Here's the beginning of a bad joke for you: a noir detective, a dragon jewel-thief, a changeling and a wizard walk into a portal.
Okay- technically I'm not a detective, but I've got the coat of one. And I mean that literally; I stole it off a dead PI from somebody's murder-mystery universe.
My name's Sam Noire- look, I chose it when I was nine- and I'm the gal you call when things are acting up in candyland. The Department of Doors official investigator, I am; because weftmen have an unfortunate habit of making universes, cramming them full
with creativity and all that shit, then promptly forgetting about them. I go in, smash stuff until they show up, and we either decide they'll deregister the world, start maintaining and pruning it properly- or they deck me and we scrap it out instead.
In any case, I'm independent. One unit. All the department needs to maintain peace.
Unfortunately, Brunswick thinks otherwise.
Brunswick considers himself my boss: whether or not that's true is for the audience to decide. At any rate, he's got an office and I don't.
"Sam."
He greets me from behind his old wooden desk, morning light filtering in through the slats of his window. The Department of Doors building is situated between Camden public library and a distinguished old strip club; looking outside I can see the parents taking
their kids to story time, clashing with the guys walk-of-shaming home. From the outside, this place looks like so many old, official-looking red brick buildings. Just another dull ministry.
I take a sip of Brunswick's coffee- it's an old joke between us, and as per usual, I make a face.
"Sir, I don't know if you know this, sir, but you're drinking a cup of dirt. Sir."
He rolls his eyes, but I can see a smile breaking across his granite skin. He's a heavyset man, and I don't think I've ever seen him use the cream-yellow feathery wings on his back; not that I doubt he knows how to use them.
"I don't know if you know this, Sam, but that dirt is artisan."
I laugh a barking laugh.
"Anyway- I know I'm not here to chat, Brunsy. What's the news?"
Immediately I can tell something's off; the smile drops off his face like a biscuit dunked for too long. I run a hand through my hair, and a couple of short black strands come away.
Stress, probably.
"Now I know you're not going to like this."
I pause in the middle of unpicking the strands from my fingers.
It's difficult to do one-handed: the other one, covered in its gardening glove, lies limply on my lap. Dr Granis said the exercises should give it more motor movement, but the constant numbness hasn't stopped feeling odd- it's still so
unresponsive. The smallest thing I can pick up with it is an apple, if I really try.
"What is it?"
"Sam-
"You and I both know that the department will always be growing, exponentially."
I nod: there will always be more people adding in portal doors than getting rid of them, no matter what I do. We've had to put a couple of new corridors into their own portals, because of how little space we have. He nods a you-agree-right? nod.
"And I also know how hard you work at your job, but-
"The department can no longer run on the two of us alone."
"Oh I don't like where this is going."
He pauses, looking anywhere but my face.
"And I know you work so hard, but- do you think it'd be better if you had... you know, an assistant? A crew?"
I let him hang in the silence for a second, dramatic effect spoiled by a particularly loud child walking on the street below.
"Is it about the hand thing."
"Sam-"
"Brunswick. Look me in the eyes and tell me it isn't about the hand thing."
"It's not about the hand thing!"
"Really. You, Alfred Brunswick, solemnly swear that, at no point, did it occur to you that I need an assistant because of the hand thing."
"Alright yes! It is about the hand thing!"
I knew it'd be the answer, but hearing it still feels a little bit like a meat skewer being stabbed through my lung. Or like the time a meat skewer got stabbed through my lung.
"I know you don't want to hear this, but face it Sam: if someone else was with you it wouldn't have happened."
I can feel the bit of meat skewer the doctors said it'd be too hard to take out, sticking through my lung.
"If someone else was with me I'd have to look after them. I'd be working slower."
"And if they could look after themselves?"
I give him an incredulous look. In response, he hands me three brown envelopes.
"You didn't..."
He grins, pointing at each in turn.
"Lara Yazid: genuine wizard, and an actual weftman. Apparently, she did her Prathio writing on how to disrupt other people's portals- you know, like your job.
"Nymph Carbuncle: fresh out of Sunder, proper combat-telekinetic. Graduated from Taylor's: do you know how hard that is?
"And finally, Finn Evans. Changeling, so that's combat sorted. Self-taught weftman, so again: very little in the way of babysitting."
I eye the folders wearily. For a moment I feel like a Ludditite looking at a weaving machine.
"Look, I know you don't like this, but- I tried to get the best possible, okay?"
I look into his hopeful eyes. I know I can't strop off now.
"And when can I meet these... fine candidates?"
"Well, here's the thing-"
"Brunswick. Brunsy. Brunny-boy. Please don't tell me they're here."
He makes a sort of 'can't-do-anything-about-it' face.
"Come on in, guys!"
I watch in resolute horror as the three walk in from the side office, off to the left.
