course. Kind of like a hospital but moldier. I felt my way down the stairs and turned on the lights. It was creepy and shadowy and I had no idea where to start looking for tranquilizer.

I’d only dug through one shelf before I heard a noise from behind the wall. Coughing and gagging, like somebody was about to be sick.

I opened the door to the next room and saw Spencer.

Okay. You remember that thing I said about Spencer, how I kind of freaked out when he took off his shirt? I guess it can’t hurt to tell you what that was about now. His chest was covered in scars. Really bad ones. Ones that looked like somebody had cut his chest open in a huge zigzag then stapled it back together.

Well, when I found him in the basement…it wasn’t stapled together anymore.

I don’t think he noticed me at first. He was on Doc’s operating table, the flaps of skin on his chest pinned open. I could see inside his chest and I’m not a medical expert but I’m pretty sure his internal organs weren’t supposed to have that many pulsing black veins all over them. His head was over the side of the table and he was throwing up.

He finally saw me standing there, frozen in place, too scared to run.

“Sam. You might wanna…go somewhere else for a while, ‘k? The boss is kinda busy.” He was breathing hard, obviously in pain.

I must have been way beyond freaking out at that point. Because I just asked, perfectly calm, “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away. He had a scalpel and as I watched, he started cutting something out of his own chest, gasping in pain. He finally stopped and held something up. A weird, slimy black string.

“I’m cutting the bad out of me.”

The black thing in his hand was squirming. It was alive.

I’m not sure what happened after that. It was all kind of a blur of Spencer cutting more stuff out of his chest and starting to throw up again and me getting the fuck out of there. I didn’t stop blindly panicking until I was somewhere upstairs, huddled in a closet. My knee was bleeding for some reason and I think I might have hit my elbow somewhere along the way. And the voices. The voices are all back now and they’re saying some kind of weird things and I’m scared.

Spencer.

What was that?

-Spencer- Team, it's the calm before the storm

... and it's making me very, very nervous.

no news from Steele. Fine. These kinds of things can take a day or two or seven. It happens. He may drop a comment, hey may not.

Either way.

But when you're up 24//7, never even bothering to sit down to eat or think, well, you get a lot of time to do other things.

So when I saw this on the tumblr, I did the most logical possible thing.

I followed the breadcrumbs.

.... yeah, I'm a fucking genius.

I ended up in Canada. Toronto, it's a big city. Been there once or twice, good news is that I know my way around. I found the place I needed to find easily; and office building. Weird, but I've been through worse.

I had my typical coat on, but chose to dredge up an ancient hoodie to wear underneath. Not the most fashionable for someone my age, but I was getting stares as it was. On my way there, I must've invaded three proxies' turf; they jumped me, and i left them bleeding, but alive, in an alleyway. Warning sign number one.

The person I was searching for goes by Nemo. I've seen him a few times around the blogosphere; commenting on those poor fucking kid's blog, fucking around with this Lyric, and I can't say I was too surprised that he seemed to need my help.

So now I played the waiting game.

And elevator arrived on the ground floor, a cheerful ding-a-ling in it's wake. People file out, and I see a young man wearing a long blue coat, very similar in style to MY longcoat, with a hint of paranoia in his step and thinly veiled hysteria in his eyes.

That was my man.

In hindsight, offering to go somewhere more private to discuss matters off the bat was probably not the best idea. He spun around on me and took two steps back, looking around as if he wanted, NEEDED to run. The idiot thought I was a proxy and he was making a scene and that was the last thing I needed.

"For fuck's-" I stop, and try again. "You're the one who asked me to come, right? Nemo?"

If he jumped me, I'd gut him, innocent runner or not.

Luckily, he seems to calm down the moment I call his handle and not pull on a mask. "I didn't ask for anyone to come, but yes, I am Nemo."

Well fuck a duck and screw a kangaroo. This, Spencer, is why we do NOT answer cryptic literature quotes WHILE VERY SLEEP DEPRIVED.

But I was here, and that was what counted. Guy looked like he needed some sane conversation. I stuck out my hand. He shakes it. "Well then, seems someone's got a hold of your tumblr account. you know me, right? Spencer Fitzgerald. I run a delivery service."

"The one that lives in a madhouse." I wince, and he continues. "Spencer. I don't have a tumblr."

