-August- Sweet Little Augustine

Overall, I think it went quite well.


I suppose if you can dismiss the fact that we lost the van, were nearly killed, and had to walk ten miles to find a dealership that would be willing to sell three people with five days' worth of luggage on our backs and in our hands whatever car we pleased, no questions asked.

I think paying in cash helped.

We got back not too long ago, actually, and believe me when I say I have never been so glad to see the House. Sure, the floors weren't exactly spotless anymore and there were a massive pile of dishes in the sink (we bought a dishwasher, you know!) that needed cleaning, but there really isn't any place like home. Though I admit I'm a little upset I won't be able to stay long enough to get down to business; I've got another short delivery to do once I unpack and wash up. The usual, really; another dying lunatic's journal to be delivered to an online friend before his days are up. They're always so sad. I take it upon myself to do these deliveries because I like to think I'm able to comfort them in their last few days, not to mention the fact that I've always found it funny how people seem to just know their time is up. I've met some people who have predicted their deaths down to the minute and the location of the wound that killed them, though I have to say I've never really stuck around to find out if they were right. Still, you hear it on the local radio or sometimes the news; unknown man found dead, thought to be homicide, more information on the hour.

... Jesus, I'm feeling morbid tonight.

Let's end this on a light note, then. We ended up getting a 1991 Firebird from the dealership just outside the city. The salesman was a balding 40-something in a rented tuxedo and oozed slime like our van oozed oil, and immediately approached us asking what 'the lovely couple' were looking for.

The lovely couple in this situation being, naturally, Doc and Steele.

We weren't sure what to make of it, either.

Once we managed to get the giggling under control (I was 'their perfect, darling daughter Augustine' - haha. I would have been upset, but the fact is he bought it completely) Doc and Steele decided to see just how far they could lead this guy on, mentioning they were coming up from their wedding in New Orleans and needed a new car, because Doc's (apparently now named Veronica) uncle had gone a little overboard with the champagne and trashed their previous car, as well as the rented limo. They had spent most of their money paying for damages and insurance and needed a cheap car, quick, so they could get back to work. Not a complete lie.

He ended up selling us the Firebird for half price. Steele says he has plans to convert it into the Knight Rider or something - I don't know my 80s TV shows very well, but by the description he gave me, it's going to look fantastic when it's finished. It's not a simple paint job like the Mystery Machine was but hey, we've got nothing but money and free time.

( For now, anyway. )

See you soon, everybody. Stay safe.

-Doc- Back Into the Loop

We’ve camped out for the night. Or, what we assume is night, because our watches won’t work here and the sky is blank and bright, like someone took a giant eraser to it and all that was left was a shining white void. Shadows are nonexistent in most places, though we’ve found a dense canopy of trees that blots out the light so we can get some sleep. No wind, and there’s something oddly peaceful about this place despite the giant skull fortress that looms in the distance. I wish I were making that up, but I’m not; it looks like Dr. Wily set up shop on a mountainside.

And apparently, he needs a delivery. Why are we giving him one? What the fuck is wrong with us? At least we’re not delivering a horribly named death robot to him, I think that would be a bit tough to carry.

At any rate, we’re all fine (for now), and our rocket stick is somehow giving us a connection at points. I'd imagine as we get further in, it'll eventually stop working. But hey, I don’t know how the fuck technology works. I just use it.

I should get some rest; we have a long walk ahead of us. We’ll keep in contact as much as we can. In the meantime, stay safe.

-August- We're Taking The Job

We must have a death wish. 


Are you happy, you insane bastard? We'll do your damn delivery.


Jesus rollerblading christ, we must be out of our minds. We have to be completely and utterly insane. This is a trap. It doesn't take a genius to see that.

But if we don't take it...

Spencer hasn't gotten any better. Not that this really surprises anybody. I went into his office a little while after the 'final assignment' went up to find the boss kicking and screaming and clawing and...

I don't want to talk about it.