Finn Evans, as denoted in his file, is a 16yo male changeling with white-blond hair and glasses. What the file photo neglected to tell me about was the ice-blue scales that cover the sides of his cheeks like pubescent fuzz, the shark-like canines in his mouth,
or the eyeliner and platform boots. As soon as he sees me he begins to shrink back, as if suddenly realising who he is and what he's doing. He's got gummy bear earrings in, I notice.
Lara Yazid is a hijabi woman wearing a velvet blue cape, over a flowy black silk suit. She's tall, taller than me. Her hijab is dark blue, covered in little golden stars- she also has a star nose piercing. She looks at me directly and winks like we have a
secret to share.
Nymph Carbuncle is a dragon, though I will admit I thought it was fancy dress to begin with. Petite, quite a bit shorter than me. Her wings are papery and white with pointed edges, and you can just see the tips of small antennae poking out from under her messy
brown hair- coupled with the spring-green tulle dress she's wearing, she looks like something out of midsummer night's dream.
(Most dragons don't do the scales-and-fire thing, it's a very small percentage of the population. Though I do like how most 'fairy' sightings come from them, instead of the much more eldritch-looking fae.)
She looks at me from behind a thick, straight-cut fringe, the variety of beautiful person you could fall in love with on the underground and never see again. Her hair, a deep brown colour, has been very deliberately styled to look messy and curled; her eyes, also
deep brown, are laden with thick mascara and dark eyeshadow. She nods to me quickly, as if she's just remembered to be deferential.
"Sam, this is everyone," Brunswick says: "everyone, this is Sam."
If he sees me staring daggers at him, he doesn't mention it.
"Now, Sam, I believe you're going to take these guys, you know, train them up?" he says, trying to get me to nod along.
I make a deeply indignant sigh; eyeing up the group, I nod towards the door and start walking.
"The name's Sam, Sam Noire." As I leave the office, I see the others trailing behind like lost ducklings. "Anyone who calls me Sammy, Sam-Sam, Samantha or Samuel will be left inside the portal to make their own way home."
"Portal?" I look behind me. The speaker is Nymph: she's got a huskier voice than expected, and a strong Sundurian accent. "We're going through a portal?"
I'm about to tell her how stupid of a question that is when something makes me stop. There's every possibility that Brunswick implied I would be doing a much more chalk-and-blackboard kind of teaching than I am. As someone who wouldn't consider
herself a teacher at all: I'm not going to let babysitting stop my schedule.
"I hear and I forget; I see and I remember; I do and I understand. Anyone know where that's from?"
I push open a door and lead them down the staircase. Here are the Doors: a long, narrow corridor of colourful entrances stretches out in front of us, each with a little plaque on the side like a museum exhibit. These are all the public ones, ones that people
can view- not that they ever do, of course. I could probably name you every door down this corridor, and its description.
Amir Aldgate: glass revolving door.
Anna Axel: beach hut.
"Sun Tzu: art of war," someone says behind me. It's Lara Yazid. "That's what it's from."
"It's from a poster in my year nine maths classroom," I say, turning and walking down one of the many, many rows of doors. "But good guess."
Finally, I stop at a door. I couldn't tell you this one from sight; it's too far away from the entrance.
Jerry Dalton: inconspicuous shop-like entrance.
According to my notes, Jerry Dalton hasn't entered this universe for over six months. Hopefully, it hasn't grown a Minotaur yet- being in the public section, that could become very dangerous indeed. Unfortunately, the outside doesn't tell me
anything about what's in store. It's just a wooden door, with a brass doorknob and a frosted window panel- the ultimate anything portal.
Against the circumstances, I grin. Best part of the job is this: the unknowing. Jumping in totally blind, ready to see what insane creativity someone's blended up and left to fester. As long as it's not another bloody candyland, every universe is unique.
The best look you can ever have into someone's mind.
The best way to know someone is to see what they do when they can do anything- that's what my mother told me.
Right now, however, I am reminded of my circumstance as Ms Yazid slides into file, the last to crowd round the door.
"Okay: this is my first portal of the day, and I need to speak to whoever mans it. Best way to do that? Destroy things until they get fed up and tell us to stop. You want to do the honours?"
I click at Finn: he's closest to the door, and as a weftman he should know how it opens. And yet-
He blanches at my command, eyes as wide as if I'd asked him to kill his grandmother.
"Well?"
I watch, incredulous, as the boy actually tries to turn the doorknob. He's clearly rather red in the face, repeatedly shaking the handle as if it isn't clearly locked.
"Oh for crying out loud..."
I push him aside, and I can see him shaking as I do so. It's almost a reflex, now: as soon as I touch my fingers where a key would be in the lock, one forms. My stainless steel door key- the same one I had for my house as a kid. I click open the lock, open
the door, then shut and lock it again before turning to face Finn.
"Were you sleeping through the lesson on opening portals?"