Oh really? The fact that you tried to run faster than a cheetah on crack the minute i let on I knew you didn't give me that clue!

"Then you've either got a guardian angel or someone out to fuck with you-" Probably the same guy who quoted Poe on MY blog- "I'm betting on Lyric; yeah, I know OF him, don't panic. You don't get into my line of business without knowing a few things. Listen, are you good for getting a coffee or something?"

I didn't want to think about my currently churning stomach. Already puked twice today; once entering, and once on exit.

His eyes shift nervously around, never settling on one place. "Caffeine would be good." I try to stifle a chuckle when the elevator arrives again and the bell nearly causes him to jump out of his skin.

Newly stalked are hilarious sometimes.

We go to a place I know in the neighbourhood. The coffee might as well be acid, but it's the kind of place you go if you want to talk and not... be heard.

"Does the name 'Raven' mean anything to you?" We both sit down, and i signal for their usual, disgusting fare.

I can't remember if he got anything.

"Guy who quotes Poe. Why?"

I don't know, maybe I'd like to know if you know the guy who not only duped me into coming here, but also keep vaguely threatening my team? For, you know, kicks?

I express my displeasure eloquently, of course. "How specific."

"I haven't interacted with him. It. Her. Unless they're the one commenting on my blog..."

"Guess you've just watched then. Observed." Poor word choice there, Spence. "Either way, I left out the lantern and chisel.

He raised an eyebrow.

" 'Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a Revolver- S.H.

It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry throughthe dim, fog-draped streets.' As I said, seems someone is looking out for you."

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."

"Had to check on another delivery anyway. Figured it couldn't hurt."

"Those kids? The ones in the forest?"

It needed no explanation.

"Either way. at least this 'Raven' Quotes good literature."

"Worrying quote."

"Coming from a marked man. Do you know what happens when people start dropping cryptic quotes on my tumblr when I'm severely sleep deprived? Nothing good. and here I am."

"Marked. Watched."

"I'd rather Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Lyric is a nasty piece of work."

"Sincerely hope he's on the other side of the pond. Granted, I don't favour my odds with either."

"It's been quiet on both sides, with bursts of activity. It's... worrying, to say the least. But hey, not my problem! Now, unless you're planning on stabbing me with that letter opener you have in your pocket, you'll probably want to take this package off my hands."

He was shaking like a leaf and was about as subtle as a 60 mile-an-hour collision into a brick wall.

"A revolver and a prybar? Does someone expect me to be a pint-sized Gordon Freeman?"

I notice him finally take his hand out of his pocket. Empty.

"Either way, it's better than what you've got right now." I take another sip of that rancid shit but manage to smile. "you can take this as a warning of things to come or a wake-up call for necessary precaution. If I had both Slender and a psychotic cannibal hanging over my head, well, I'd be carrying an arsenal the size of Katy Perry's ego."

"Lyric isn't the one I'm worried about, at least not for now. Spencer, yesterday someone spent four haours wandering around outside the building, watching the third floor. Someone tacked a damned Operator Symbol to my door, and it's been raining every other day."

I can feel my stomach churn as I look out the corner of my eye. can feel myself freeze at what I see.

I have to get out of here.

"I doubt the rain has anything to do with it, but yes, you're being stalked. Is it really that surprising?"

"Suppose not."

"For all we know, it's someone like Walter trying to cover his tracks. Operator symbols are sometimes considered repellent... but for proxy behaviour, it's nothing out of the ordinary."

Well, ordinary for our lives, anyway.

"I'm missing at least an hour. Probably more. From last night."

I can see his panic, almost end up laughing out loud; no, fuck, that'd be too cruel, even for me.

"So start logging time. Can you remember anything?"

"No, and that worries the hell out of me."

Not surprising. We end up sitting in silence for a few seconds.

"What are you going to do?"

"Move. Unfortunately, somewhere with a great deal more trees."

"And you think THAT is going to end well?"

The waitress glared at me when I raised my voice, but reels when she sees my face. A bruise on my right cheek, the beginnings of a black eye, and , of course, stubble.

What a fucking stud.

"Better than they would here. I have a family. Can't let them catch them. And it's-"

" Nemo. If they want your family, they're going to take it. And then they'll find you and take you and SHOW YOU how powerless you are. Believe me. I... was one of them."