It's been roughly a week since Spencer came back and I don't think I've seen him leave his office once. I remember visiting him the night he got back, only to nearly end up with a vase to the face and some shattered glass around the House and in my foot. I'd go into detail, but I honestly think they're things better left unsaid. Not to mention the fact that there's a certain somebody who would take great pleasure in his pain and, in all honesty, I'm not willing to grant him that satisfaction.

I saw him again today after Writer's post went up. You could hear him screaming from the glass doors that separate the East Wing from the rest of the House. When I got to his office, there was smashing. Lots of smashing. Crashing, thumping, and the office was in tatters when I eventually went in. The glass from the vase nearly six days ago had been scattered about the room, and the floor had been clawed up.

And Spencer...

I don't want to talk about it.


Doc found me outside the office, scratched up and utterly exhausted. I'm throwing this post up quickly then going to relay the news to the rest of the team: we leave at eight o'clock. Sharp.

We'll try and keep you posted. You know how these things work.

-August- Vegas

I found a number in my shirt pocket this morning, and I know for a fact it isn't the one Opal gave me.

Vegas is nice. Steele's decided to take something of a vacation and, in all honesty, it feel really, really nice to be out of the house for a while. The timing... could have been better. Elaine, I'm sorry I probably won't be back until you leave. And as for Star... well, you can all take care of yourselves. If there's any one group of people that I trust to survive locked in a house with a man who owns a Killdozer, it's you guys.

Maybe I'm just optimistic?

Boss, take a bit of alone time. Lock yourself somewhere away from Star and tend to your business - you know what I'm talking about. Do it now before it boils over and we get another incident like -Sam- Surgery. 


Right, so, a little hung over. We're stay in some high-end hotel and have a room about the size of the second floor of our house back home. While there isn't a kitchenette, the food is fantastic so I guess I'm not complaining.

(My pancakes are better.)

After... whatever happened last night, a strawberry banana smoothie sounds wonderful. Once Steele wakes up (and I'm sure he'll delight in telling me what I did last night) I think we're going to get some breakfast. But until then, let's recap.

We left the same night Steele and Spencer had their disagreement, a few hours after everything had calmed down in the house. I figured Steele needed to get away from everything at home for a bit, and I did have a delivery I had to make. Lis of No Pressue = No Diamonds had also requested a spent a bit of time with her, and after everything they had been through... well, I wasn't about to turn them down. It was a small detour to where they were staying, and I sent Steele to pick up cleaning supplies and other things while I made pancakes and tried to help them all I could.

Remember that Opal girl I delivered to some time ago? Well, Corwin had something for her. While she's listed the details on her own blog, I think I sum it up nicely when I say that it only reinforces the fact that he's something of a bastard. The way the email had been worded, the package, the place we went meant to pick up the package... a lot of it screamed 'trap' to me, honestly.

Well, until we arrived at the coordinates he had sent us, and ended up somewhere down a long stretch of highway outside a small town. A Burger King sign sat right where the GPS had told us to stop, and at the foot of it sat the package.

It was five hours to where Opal had been staying, and honestly I didn't want to stick around too long. I had that nagging sense of danger around us, and could have sworn somebody was watching us from one of the windows of inn. It was sometime around then that Steele mentioned he had booked a premier suite in Vegas.

In all honesty, a vacation was the most appealing idea in the world at that time. I love you all, but August needs a vacation and has been cooped up that house for far, far too long. You all know how to take care of yourselves, and we're both doing fine over here. Doc, I'm sorry if I worried you because I didn't call last night.

Everything's fine here, and while I'm still more than a little nervous about what happened last night, I'd say everything's gone well. Delivery was no hassle, Lis is... hopefully better, and we should be back... well, I don't know, actually. I'll ask Steele about that.

Speaking of Steele, I think I hear him in the next room. Y'all stay safe, alright? Call me if anything happens, and good luck with Star.

Again, Elaine, I'm sorry. I hope I get to see you again, and best of luck with everything.

Be home soon, guys. Try to not do anything too stupid when I'm gone, and remember; if you can't grasp how the oven works, the microwave is always a viable option.