I can't help feeling bad for the poor guy: he seems to be trying to shrink into his leather coat as I glare down on him, patches of scales spreading up his neck in a race against an embarrassed blush. Whatever ruse he's pulling, he's sorry now.
"I'm self taught," he tries, sounding as unconvinced as me.
"So am I. Must be hard, being a weftman without knowing how to open up a portal."
"Well-
"I-"
He sighs deeply, and I'm glad for it: he seems more confident having given up. For a moment, I swear I can see a flash of something dark cross his pupils.
"Look- you don't know how hard it is, being a changeling. Believe me, I don't want to be here! I should- I want to be- doing my A levels! But I'm not! Because everything's fine for sixteen years, and then these grow in-"
he points at his scales, saying that-
"and then thesh gaw in-"
he points at his teeth, saying that-
"and do you know how terrifying that is? To suddenly have the voice in your head not be your voice, and whenever you look in the mirror you see the thing you're going to turn into if you're not careful-
"and it's not like I've got much in the way of great role models to look up to! My shitty fae mother hasn't spoken to me, ever, and my Dad's like- a plumber. He didn't ask for this, he didn't know
anything about this, he had to pull so many strings just to find me something tangentially related to magic! And-"
I put out a hand to stop him. He shuts up instantly: I can see the nerves and the fears and the teenage insecurities all pouring out at once, out into the tears pricking at his eyes.
I'm responsible for this child's well-being.
"Oh... okay- ah-" I pat the many pockets of my coat, trying to find what I know is somewhere. Eventually, I pull out an ancient packet of werther's originals, which I wave in Finn's direction.
"Want one?"
He nods glumly, sniffs, and takes a sweet. I wince, watching as he dabs his eyes and leaves a trail of eyeliner behind.
"I don't know... I mean, I might be able to open up portals... I might have magic..."
"Everyone has magic," I say offhandedly, before remembering that's not in the handbook of things you say to someone crying. "Ah- anyway. You may as well stay, transport'll be a nightmare right now."
he smiles a watery smile at me.
Jerry Dalton's door stands in front of me, reminding me of my schedule.
"Okay! So then, Nymph. Kinetic, right?" She nods, looking at Finn. I see the mark on her hand- a slash, like a cut wound. Odd shape: I've never heard of a kinetic with a slash mark before. "Well, if you went to
Taylor's they should have taught you how to open a portal."
She hesitates, almost going to move but stopping at the last second.
"Oh come on..."
"Look-" she looks me in the eyes. "I wasn't lying. I just happen to have... been taught at the school of life, shall we say."
"No-" I pinch the bridge of my nose. "No we shan't say. You said something that wasn't true, that's literally the definition of a lie."
"Well!"
I get ready for a right performance.
"I might not have a certificate, and yes, I might be a bit new to magic, but I'm no fairy light in a battle, I assure you that!
"If it's a right hand man you need, I'll be it for you."
I'm staggering from the bluntness of the statement- but I know she's right. I'm not sure how targeted the hand comment was, though, but-
Something in her eyes tells me she's willing. There's an alertness, an energy to her. She reminds me of a dagger: light, but very sharp. She reminds me of someone I used to know very well.
Still she can't open the door and that's kind of what I need right now.
Nodding at her authoritatively, I turn to the last member of our sorry party: a one Lara Yazid, who is crouching with her back to me.
"Ms Yazid- please tell me you weren't lying on your resume."
She turns round as if she had only just remembered I exist; she's shielding whatever she was doing before behind her legs.
"I'm an officially-licenced wizard, all fives in my practhio, graduated from Beadorm top of my class. It's all on record."
She then turns right back to whatever she had been doing: now I creep towards her, trying to see what's going on.
I watch her take a watering can out of a little door that has appeared in midair. With it, she waters a plant in a terracotta pot. The plant is dark green, with spear shaped leaves- a mint plant.
"What are you doing?"
She whips round in alarm.
"Sorry- are you not allowed to water plants in here?"
"No- I mean- broader question: why are you watering a plant?"
"Menthe needs to be watered every day at 10 o'clock," she explains patiently. She then breaks a sprig of mint off- she puts one leaf in her mouth, then hands me the rest of it.
"Have this."
I do the only think I can think to do: I chew down the smallest leaf I can, putting the rest of it in a pocket.
It tastes like a leaf.
"Thank you," I say, gulping it down. "Now, would you like to show the class how it's done?"
For a moment she considers it, as if there were many options she could have chosen. She pushes the plant and watering can into the little door- it shuts, and instantly disappears.
Purse portal. Smart.
Then, she stands up and waves towards the door.
If key-casting is reflexive for me, it's downright instinct for her. She barely needs to consider looking at the door when a rough-carved, rusty iron key appears in the lock. She smirks at me as it turns, all by itself.