"I don't have a lot of options."

"No, you don't."

Another pause.

"Package is in an alleyway at the first intersection from here in a dumpster. Do with it what you want. No serial numbers. Can't be traced if you want to ditch it."

"... What was the link to the tumblr...?"

"Obscuredcamera, I think."

He paled as I slapped some bills on the table; more than enough to cover the bill.

"That's my handle."

"Then, Nemo, seems you have an imposter on your hands."

"Overdeveloped sense of self-preservation. The reason I will not be taking that gun and trepanate myself.

"Think about it. It's not my job to tell you what to do; only to give you more options to choose from. just keep in mind... they won't simply watch forever."

"I know. Can't turn out like Walter."

"... it's a choice."

"Not all choices are the good ones. Or even the right ones."

"Don't I know it. I should split... I'm not exactly well liked in Canada. Long story."

"I don't suppose you're heading to see them either? The kids?"

"Just to see if I can get in. Without getting stabbed, of course..."

As I got up to leave, something stopped me.

"Best of luck, Nemo."

"You too. Don't die. A lot of people need help."

"I'll try my best, alright? By the way, there's not just one person on your tail. There's three." I thought back to earlier.

"Fuck."

"They're fresh. You should be able to outrun them, and, if need be, outgun them. you going to be alright...?"

"For a given value of alright."

"I took them out on my way here, your tails. If you're going to run, now would be the time."

"... Heh. Let's see if they can follow me to where I'm going."

And he ran in the direction of the dumpster.

Maybe he'll be alright?

It's none of my business anymore.

I'm back at The house fifteen minutes later. Half dead. When I finally get to look in a mirror, I'm far from happy. There's a dribble of black shit oozing out of my nose. My eyes look bloodshot. The bruise hasn't gotten any better.

So it's been an afternoon and evening of me roaming in The East Wing, stopping every so often to puke my guts out.

Still no news.

... fuck.

Well, actually, Steele....

I'm in New York at the the moment.

... long story.

To summarize;

A delivery went horribly horribly wrong (as per usual),

I ended up getting duffed up, shot in the leg, /AND/ punched in the face.

What I do know is that Collector is a lying bastard.

He was NOT okay with me delivering shit and that's the last time I make a delivery like that ALONE.

So I /really/ didn't want to go back Home like this.

(Doc is going to tear me a new one once she sees me.)

Ended up just kind of wandering. Sometimes going on Path, sometimes not. Soothing. Comforting. Don't really know why. And when I finally stop walking to get a cup of coffee at a shoddy little hotel (which tasted like a war crime, anyways)....

Elaine walked into the cafe.

So I'll be home by nightfall; just going to have a bit of a day out.

(I promise not to get shit faced drunk, okay?)

-Spencer- Team, time to take a rest

(Because one can never get enough of themed titles)

So we're all home safe and sound, if you're not counting a few bruises and scratches, whoopdie doo. After the excitement we've had in the past month, well...

We need the break we're getting.

It's kind of hard to re-adjust to home life; sometimes you see knives embedded in the walls because someone startled someone else; everyone keeps looking over their shoulders, watching their backs. And with what has been happening lately?

I don't blame them.

So, to recap, we've had;

A delivery that culminated with being trapped in a Loop,

Sam getting sick from it,

Todd going nuts,

A foray into The East Wing that ended... badly,

Me finding Tom and getting everyone the fuck out of The Wing (did I mention Steele tried to SHOOT SLENDER BECAUSE HE DID),

August realizing that the team really doesn't know a damn thing about me,

Regular deliveries on top of this shit,

Birthdays,

Cam's wedding,

August in a dress

Cam dying,

Four days in The Wing by myself,

Some of the team going after Elaine,

Lots and lots of backstories,

A screaming match in the middle of a diner that's probably scarred Sam for life and will end up costing me a fortune in psychological help,

Aaaand this all is happening while running from Slender and proxies and godknowswhatelse and trying to keep alive. All in a day's work for all of us, I guess.

Either way. I'm going to make a small delivery on my own; be back within a few hours.

Usually, I don't do work without payment.....

But these kids seem to need it.

(And really, I'm just thrilled that someone finally submitted a delivery request PROPERLY.)