-August- Home Again

I'm sorry, Schrodinger, that I couldn't be around to say hello or cook you a meal. Nevada's a long way away and I really wish I had driven faster... oh well. What can you do? If you're ever in the area again, you should stop by; I'll make you the best pancakes you've ever had in your life.

(Or, so Spencer tells me. But judging by what these people ate before I came here the bar wasn't exactly set high.)

Delivery went well, yadda yadda, driving for fifty hours sucks, bluh bluh, ELO is fantastic, Doc, I'm sorry I took your CDs, I'm tired, good night.

You can read about the drop off here if you're so curious. I'm going to get some rest so I can get back to cooking, cleaning and helping Elaine figure out what that key unlocks.

-August- Love is Like Oxygen

Sometimes I wonder, Spence, if you don't just leave these things in places where you know I'll be the only one to look there. Why was the Electric Light Orchestra discography behind our James Bond collection and how is it possible for music to be this good?

I don't think I've gotten through the first three albums in the last couple of days because this stuff is amazing.

And then I think to myself: you know, somebody probably hid them back there so nobody else would steal them while they were out. Because, let's face it; we are a courier service, we dotravel long distances crammed in cars - often alone. If it weren't for the constant run-ins with Slim n' Trim and his masked compadres we'd have serious trouble keeping ourselves in the appropriate sector of the BMI index.

Delivery's gone well so far; something about the Nevada sun seemed to wake me up and I got two extra hours of driving in before landing in a Holiday Inn in some tiny desert town. The owner seemed nice enough; a woman, looked to be about fifty. Gave me a bit of a strange look and asked what 'a young face like me was doing 'round these parts?' I just smiled and asked her for a room.

Pickup ended up being near the MGM Grand, a wonderful and expensive-looking hotel and casino. All I could find myself thinking, as I stood at the foot of a lion that looked to be made of something very, very pricey, was 'how many poor suckers lost their life fortunes behind those doors?'

Triple digits, at least - and that's annually.

The package I'm delivering is a notebook, green in color with intricate white swirls. I know better than to open it, mostly due to the fact that I can't seem to look at the thing for very long without developing a horrible headache.

I've kept it in the back of the Explorer because I'm getting horrible vibes off the thing Just another mad woman's notebook, I keeping telling myself. It's not the first you've delivered and certainly not the last.

...

Oh!

The new car.

The payment for this delivery was a car of the sender's; apparently one of the only thing the girl has left. While it's far from a luxury car you can tell she's had it for a while, and the personality really shines through. It's a blue Ford Explorer and something of a gas guzzler, but the suspension is fantastic and makes some of the rougher parts of the highway much more comfortable.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pretend that my sleep schedule is something close to normal and stare at the ceiling for a couple hours.

Be home soon. Be safe, yeah? Best of luck to everybody.

-August- Even While We Rebuild the Shambles of Our Family

We're expected to go on delivery.

By the time this is posted I'll probably be somewhere along the I-70; someone in Nevada sent me an email and it seemed like she was in need of some urgent help, and I'm not one to turn down somebody in need.

Sam'll be on delivery too, but I don't think she'll be gone for more than a day; the woman she's delivering to is an old friend of Spencer's - a researcher. She needs things shipped in a lot and it's become something of a regular thing for us to see her.

(Pays well, too.)

The pick-up's near one of those fancy hotel casinos, and I'm not lying when I tell you I can't wait until I'm old enough to actually stay in one. I'll be traveling from Vegas to Wichita - roughly twenty hours if I stay on the highway; I figure I'll take it five hours at a time and crash in a hotel every night. As for the drive back? Another 26 hours or so. All in all, another week-long delivery.

The usual.

Alright, you kids know the deal: dinners are in the freezer, they're labeled, eat whatever and whenever you'd like. Laundry can wait until I get back unless you need it done, in which case you're on your own. Can you please, please, please try to not bleed all over the carpets again while I'm gone? We're out of stain devil so I'll be picking some up... sometime on my way back home.