"I assure you, Ms Noire, I did not lie on my resume."
I just nod, open the door, and step through.
There are several things that should have been more pressing than what I first consider, walking through the doorway. Perhaps the overgrown vines that cover the path ahead- unnatural, oversaturated green, these writhing things the colour of highlighters.
Perhaps the smell of stale sweetness in the air.
Perhaps I should have considered the Minotaur that stands in front of me: an amorphous Frankenstein's monster of chewing gum and soft taffy, lumbering towards me like something that shouldn't be bipedal.
No, this is not the first thing I consider, stepping through the door.
The first thing I think?
God. Another bloody candyland.
Long ago, longer far than I care to tell, a house resided on this land. It was no great masterwork: yet for the farmer that worked these boundaries, it was a source of glowing pride.
Back then I thought myself a spirit of the land, of course. I lashed rain and wind upon great old trees that grew; and when they were gone I made the churned earth sodden with my storms. I was angry- the little control I had over my
circumstance was a constant struggle, and so, I forced all the might I could over the land.
One night, I had moulded myself into a massive thunderstorm. The sort that lashes at the windows and slams the stable doors, rain tearing at the thatched roof as if I could tear this place down. And I wanted to: I resented this place, and
these people, and the way they churn and till and mark me. But as I hurled myself at the little glass window, causing the handmade piece to shudder in its frame, I saw a glimpse of orange light.
The farmer, his wife, and his children; huddled round the womb-like warmth of the fireplace, laughing and giggling at whatever took their minds off me.
And that man's laughter, and the gentle smile on the woman's face- they were warmth. As they told the wide-eyed children tales of dragons and princesses and things far more dangerous than thunder, I felt something I had never
felt before.
I wanted to be warm. I wanted to sit around a fire and tell stories, to laugh and joke and feel something other than this, to be safe and loved and to be safety and to be love. I wish to be the light I see.
And because it was all far less regulated in those days, I asked the fireplace if I could take its place and it agreed. The family grinned with relief that the rain had stopped, and I became the spirit of the hearth.
But all good things aren't meant to be, of course. It was not an age before there was nobody left to light the fire, to tell a story or sing a song. Lime crumbling and thatch rotting, the house fell into inevitable disrepair; I
watched it sputter out. I was left to sit in a cold stone hearth, waiting for someone to find me once again.
The man who bought and demolished the property was one Edward Miller, something he frequently made very clear. He wore flat caps and smoked cigars and had one tooth missing- and when he looked at the hearth where I sat, he told the men
with hammers and mallets to work around this part.
The days of the pub were warmth of a different kind. I sat proudly with my new stone chimney to surround me, and kept a fire crackling as the men around me joked and sang; they would say cheers, and I would respond by flickering grandly.
Bertie, the old pub dog, enjoyed sleeping next to me. A big, solid dog he was, with cream-grey fur- I watched him dream each night happily. I became the spirit of the pub.
And yet, once again, the pub was snuffed out; by local chain restaurants and the new people forcing the old ones out, mostly.
The years post-pub were some of the darker. It felt like living in a corpse: walls once lit with heat and noise are sallow and grey in the morning, I found. Without people to tread their way across it, the carpet was only grubby and
threadbare. I didn't move. All I did for a year was look at the spot old Bertie used to dream on.
And then, finally, Andrew.
Andrew arrived in a blue polo shirt and a red tie, holding a clipboard- and the moment he saw the fireplace, he said we needed to preserve it. There were quite a few battles over my home, actually: some said I should be in a museum,
others argued I should be sold. But Andrew disagreed.
He said I should be put into the wall, right where people come in. It'll make this place different to all the other IKEAs in the world.
And so, here I am.
I enjoy watching the revolving door, and all the children grinning, delighted to go through it. I spend every morning in the different display rooms: I listen to the people who sit on the sofas and lie on the beds and imagine what life
would be like if they lived in an IKEA showroom. The furnishings are brilliant- I like to join debates on whether or not you could ever use a ladle that doubles as a dustpan, and whether that pillow is better than this one.
But my favourite will always be the lights. Sometimes I just stand at the end of a seemingly endless aisle, looking with wonder at the glowing yellow. In my head the lights are everywhere, eclectic and entrancing- a market of wonder, of
wonderful items. My hearth is mounted on the wall to one side. Over it, somebody has printed out a piece of paper. It says 'the original lightbulb', in block letters.
And this, I know, is what I was meant for. I am the hearth of a thousand families hourly; I listen to their jokes, hear small children sing as they crawl through play-tunnels and run around the playground. The warmth here is not
constrained by winter. Overhead, a thousand lights illuminate a thousand corners, and sallow light cannot reach through our thick walls. We are unbuffered by rain or storm: not that I'd ever let them touch my land.
I am the spirit of the Reading IKEA furniture store. I am the light.