Speaking of deliveries, Elaine gave me a bunch of letters that she wants delivered. They, er-

they're from Cam.

I'll be contacting you all separately, I guess. Or I could break into your houses and just leave them there or something. Avoid the social contact.

Don't know, don't care for now. Sure, it'd be faster if I got the team on it...

But they really do need to rest. They've all.

... You've all done a good job.

Try not to get into any mischief while I'm gone, alright?

(And have some fun, for god's sake!)

-Spencer- Team, I love weddings

Because everyone likes suddenly getting thrust into doing a job when you're supposed to be having fun-

Wait, am I getting this wrong?

August and I sobered up and were up and ready for the ceremony. It was gorgeous; even I could see that and I'm an uncultured schmuck.

But I'm also not an idiot. When the busboy with the ridiculously fake German accent turned up, I can't say I was very surprised to see it wasn't simply an exchange student trying to earn some cash.

(Well, you idiot, what did you expect? You barely ever stop moving and you decide to go to a wedding? Stupid!)

So August and I slip in our earpieces and get on it. Doors were locked, I pinned the suspicious character, and I figured everything would go alright from there.

I. Was. Wrong.

I don't need to summarize what's already there. Read what they said. Go on, I'll wait. Point being, I stabbed a Proxy's eyes out with a FORK and laughed while I was doing so.

... According to August, at least. I'm not sure if he's trying to get back at me for last night or not, but I can't remember doing that.

Well fuck.

Naturally, though, we didn't have time to worry about looking fancy once we got rid of 'em. There was work to be done.

Because, children, what you don't realize is that it's REALLY FUCKING HARD to keep all your conquests under wraps and away from media attention. Keeping all you Runners out of jail isn't easy, but it's something I do.

So I have about half an hour to draw attention away from the hotel massacre.

This is pretty bad. It's even worse when the fucker won't connect me to the chief. It takes three minutes to get to the right person, but boy, is it worth is.

You should've heard him gasp when he heard my voice. It's nice to have power around here. And then August suggested that a small scale explosion would probably work as a distraction.

Dear god, remind me to give that kid a hefty bonus.

Sure, he's tiny and frail, but watching a guy in a dress assemble a miniature pipebomb is something you REALLY need to see to believe.

There was SLIGHT property damage; a vacant tiny house had it's foundation cracked but the one next to it had nothing but a good jolt. Otherwise, the explosion was magnified using tricks to make it sound worse than it actually was. Dry ice makes great fake smoke, and enough well placed megaphones can make a mouse deafening.

Of course, it was a hit. The media jumped on it faster than a starving panther. Mission accomplished.

I dropped off a package, too. So it worked out in the end.

August... Team, I only ask this; MAKE SURE HE RESTS. I need to go back into The Wing to sort shit out. But he's got a cracked rib that he's been walking on.

(using The Path really didn't help things, but hey)

But otherwise?

It was fun.

(Outside from the team, I really didn't have friends. Is it right to say that I feel that I do now?)

-August- Everything We Know About The Boss

Evidently, not a whole lot.

The boss is but one of many, many things in this house that seem to be shrouded in more mystery than the beef in Taco Bell's Spicy Gordita Crunch. Where does he get all his money? Where did this house come from, and how did Spence come to own it? What's with the east wing, and why does he willingly live in there? Why all the alcohol? And on the topic of all the bourbon, how is he not dead yet?

And what was that post yesterday about?

Well, I have a few ideas, all of which seem to tie back to the above post.

But let's get through what we know first.

Spencer has access to large amounts of cash.

The boss has outright stated that he has a ridiculous amount of money. This is the man who hands out $50 000 bonuses like they're pieces of candy, and you'd be shocked at the number of zeroes at the end of our paychecks.

Does he have it legally? I don't know. Do I care? Not really.

Spencer has been Slenderstalked for a long, long time.

This comes from the fact that it's fairly obvious to anyone that Spence knows much, much, much more about Mr. Slim n' Trim (and running from him, while we're at it) than he should.

Spencer is, on the surface, much saner than most of the Slenderstalked.