(Why do I always seem get the long deliveries, anyways?)

I'll be flying to Vegas, meaning the van'll be at home; but the AC/DC and ELO discographies are with me.

I'll try to post and/or call once a night, but all in all it should be a pretty standard delivery.

Oh, and don't worry about how I'll get back home, either; you see, I'm getting a new car for this one.

Let's just hope it will survive the 40 hour trip across the country, yeah?

See you soon.

-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.

-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!)

-August- Back Home

Well, that took considerably longer than I thought it would.

Almost a week longer than I thought it would, actually. All thanks to a note taped to the sender's door when I arrived on Wednesday night.

"To the courier -

Took the package myself. Hope the money will cover the gas cost.

God bless,

Stephanie"

I could already see this was going to be a nightmare, because of course I'm not allowed to just say 'oh, well, it's been taken care of' and take them money and run because of course it's never that easy, because there's no such thing as a normal delivery, especially if you're doing it by yourself and especially if you called us to do the delivery in the first place.

Oh, and the small stack of bills she left didn't even begin to cover the costs of travelling from the house to NYC. So there's always that.

... So I was going to hunt her down, then. A near impossible task considering the size of the big apple and the fact that Runners are usually really, really hard to find considering they're people who manage to stay mostly out of reach of Slim N' Trim himself.

Not exactly the easiest of tasks.

But as luck would have it, what do I hear over the radio as I start up the FREE CANDY van?

"... no evidence found. One child reported a man in a suit near the scene of the crime. Police are investigating."

After twenty minutes of staring hopefully at the radio, the story wasn't mentioned again. I didn't catch the location, but if the fact that this was a little too coincidental was anything to go by, I figured I could take a guess as to where the body had been found, and who the body belonged to.

I got to Central Park a bit before midnight, (Jesus Rollerblading Christ this is such a big city.) meaning most reasonable people had left and most of the police force had been sent out. I'll save you the details and tell you that the Central Park Police really know what they're doing.

Looks like I'd get lucky twice today, because the package was on the girl (or what was left of her) and I managed to get out without being caught.

I don't know how, either.

The drop-off was some little village called Mystic in Connecticut. (You may proceed to chuckle at the coincidence; I certainly did.) A five hour drive to avoid the mind-numbingly boring I-95.

But hey, despite having a case of wicked nausea that kept me pulled over every hour or so, (still haven't gotten all the Slendergunk out of me) I had Queen to keep me company.

She's a killer queen

Gunpowder, Gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Let me tell you a few things about the village of Mystic.

The village of Mystic is not a recognized municipality.

The village of Mystic has a population of 4001 people.

The village of Mystic has a total area of 3.8 square miles.

About ten percent of that is water.

The village of Mystic is located within another city by the name of Groton.

And on top of this, there's also the village of Old Mystic, which is about two miles bigger and actually marked on a map.

Needless to say, it was really, really easy to miss.

And guess which one I wasted a whole day in, before driving back out to the larger town of Groton to ask somebody who might actually know what they're doing.

Well, I found it.

It was Sunday by then. I had split the driving up into two days (I think I would die driving for five straight hours. Three hours on and off when I go on delivery with someone else is torture) and wasted Saturday in Old Mystic, growing increasingly frustrated and loathsome of the tiny cardboard box in the passenger's seat. I had decided sometime around Friday evening that there would be nothing short of heaven on earth that would make this delivery worth it. Hunting down a victim, stealing evidence, hundreds of dollars in gas money and fast food.

There's a reason I learned how to cook, you know.

Maybe one day I'll tell you.

Ha.

But back to the delivery.

On the box was an address somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, (And by suburbs, I mean about fifty town houses clustered together with a park somewhere in the middle.) and guess who was waiting for me when I arrived?

Nobody. I was about ready to break into the house, steal whatever was of value, drop the box and get home when their neighbor, regarding the package in my hand, approached me.

"Excuse me, little miss, can I help you?"