And I will not let it flicker out again.
Unbeloved: family reunions just got way more weird.
Episode 1.
(Opens on DAVID, sitting in the confessional booth: a blank white room with harsh overhead light, so bright you can't make out where the floor meets the wall. David is a man in his early fifties, with deep purple skin. On his bald
head, eyes of different colours swivel round. INQUIRE calls from behind the camera.)
Inquire: where were you when it happened?
David: I was at my cubicle.
(Cut to RILEY in the booth: see below.)
Riley: at school.
(Cut to FINN.)
Finn: nursery.
(Cut to HARLOW.)
Harlow: slot machines. Back of Lucky Diamond.
(Cut to SARA.)
Sara: I was at home, luckily.
(Beat plays. Opening title sequence is shown- name of the show in big white font with footage of shrines and families behind it.
Focuses back in on RILEY in the booth. Riley is a sixteen year old girl. Parts of her skin, including one eye, are not there: where they should be there is only fleshy blank space. Her hair is in cornrows, which she fiddles with whilst
speaking.)
Riley: it was like- sorry-
It was about 11 in the morning. Period two; biology, I remember that. I can't remember what we were doing though- probably a worksheet. Dr Dald gave us a lot of worksheets.
Suddenly-
(Footage of the incident. We watch Riley- without the holes in her face- wince in pain at a wooden desk, something nearby classmates fail to notice.)
There was this, stabbing pain. In my right eye. And I can see it start to go dark.
And I'm kind of freaking out? But at the same time I have really low blood pressure, and I've- y'know- blacked out before. It's not like it was totally unheard of for me to faint for a minute- this did feel different,
though. This was pain, like I'd just had a needle shoved in through my eye.
But I knew, realistically, that that hadn't happened. Someone behind me whispered 'go away', I felt my phone buzz in my back pocket.
So I asked to go to the bathroom.
(Blurry shot of Riley asking a teacher to leave. Everything is fuzzy and wobbly, and there is a ringing heard behind the muffled sounds of her speaking.
Cut to Harlow. Harlow is in their late thirties; wiry, muscular and androgynous. They have a flesh tunnel in each ear, head shaved with a flop of neon green-dyed hair. A pattern of golden rivulets cover their skin like a map of veins,
contrasting with their silver eyeliner and lipstick.)
Harlow: yeah, I know. I'd just been paid, and here I was! Blowing it all away. Unfortunately, the bit of your brain telling you to be smart melts the moment you have money- that's what I've found, at least. The lucky
diamond was the least rigged casino on the Blackpool seafront, though that's not saying much.
(Footage of pre-transformation Harlow in the casino, a loud and colourful place with bright flashing lights and sticky carpets. It is lit mainly by the glow of slot machines, one of which Harlow is playing at.)
I didn't know why, but something that day felt... different. Like there was some guiding force, leading me in. But I've seen far too many people give in to gambler's superstition: there wasn't a hand over my own,
telling me when to pull the lever down. That'd be stupid.
But to say I was on a winning streak would be understating it.
In fact, I was one reel away from winning the jackpot. That's one of the things you learn, though- never get too excited. Nothing's certain; but in that moment I felt like it was.
General advice is to just pull down whenever. You can't predict what's going to happen, that's the RNG's job. But that day? Something in me said to wait.
Wait.
W
A
I-
Just before I go to do it, my phone beeps in my pocket- the distraction makes me a millisecond off. I know that, as the display flickers, I've just lost.
I should be devastated, but I'm not. An odd rush of heat passes through me; I knew it was insane, but I could have sworn I heard a voice whisper.
Better luck next time.
The heat passes through again, stronger than before. It feels like something scrubbing at my skin with boiling water-
Not knowing what to do, I checked my phone.
There is a message from my cousin Michael, on the family WhatsApp group. Michael's the odd one of our family- 'odd' in that he's immensely wealthy, lives in a mansion, and gives us all vouchers for Christmas. More
importantly: I don't think I've ever seen him write a message. I assumed that the group was designated to a family phone, one that he never texts; Michael had at least three phones.
Anyway, the message said-
(Cut to DAVID.)
David: 'I'm sorry.'
(Shaking his head)
My brother. Hadn't heard from him in over a year, and the moment he says sorry? He leaves.
Yes. Michael left the chat. He then blocked me from calling him, deleted his very scarce Facebook account, and presumably threw the phone of a cliff.
(Cut to footage of pre-transformation David in a grey office cubicle, sitting at a generic desk and looking at a large grey computer. In the corner a wilted desk plant sits.)
As strange as I thought this was, I ignored it. There were other things to do, as there always were.
Unfortunately, my eyes weren't focusing.
(Cut to shot of blurred text on the computer screen. David looking confused.)
And I heard a voice.
(Pre-transform David in scene)
Voice: hello.
David: (speaking in scene) what? Who's that?