If the events of the 8th show us anything, it's that while a majority of the team was busy freaking out or being possessed, Spencer played Big Damn Hero and basically saved all of us. He's boss for a reason, I guess, but I would think that being stalked for a while longer than us would make his symptoms when everybody got Loopy worse. Then again, maybe it just ties into the fact that...

Spencer consumes enough alcohol to kill every liver north of the equator.

And somehow, he's still alive. Another thing to note is that Spencer is always cold; his skin is freezing to the touch and he's so pale his skin almost looks gray, and is completely translucent.

I read through Doc's report of the injuries following the 7th, and I realized that something didn't seem quite right.

"Boss - pulse 78, 98.6°F. Sustained minor injuries in the struggles last night, needed stitches, nothing else to report."

Nobody saw Spencer get injured.

Amanda's post didn't mention anything about the boss getting hurt. Doc didn't see him become injured, either. Todd doesn't remember anything but has intuition enough to put every woman on earth to shame, so I'm just going to take his word on that.

And I know what you're thinking: he probably just had an older injury that got re-opened.

That's exactly my point.

Why lie about it? Were Amanda and Doc covering for him, or did Spence tell them that as well? Wouldn't Doc notice if the injury had been re-opened, and wasn't fresh? Was she too drugged up and Loopy to care?

Does it matter?

Anyways. Onto our next point...

Even if he isn't insane, he's at the very least bipolar and disturbed.

The fact that he's disturbed isn't a surprise. Anybody stalked by an eldritch abomination isn't going to come out of it all sunshine and rainbows. But the fact that he takes it in stride is more than a lot of us can attest to.

It's also pretty obvious Spencer is bipolar. It's obvious in the very first post of this blog, when he shifts tones so quickly readers should end up with proverbial whiplash. There's no place where it's showcased better than in the post that is the subject of today's... analysis? I guess?

Or maybe it's not. After all...

Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard.

Heh. This is something that really has to be seen, seeing as how new this blog is. The boss is apt at fighting. Frighteningly so. He's cold and ruthless when in battle and seems to have every move calculated. He's proficient in almost every weapon I've seen him fight with, (and probably more that I haven't seen) and while he prefers his shovel, he has no qualms with using other weapons if need be.

He also lies like a rug.

Of course, I have no evidence for this so far. The only real proof I have is the fact that his possible bipolarism leads to some very interesting comments from him, all of which seem like Spence showcasing his less-than-excellent acting. He's dipped into dark stuff before and will again, and the bright and cheery optimism seems glued on.

Of course, that's what we know.

But let's move onto today's topic.

Spencer's last post.

Given his cryptic nature, I'm very suspicious when I'm presented with anything that may or may not clear the fog surrounding the boss' past. This isn't the first story he's told us and it certainly won't be the last, and all Joker parallels aside I'm convinced he's not a serial murderer, regardless of how many Proxies we've had to cut through to get the job done.

(They are people, you know; with lives and families and pets and hopes and dreams. We're not allowed to forget that. I'm not allowed to forget that there's the blood of 13 people with jobs and ambitions on my hands alone. The moment we lose our morality and start seeing them as bags of flesh is the moment we're no better than the faceless bastard we're trying to avoid.)

So, does this post explain...

Why Spence has a lot of money?

Yes. Cults the size of towns tend to amass reasonable fortunes.

Does it make sense that Spence would 'robbed the cult who had deceived him blind'?

Yes. This is the man who has stolen Doc's favorite knife right under her nose, and kept it away until she posted. See 'Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard' for additional reasoning. (Though not much.)

Does this support the theory that Spencer had been Slenderstalked for a long time?

The implication of the story is that he was born into one of those cults in Indiana. So yes. He'd have been stalked for his entire life, but it wouldn't have gotten worse until he decided to run. Since he was fifteen, by the looks at it. Assuming the service has been running for three years (I've heard him mention it on and off. Sometimes it's seven. Sometimes it's five. Sometimes it's three, sometimes even one. Three is the most common; three is what I'm sticking with. But it can't be one, because Doc says she's been around for two and a half years. I've been here for a little over nine months.) it means Spence has been on the run for at least ten years.

(Then again, nobody knows his true age. We just go by appearance.)

That just seems too far-fetched, even for Spencer. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind that the boss ran for a long time, but eight years of having no place to call your own and constant paranoia is enough to drive anybody absolutely insane, and Spence just isn't that crazy/stupid.