He was in his late 40s; salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet clinging to his eyes. A slight grin was playing on his face, brown eyes looking me up and down.

Creep.

"Delivery for mister... Church?" I ignored the middle bit of that statement. You're here to do a delivery, not to make enemies. Calm, calm...

His brow raised slightly. "Ian's not around, girly. If you step inside I'd be happy to sign for-"

"If you could just give me the spare key I can leave it inside."

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Nothing in that man's eyes was to be trusted. I took a step back and cut him off, trying very, very hard to hide the obvious irritation in my tone.

Needless to say, I failed.

He didn't like this one bit.

"Now listen here, you gotta be a little more respectful than-"

"We have explicit instructions from both Ian and the sender to leave it inside. It's very valuable. Something about a deceased relative? Anyways, he wants it inside and told me one of the neighbors would have the key."

Blatant lies.

Spencer had taught me well.

(And the nausea's acting up again. Jesus Rollerblading Christ. I need to get into a bathroom. Quickly.)

He didn't argue much after that, retreating back into the house and returning shortly with a key. Grumbling and some less-than-savory language may have been involved in the process, but I was beyond caring. The end was finally in sight.

There was no note because no doubt Mr. Church had expected this package days ago. He was probably on his way to New York to see the sender and... well, he wouldn't like what he found.

I entered the kitchen and left the cardboard box on the counter, glad to finally have that thing off my hands.

And then I realized.

I didn't specify payment.

And how did I know this?

By the stack of bills sitting in a clip on the counter, marked 'FOR THE DELIVERY.'

Notes on the fridge, on the table, in frames on the walls and written on the floor told me this guy had horrible memory issues. Induced by Slim N' Trim? Maybe. But I really didn't care. Something told me this guy would need the money for himself, if only to buy more stickies to write down his name, his home address, and why he's living alone and what was in the package.

A wedding band.

...

Suddenly, this hell became completely worth it.

I didn't take the cash, but there were some fantastic Italian cookbooks in the drawers next to the kitchen. I grabbed a couple (and one East Indian, mmmmmm~) and left my own note.

The drive home would take me another nine hours. Again, I split it into two days.

So now it's Wednesday at 5 AM and I come home, and of course the house is still a mess because I can't expect them to clean, but somebody did the dishes and the kitchen has been scrubbed down, though the smell of vomit and Slendergunk still clings to the air.

I'm dead tired and collapse onto the kitchen table, realizing how comfortable the chair is and what a great pillow this table makes.

I realize the others will be up in an hour or so.

I realize somebody needs to cook them breakfast.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I drag my legs up from under the chair and practically crawl towards the fridge, stubbing my toe in the dark (because by now I'm used to the headlights of the van) on the counter and yelping like a puppy who's taken his first fall down a flight of stairs.

The light from the inside of the fridge burns my eyes, and I'm looking through two hazy slits.

What's sitting on the top shelf?

A piece of cake, covered in plastic wrap, garnished with a piece of paper.

"Happy birthday, August!

♥"

Awwwwww.

It's got strawberry frosting jesus rollerblading christ strawberry frosting is my favorite and it could be made of sand and garnished with dandelion heads and it would still taste like sweet, sweet, strawberry-frosted heaven.

Breakfast would have to wait a few minutes, and the slight sugar high made pancakes much, much easier. I also only ended up cooking for five of us seeing as Steele and Todd have flown the coup, (at least for now) which is good because I only made half the recipe.

Anyways, Spencer says we're invited to a wedding tomorrow? I guess I'll have to catch up on blogs some other time. I've got a week's worth of sleep to catch up on and an outfit to plan out.

...

Wait.

Spencer, I'm wearing a what?!

-August- Happy Birthday To Me.

Eighteen.

Hey Todd, you're finally allowed to not feel guilty about staring at me like that in all fifty states.

Woo.

Spence has something in NYC he needs me to pick up. Normally I'd argue why he couldn't get it himself, but we've already had our weekly disagreement (twelve years, huh?) and I'm kind of glad to be getting out of the house. The events of the eighth don't exactly give me any grounds to argue on, (as the boss pointed out himself) so I guess it's living in a van for a few days for me.