Voice: that's a surprise for later! Would you like to see something?
David: oh. It's a joke. Very funny.
Voice: what would you like to see?
David: I get it! Prank me. Prank the weird guy in the corner. Well guess what! I can see everything you do.
Voice: is that your final answer?
David: yes, I'm sure I'm-
(Cut to David in booth.)
David: And then I saw everything.
(Cut to FINN in booth. Finn, a young man with blond hair and brown eyes, looks away from the camera whilst speaking.)
Finn: (formally) I was four years and eleven months old at the time.
(Footage of Finn as a child, sitting in the corner with an exaggerated frown on his face.)
Finn (cont.) I had been put into the naughty corner, due to a grievous miscarriage of justice. I was trying to make a glitter card for my parent, when that bastard Suzie Tanner knocked over the glitter pot.
Innocent though I was, nobody listened when I told them it was her and not me. I was cruelly shut down, told not to tell lies, and sat down in the corner of absolute shame.
So yes: I blame the grown ups for this one.
Sitting there, I began to feel odd. Seasick, almost. But when I told them that, they scolded me for lying! Again!
And my head's hurting as well, by the way. Awfully. It felt like more things were being crammed into it than were allowed into my brain could tolerate, and it was getting to the point that I knew something was about to happen. I felt
like I was going to throw up.
So I made a break for the bathroom. This was the most independent I'd ever been at the time of course; but some part of me, pulling open those blue double doors, knew I was ready.
Locking myself into the cubicle, the last thing I heard was a voice in my ear; it told me 'in age, we understand'. That was the point I blacked out, of course.
I was four then, and naive. But I'm five now- and I know an awful lot more.
(Cut to Riley pre-transformation, steadying herself at a sink in an empty school bathroom.)
Riley: it was only getting worse. The part that hurt most was still my eye, but it was spreading- there were marks, like needlepoints, all over me. Concentrated in random spots. I was breathing way too heavily, barely able to stand. The
world spun around me. I told myself I was fine, that the pain was momentary, all the while lying half in the sink to stop myself from collapsing. For one horrible moment, I couldn't breathe.
Then it stopped.
I still could not see through my right eye, but otherwise? I was fine. I felt more than fine, actually. Post-adrenaline chemicals flooded through me and I took a long, deep breath before looking in the mirror.
I had no eye.
I didn't have an eye. There were several more pieces of me missing but they all felt fairly unimportant when compared to the fact that I 'no longer had an eye-
I heard the long, drawn-out squeak as the door opened- Katie Andrews, from my year, stepped through.
For one long, horrible second we meet each other's eyes.
She screams.
And then everything goes away.
(Cut to Harlow in the booth.)
Harlow: I kept getting weird looks from people while walking home. At the time, I guessed it was because I looked weird- I was thinking about Michael. I needed to pick Finn up from nursery soon, but I had some time so I decided to swing
home for a few minutes.
(Cut to footage of a golden-veined hand unlocking the door to an apartment. Close up on Harlow as they look in horror at the back of their hand.
They open the door rapidly and sprint towards the mirror in their entry hallway.)
Harlow: I'll be honest: the first time I saw myself I was more worried about how tacky I looked than anything else. The panic set in a solid thirty seconds later.
(Cut to footage of Harlow looking horrified as they look in the mirror.)
Voice (in scene, from off camera): Parent?
(Cautiously, they walk into the living room. Finn sits on the sofa.)
Finn: Parent? It's me.
Harlow: Finn?
(Beat.)
Harlow (cont.): this really is a weird nightmare.
(Cut to Finn in booth.)
Finn: I blacked out a boy, and woke up a man.
(Footage of Finn looking at himself in the bathroom mirror.)
It was... odd, yes. In less than three minutes, I had learnt how to drive, how to cook, several swear words and, conveniently also, how to hot rod a car. Though that wasn't the skill I needed: right then?
I needed to get myself, apparently an adult man, away from a nursery without anyone seeing me and instantly calling the police. Not an easy task.
Luckily, there was a remarkably convenient window on one side of the bathroom.
(cut to footage of Finn struggling to crawl out a window he just fits through.)
Finn: misjudging my size slightly-
(Close up of Finn, very much struggling to get out)
I eventually managed to escape. It's slightly worrying that the nursery had an unlocked window on the ground floor, but looking back they didn't seem like the best run place.
So, for the first time in my life, I walked home alone; using a spare key I now knew was underneath the doormat, I walked into the house.
My parent would know what to do.
(Cut to footage of swirling multicoloured galaxies. David narrates behind it.)
David: have you ever had your mind forcibly reshaped by the structure of the universe?
It's not fun.
Voice: this is the world, David. All of it. Is it helping you?
David: no, it was not helping me.