For all his alcohol-induced bipolarism (or maybe the alcohol tones it down? I haven't seen him sober for long enough to tell.) Spencer is far from stupid. Let's just say if there's a scale of genre savviness the boss is somewhere between the one holding the strings and the villain who decides to shoot the hero (twice for good luck) once he's got them in his grasp.

I should also mention one line in particular that stands out in the post.

"Focus, Spencer, focus. Maybe tell a story? God knows you probably won't post this anyway, but you've got to let your mind wander to navigate this, come on, stop thinking...."

Spence, do you know this post is up?

You have to. You commented on it. Allow me to rephrase:

Do you realize what you wrote in this post?

Something tells me that if you'd be sober enough to actually look through the blog you'd realize what you posted, because it's evident you weren't very sober when posting that.

Final question, half out of finally being out of points, and half out of Jesus Rollerblading Christ this post is massive.

Does this story provide a likely history for Spencer?

Yes.

Does this mean that this is likely what happened?

No.

But it's the closest we've got.

-Amanda- Recap Time

Fuckfuckfuckshitfuck. So I guess I should tell you what happened last night. What with having to rescue Steele and all that bullshit.
So we found Steele. The fuck was holed up in a library I didn't even know we fucking had. (And August don't be a fucking smartass I don't want to know what boss man gets up to in that wing) Anyway, we found the stupid fuck holed up in the library. He was screaming something I can't even begin to understand and I really don't want to understand.
Oh, and he was trying to shoot Tall Dark and Motherfucking Creepy. Let's review that sentence. He. Was. Trying. Shoot. Mister Slim. If you follow the fucked up train of a blog you know how monumentally stupid that is. For christ's sake there is one rule, and one rule only all us Runners agree on and that is don't try to fight Him. It just ends in tears. And bodies up trees.
Me and Doc looked at each other and know this is going to be a lot harder than we had bargained for. And we had bargained for a fucking lot. But jesus fucking christ we were going to have to face Him to get Steele back. And I'll admit, I was scared shitless. I don't scare easily, even before all this shit went down. But I was scared last night. Todd was gone, replaced by some Latin-spouting freak, and Sam was hearing voices and August was puking up that shit that smells like tar and smoke and something fucking dead and I was the only sane one. Let that sink in. I was the sane one, the fucking moody insane chick with a fucking crow. And I had to hold this group of sick, sick people together long enough for someone, anyone, to take them away from me.
And now I had to go face Faceless Himself. Fuck my life. Fuck all of our lives. But you don't just leave a teammate. That's not how it is. We fucking need each other and like hell was I leaving Steele there.
So I tell Doc to give me a syringe of the strongest stuff she has cuz we were not getting Steele out of there with out a fight. He was in full on rabid dog mode, just wanted to kill the bastard and get it over with. If only it was that fucking easy.
The plan was simple. Doc would stay at the door as sort of lookout, I'd go in, dose Steele and drag his sorry ass out of there. And we would just pray He would let us go. I haven't prayed that hard since I was ten and my grandmother made me go to church with stories of burning in hell. She's laughing somewhere, the crazy old bitch.
Doc wasn't lying when she said that was strong stuff, Steele went down like a ton of bricks. That was the thing I forgot to account for. I'm a 5'4 scrawny, malnourished weakling and I had to drag him out of there without help. Well, guess what? I fucking did it. Because I had to it. Luckily, Doc helped take some of the weight when I reached her. Then we just had to hightail it out of there. And that's where it all went even more fucking sideways. We were fucking lost in the east wing and I knew He was following us. It's a fucking weight around you, like an iron hand wrapped around your chest. And still we ran, or tried to run, through corridors that made impossible turns and stairs that lead to fucking nowhere. Christ, I never want to see the east wing ever fucking again. Spence can have it, can do what ever he wants with it. It makes me sick to my stomach, messes with my head. It's fucking wrong, plain and simple.
We turned a blind corner and stumbled through a door and suddenly the hand around my chest tightened so much I couldn't breath. I stumble under Steele's weight and I couldn't fucking breathe.
And my only thought was, 'we didn't get Steele out. we failed. i let them down when they needed me.'
And maybe there is a fucking god because right as the world started going gray around the edges, Spencer is just there. I don't remember him being there, I don't remember him getting there and I didn't give a shit because Spencer was fucking there.
Somehow he managed to hoist me up over his shoulder and take Steele's weight. Everything after that is a bit of a blur of dizziness and blackgraywhite. I came to in the kitchen with the others. Someone drank all my coffee, my cigs were gone, it smelled like crap from August's vomit, and I didn't care. Because we were all there and whole, as far as I could tell. And that was more than most people like us could say.