New York's a ways away and I'll be handling a couple small things of my own; cameras in certain areas and those radio stations are still in need of repair, especially considering one went down with a fire in Manhattan.

(Maybe our little pyromaniacal friend from before? No, no, no, he should be... )

Taking the van. We've got bikes thanks to Spencer's... connections so if you really need to get out there are always those. We're all hermits anyways so I really don't see how it matters.

Love love, be home soon, don't do anything stupid,

August

-Spencer- Team, I know I said...

That I wouldn't be saying anything about The Loop.
(In less eloquent a motion, of course)
But the boss is drinkin' and in a talkin' mood now and now that the delivery is done it seems that 've calmed down a bit.

If I keep sain' that, do y'think I'll start to believe it?

Loops. I fuckin' hate them. If we live on pages of paper in a stack then Loops are that little bit of space in between each of 'em. And I'm not sure what everyone else's Loops are like, but mine are fucking weird (READ: Understatement)

The package got delivered, that's what counts. Don't really like these guys; they're a peice of work.

"You realize that if you weren't needed for your services...." Black suit numero uno looked at me, and I found m'self thinking that they really need to wear nametags.

"Well, it's a damn good thing we're needed then, isn't it?" I was grinnin', o'course; this guy was eyein' August and it was pissin' me off. I'm far from short and was almost chest to chest with this guy until he pressed the package into my hands, stalking off in what I could only assume to be an arrogant huff.

"How's the Zeke situation going, by the way?" I called, and he gave me a glare of seething anger before tossing me a rather large stack of bills.

Wowee. If I couldn't deal with these guys, I could certainly deal with their cash.

"It's a thin line that you're treading on, _________."

He's lucky that semi passed by just as he said that name, or else...

Let's not get into that. From there, it was into the loop and-
And...

Sam still hasn't recovered. not surprised, o'course; it was her first time and sometimes it can mess y'up in the head for days or weeks 'till you're back to normal. She'll be fine.

... Just don't get it. Jus'don't get it.

"Guys, wait up a bit, can't y'see I'm stuck in a crowd here?"

"...Spence?"

"What?"

"Spence, there is no crowd. We're all alone in here."

Ahahaha.
Ahahahahahaha.

Maybe they didn't know'em.
There were four more in the crowd since las'time.

Why won't y'let me forget, y'bastard?

And every time, it gets worse.

-August- Timey-Wimey Nonsense

Because a couple hours in surrealist art is not how I wanted to spend the last three days.

For those of you not following, let me give you a brief explanation: call them what you will, Mazes, Labyrinths, Loops, Hell, Why-Is-There-A-House-Floating-In-Mid-Air-Moutains-Aren't-Supposed-To-Form-Sideways-Like-That-oh-god-when-did-the-sidewalk-end-and-why-is-there-water-flowing-up-a-tree; they're pocket dimensions and they're a massive pain.

Not only do we have to worry about the neigh-infinite onslaught of proxies, as the description above points out they're also incredibly confusing. This is basically the place that physics forgot, and buildings bend in on themselves like something out of Inception, layers upon layers upon layers of reality included.

(But we'll get to that later, won't we?)

Another parallel I will so shamelessly make is the timey-wimey nonsense, from which I finally find a name for this post. Maybe it's an effect only we've noticed, (judging by Operation Wintergreen, Ava's experience in them and countless others I won't list, it's quite the contrary) but time seems to move differently, and it's completely random so every time we finally get out we have to find somewhere with a regular clock. What was a couple of hours in the loop was three whole days in the real world, so no doubt the government bigwigs are wondering where we are.

If there's any good news, it's that we've got the package and we're out of Detroit. That means 1) we're in vehicles, therefore moving faster, and 2) run-ins with our little masked compadres are sparse due to the fact that you can't be turned Blank by and eldritch abomination and pilot a car at the same time.