Funnily enough, it hurts. Your skull feels like someone's having a great time smashing it apart and squishing it together again, and your brain gets put through the same treatment as a marshmallow being made into s'mores. Over
and over again, I heard someone repeating the same thing.
'See the bigger picture.
See the bigger picture.
See the bigger picture.
For a moment, everything was blank.
Then it was done.
I came to in the centre of the office; paper and computers and desks surrounded me, hopelessly smashed. Every one of my colleagues, everyone I knew, was staring at me like I'd grown an extra head- and I suppose I almost had. My phone
rang.
With trembling, now-purple hands, I answer it.
Harlow (over phone): David?
David (voiceover): and I began to walk away.
(Shot of David walking out of the trashed office.)
Harlow: oh thank god, nobody else is picking up. Look, I know this is a weird question, and it's probably going to sound so, 'so insane, but-
(Looking curiously in the elevator mirror at himself.)
David: (placid) have you just turned purple and gained extra eyes?
(Beat.)
Harlow: Oh thank god. Yes- close, I mean- can I videochat with you?
David: sure.
(Harlow does. They look at each other.)
Harlow: It's got to have something to do with Michael, right?
David: It generally is. Have you called Riley?
Harlow: Shit! She'll be at school, won't she?
David: She would.
Both: poor kid.
Harlow: we need to call them all up. Extended family meeting: me, you, Riley...
Finn (through phone): don't forget aunt Sara!
(Pause)
David: We're going to have to call Sara. If we want everyone Michael's actually related to, at least.
David: It can wait until six, can't it? It's just...
David: last time you interrupted Sara's routine, she yelled at you until her seven thirty mindfulness session. You've said.
Harlow: It was bloody scary at the time, okay?
David: look. Meet outside the pizza express in Greenridge at ten, okay? Where we ate before Riley's show last year. I'll call Sara and you call Riley. Deal?
Harlow: deal.
(Cut to SARA in the confessional booth. Sara, a striking middle aged woman with streaked blonde hair and a severe expression, looks at the camera. Her nails are long and serrated, and her teeth appear needle-like.)
Sara: I don't care that they were scared of talking to me. No.
What matters was their words: it was yoga.
I hate mindfulness.
(Credits roll.)
The hat trick!
The pipes keep telling me about this odd murder case- I can't make heads nor tails of it myself, but perhaps you can do better.
On Monday the 17th of February, 1887, four people were given an invitation to stay over at the house of famous magician Daniel Carter. These were:
Adam Braithwaite- one of Carter's four former apprentices, two of whom also arrived. A brilliant escapologist, yet constantly in debt- mainly due to the fact that his most famous trick literally involves burning money. Stated to have
the closest relationship to Carter of any of the apprentices, yet, like the rest, still claims not to have spoken to him in years.
Josephine Hope- the second apprentice, now a world-renowned mentalist. Claims she can read minds: all smoke and mirrors, of course, but still impressive onstage. I'd say she adopts a cold and aloof stage personality, but having met
her myself I can now say she really is just that intimidating.
Taffy 'Bubbles' Johnson- the third apprentice to show up, Johnson is a children's card magician. The second-least known of all the apprentices. Appears to only own clothing in primary colours, and claims she's tried to
reach Carter many times- he's 'just never picked up the phone'.
John Garson- claims to be a long-time friend of Carter, yet 'only in private'. Seems rather surprised himself to have been invited. The only one who's had contact with Carter in the past year.
As well as that:
Sunny Damsen: the fourth former apprentice. No clue what kind, because he turned his back on magic. Trying to reach him currently, but he's never picked up the phone.
And why is this important?
See, a little after the arrival of the guests into Carter's house- Winksea Manor- Taffy Johnson found the dead body of Daniel Carter inside the locked and suspended trunk used in his most famous act: the Hat Trick. At the time, she
had been looking for him- Daniel Carter had not yet been seen by the guests, so they had decided on a search to find him. The body was found with three bullet wounds to the head, heart and stomach.
Most interestingly, the body had also been found with a playing card in its mouth: the three of diamonds, with the words 'if Danny were dead, he'd tell us' written in marker over it. Apparently, this was the last thing
Johnson had said before finding the body.
Daniel Carter's hat trick goes something like this: firstly, he asks a member of the audience to choose any card they like out the deck, proving they aren't a stooge first. Then, card still secret, he is bound in chains and
locked in a heavy old iron safe, itself wrapped in several more thick chains and massive padlocks. A different audience member locks him in and proves the chains are tight, before the safe is hauled up into the air. Then, the third and
final member is asked by a glamorous assistant to think of any word, and write it down on a piece of card.
The moment the card is folded away, a sudden noise is heard from above the stage. The audience suddenly remembers the man in the safe, as a chain peels off- the thing lowers to the ground. Then, more and more chains, seemingly impossibly,
fall away. The massive lock crashes onto the floor. Daniel Carter steps out, chains falling to the floor as he does, with a card in his mouth.