-Spencer- "When you don't have a plan..."

"It's impossible to know whether your idea is good, bad, or average. Everything just dissolves into chaos and you're left hoping for the best."

... I think I read that somewhere.

It's quiet. Really quiet as I step into The East Wing, and I can almost hear a sigh of relief (from who?) and a bit of a groan (from what?) and then the headache starts and....

Focus, Spencer, focus. Maybe tell a story? God knows you probably won't post this anyway, but you've got to let your mind wander to navigate this, come on, stop thinking....

Once upon a time, in a little town in god knows where, USA, there was this kid who was born. Like every other day, minute, and hour, another little buggered popped out and gave the world a bid hello.

However, you could see that his parents exchanged a look of something awful when it finally happened.

The kid started to grow up. Was home schooled, didn't have any friends, not that it mattered to him much. Was smart. Too smart for his own good, probably. He always noticed something was up; something that was only discussed in harsh whispers and dark corners and that was probably the reason everyone looked at the trees so reverently and with so much...

fear

And he grew older, eventually a decade old, and finally he started to notice where his parents were constantly going to and what all those dark meetings were about. And he was fascinated.

So it goes.

And he found solace in those harsh whispers, because maybe then everyone wouldn't look at him with those dead eyes like he was only second rate, only good for something he didn't understand.

It was the night before his fifteen birthday that everything went wrong. He was ready, ready for what he had been told he had to do, ready to become a part of the people with dead eyes, and he was very, very, afraid.

he was told it would hurt

it would hurt

it still does hurt sometimes

and he stood on the edge of the forest and saw it

and saw It

Him

And he could only stare

this was their god?

something had gone, terribly, terribly wrong

and as soon as the first ray of light hit the treetops he had started to plan

robbed the cult who had deceived him blind

and ran

and ran

and ran

and then they gave him a-

Ohey, look, found 'em! Amanda, Steele, Doc, dear god you look like shit. But they're alive, folks, that's the good news. Alright, kids, let's get you out of here. Fuck, Steele is heavy. stick close, yeah?

(The girls are going to kill me for this later.)

...

They wouldn't have lasted for much longer.

-Spencer- Everyone.

Listen.
If you're in the house, stay in the kitchen.
Keep Sam away from static.
DO NOT go in the east wing.
And as for you rearing your ugly head, you magnificent bastard?

I'm getting my employee back.

Don't stay up. Don't go outside. Cover the windows, and most of all;
Don't go after me.

O'course, if you want to stay alive, that is.

Todd.

Ahahaha.

It's time for round two.

-Spencer- Let's see some team spirit!

... which we're going to need, because, ladies and gentelman, we are-

Wait wait wait. Let's slow down a bit, shall we?

So we arrived, on time, en route to downtown Detroit, AKA the creepiest abondoned urban space on this side of the state. Steele took care of the pickup, and we only needed to get through the empty streets.

It was the only thing between us and cold, hard cash.
(Because as far as I'm concerened, the bigwigs can afford it. Fuck 'em.)

Well, that was the plan.

It was strange. As soon as we got to the city (and, consequently, went on foot, as per the rules), something changed.

We haven't seen another person, Proxy or otherwise, in hours. And the streets all converge into the same places and the architecture is slowly turning into Salvador Dali on a acid trip.

So it goes.

Ladies and gentelman, welcome to the jungle.

All things aside, they're going to start coming out of the fog soon. In the downtime, I'm going to nap. Loop time is almost as bad as Valve time, but hey, what can you do? Ahaha. We got caught in it anyway, it seems. "Stay one step ahead."

And we just had to stop to help that Runner get on his feet after being knocked down by a Proxy.

To be honest? I'm not sure if we're going to make it out of this one alive. But that's half the fun, isn't it? We're in The Loop and we're going to have to fight our way out.