Sam's driving again, mostly because we haven't hit the country roads quite yet. This is probably the most boring part of the delivery, and we're all pretty disoriented after coming out of the Loop.

It's a weird feeling to lose time in a Loop. You try to fill in the three day gap and you get is two full hours between when you entered and when you got back to the van and starting listening to The Wall.

What can I say? I'm steadily developing a taste for classic rock.

-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.

-Sam- I'm only good at fighting when I'm in a vehicle.

It's true. As August mentioned earlier, I kicked some creepy masked dude ass today from our FREE CANDY van. The fact that I've ingested about four times the recommended daily amount of caffeine probably didn't hurt either. Right now I am so tired but I think sleep is completely out of the question, for lots of reasons.

I'm really not looking forward to the walking part of our delivery. On foot, I suck at fighting. Really, really suck at it. Doesn't help that most of my weapons came from some garage I broke into whilst escaping from the fiery doom that was my grandma's house. What am I supposed to do, fight off proxies with a hammer? (Also "whilst" was probably not the best word to use there but I like that word, dammit. Whilst. Whilst. Whilst whilst whilst. GOD I HAVE HAD SO MUCH CAFFEINE TODAY.)

Anyway, I have no idea where we are right now. Are we still moving? I really don't know. August is driving right now (obviously) and I think he may have gotten us lost. Again. (August would also like to point out that I have gotten us lost far more times than he has. Which is probably true. A lot of it is because I can't, you know, drive. Fortunately I'm a fast learner.)

...Hmm. What else is there to say right now? Well, I should have profound advice to offer like everyone else, but I just don't. I am not the profound advice kind of person. Right now the my thoughts mostly consist of "CAFFEINE GOOD" and "ACK MASKED GUY KILL IT KILL IT"

Whoa. I killed people today.

I. Killed. People. Today.

Shit, I can't think about this right now. Sam out.

-August- All the world will be your enemy, Prince of a Thousand enemies.

And when they catch you, they will kill you.

But first they must catch you.

I would like to take this time as Proxies on motorcycles (apparently we're not the only ones with access to bikes) take their time to try and give us a run for our money (ohh, right off the driver side door and onto the median. That's got to hurt. You go, Sam!) to pass on a few valuable lessons I've learn being in the courier business for... well, that's not important.

After spending a certain amount of time in the courier service, you learn a few things.

Firstly, you learn that there's no such thing as paranoid. There's only properly prepared and - as our little masked friend just demonstrated - dead meat.

Secondly, you learn that the logistics of a delivery isn't the most important part of said delivery.

No, no.

The most important part of said delivery is planning for that delivery to go wrong in the most gruesome and inconceivable way possible.

Take right now, for instance.

While this is far from the biggest set-back we've ever seen, (the biggest set-back in my experience involving an abandoned circus, one hundred pounds of C4, an elephant and an army of clowns, each and every one of them putting Pennywise to shame.) they're not exactly sunshine and rainbows.

We get by.

Perhaps I'm in no position to speak, though - this is only what, my fifth major delivery? Something like that. In all honesty I didn't think Spence expected me to survive my first time out of Dysfunction Junction, (and by that I, of course, mean the house - see 'It's Weird' for the full rant) let alone my first legitimate delivery. But as I've somehow managed to avoid becoming the next smear on the median of life, I've learned that he doesn't expect anybody to survive the first delivery. The seven of us have been at this the longest from what I gather talking to them, and newbies are brought in and drop off the face of the earth without so much as a batted lash.

I guess we're all just jaded.

Before I go and take over the driving so Sam can take a few shots at the motorcade coming up beside us, I'd like to leave you with one last message.

In our business, it's not about how you fight, or even if you fight well.

It's not about playing dirty or playing it straight.

It's about picking yourself up and dusting yourself off and worrying about washing the blood off yourself later.

It's about not stopping to wonder which one of you it belonged to.

And neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, nor the winds of change, nor a nation challenged, will stay us from the swift completion of our appointed rounds.