The card is what the first participant chose; on it is written the second participant's word. Daniel Carter faces the audience, who stop clapping as he surveys them.
"You don't seriously think I'm done, do you?" He asks.
A trapdoor- not above the stage, above the audience- opens. An entire deck's worth of cards, all identical to the one in his teeth, splatter down onto the audience, who scream with the shocked delight you can only find from massive
crowds viewing wonders.
Johnson told me that I should look into the trick, that it could hold clues: I doubt it will, but it's good knowing what class of killer I am dealing with.
I will update with details when I have them: for now, I am going to go interview Mr Braithwaite.
-Detective Felton
Saturday 21st July, 14:37:
Observing Bentham from through the car window, I begin to test my hypothesis: that every small town, for whatever reason, is somehow discreetly, powerfully and inexplicably odd.
I do not know why it is- perhaps long-time exposure to village fetes, or the ratio of elderly to young. It could be something in the Victorian sponges and high tea that makes up their diet. Perhaps it's simply that you go mad, seeing
the same faces everywhere you go.
I aim to find out. This journal declares that I- Jacqueline Fletcher, the newest Bentham resident- will figure out why small towns are so very odd. And I've given myself six weeks to do it in.
I'm assuming that you- dear adjudicator- have some questions. Notably, why? And how? And why?
See, I'm doing the scientific thing and adjusting to changes within my environment via curiosity and attentiveness. As much as I had hoped to be doing this project on the much more sensical 'do people dislike food based off
their prejudices?', my mother's sudden and uncharacteristic decision to move 'anywhere but here' landed me far away from my former plans. Feeding blindfolded people chicken heart is great in my native Suchton Green,
where people know and are used to me. Less so when you are someone's new neighbour. Plus, for all I know chicken heart is a Bentham delicacy.
The 'how' is harder to answer. As this is a chroniclization of whatever events transpire, I plan to document every odd action, conversation and other occurrence that happen to me between now and whenever the deadline is for this
project. I will attempt the occasional interview, conduct soil tests and otherwise attempt to either prove or disprove my hypothesis.
Wish me luck!
Weekly lore dump:
'Neworld is a universe that lies just beyond our own; so close to ours yet not quite the same, like returning home to find your furniture moved two inches to the left. Yes, to most humans, it appears indistinguishable to our world.
But look just a little deeper- you'll find much under the surface…'
First part of Neworld that you'd need to understand is the different kinds of people that populate it. We have:
Humans: obviously. Humans populate most of the planet, most having no knowledge of magic- due mainly to the actions of Richard Irontill, the eugenicist, who we'll get on to in a later issue. Sort of the bastard children of the other
peoples, as a human is born whenever two of the different peoples decide to have children- mainly because the gods couldn't work out what a half-angel half-mer looks like.
Fae: created at the dawn of time by Harvey, God of the earth, fae tend to be the recluses of the magical world. Fae are the closest-looking to humans physically; they may have pointy ears and deer antlers, but don't hold that against
them. A good majority of fae live in courts, deep in the woods, hidden from view by glamour. Glamour and illusion are the most important kind of magic to fae, yet they also tend to be good at plant magic: not that you'd know, because
the courts tend to exile people who practice it.
Mer: known more commonly by humans as 'mermaids', mer tend to be known as the innovators and inventors of the magical world. Both Medumancy and Midamancy- the alchemical magics, both relating to turning objects into other
objects- come from the mer. The main mer city is Necrosi: a massive system of flooded underground caves, walls decorated with vast bejewelled murals and massive light displays from local artists. Necrosi is the city you go to if you have
an innovation in taught magic, such as potions or glyphs. One notable thing about the mer is that they all have entirely uniquely patterned irises, which cannot be hidden by glamour.
Dragons: ironically, the majority of dragons appear closer to dragonflies than actual dragons. The most biologically varied of the peoples, the majority of dragons have delicate, insectoid wings on their backs- generally either
butterfly or dragonfly-like. However most also have some other genetic variation, such as extra limbs, antennae, chitin or compound eyes. About one percent of dragons become 'scaled' in their early teens: they lose their
insectoid parts, which are replaced by scales and horns. Scaleds are the military of dragon society, as they can turn into the conventional idea of a dragon. Kinetics, warping and other movement-based magic came from the dragons.
Angels: less interesting than in the bible, angels have been seen as more powerful than they are for centuries. In reality, they are mortal: but having swan-white wings, skin of stone and various telepathic abilities left humans
believing angels were important heralds. Angels generally have grey skin that is stone-like in texture, but most have some speckling of different colours or dots of flint. Angels are the pioneers of telepathy magic- the hub of telepathy
is Shingle, the city built on pebbles, mostly populated by angels and dragons.
Tune in to next week's lore dump to learn about demipeoples!