Keep together, stay alert, and for god's sake, don't get lost, because I'm not coming to find you if you do.


Showtime.

-Spencer- Team, we need to talk

No, I'm not breaking up with you, but yes, I am going to fucking shank you all if you don't stop fucking arguing like a bunch of five year olds just because you discovered the magnificent invention that is the fucking comment button.

... Boss things aside, keep it up. Fucking hilarious, that is.

Alright. Now to business. The delivery starts at seven 0' clock SHARP tomorrow morning. No later. You're all expected to be in proper uniform and have all your supplies packed, and the rides will be ready. Bring your own food and weapons and yadda yadda yadda; we're not stopping until we reach the city, that clear?

Alright. Some clarification:

This is for GOVERNMENT BIGWIGS TO OTHER GOVERNMENT BIGWIGS. I'd tell you more, but for god's sake, I'm not even sure what we're dealing with. Follow the goddamn rules and we'll be fine. Don't, and we all die horrible, horrible deaths. Amanda is on another delivery, and will catch up if she can. Crow, if you're reading this, August says to re-calibrate the stations on the way, or something. God knows what he means.

So the trip to Detroit won't be too long. Once we reach downtown, we continue en route on foot. We pick up the... whatever it is when we enter the city, cross the core, and drop it off at the next rendezvous point, which is on our way back home.

DO NOT. STOP. FOR. ANYTHING.

Review the rules in my second post. Or don't. But I'm not stopping my sorry ass to save yours. Complete the delivery and you get paid. Plain and simple.

Oh, and if anyone out there needs us? If you're on the way, no problem. Just give us a call.

As for posting? Whatever you fucking want. I really couldn't give a rat's ass. As long as you don't post about the package, type about whatever to your little heart's content.

(ItwouldbeniceifHestoppedwatchingmefortwogodamnseconds)

Now, if you don't mind I'm going to try and get some sleep.

Ahahahaa.

Fat chance.

Be ready.

-Spencer- Aaaaand look at us...

Bickering like little children. Almost warms the soul, if the damn numbness would give a break to the weary-

...

We've... we've been hit hard this week. You all should know who I'm talking about. But no point in focusing on the past, right?

...did I really think that would work? Might as well be honest about what we're all getting into, yeah? Didn' think it would come to this, but I've got to, because we've got a delivery to do.

There's a reason that the team 'sgot so many newbies. Last ones didn't make the delivery-

I can't remember his name. Wiry kid, always wore a hoodie, and had this positive MAT of blonde hair. Was only on for a few days before we got this job. Gotta pay the bills, y'know? And he wanted to come-

Y'see, it's an interesting case for us. We've been followed for so long, it's a way of life. But this kid... h'was fresh. Like Sam. But we're all kids when it comes down to it... Zero was around my age. S'only reason I made this blog. ENVY makes a good point. If I just left it to nothing, who would even know we were here...?

Sarah. A feisty girl. Most of you probably don't know who she was, but I s'watchin her. I watch a lot of you. Get a lot of free time when M'not doing deliveries.

Oh, right, how this works. Forgot. Hangovers I usually pile more bourbon onto but I'm sober for a reason.

There's two ways these jobs get done; on foot and the risky as fuck way I only do when I'm alone.

Needless to say, M'not elaborating on one of those.

On foot is easy enough; we move slow an'don't risk our hides, but keep ahead of trouble. Since we'll go anywhere, it's pretty simple. I have a few rules I follow, though;

To cover large open distances, we use whatever motor vehicle we can get our hands on.

Forests. Avoid 'em if we can. If not, get through them fucking quickly.

Supplies. Everyone brings what they need. No time for stoppin, until we reach cities.

Urban centers; we go on foot, an'close to each other. Easier to deal with proxies, if the need be.

Planes are safe for the most part when we get on to the time we get off. Got a truce on that.

And that's... pretty much it. Follow the rules and we stay exactly ONE step ahead of Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Fuck up and I'll need some more newbies.

S'that simple.

As for the job? Srs bsns. Government shit for an old... acquaintance. We leave in, at most, a week. Feel free to elaborate for everyone out there, you guys. Now, if you don't mind-

Scott.

There we go.

I'm going to go have a drink with some old friends.

Cheers.