hihihihi, felt like I was overdo a url change!!

yulivia -> nazumichi

mutuals sb please <3

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

Analyzing Questionable Content: Pages 201-250

Marten’s closer, Dora. Of course she’d go for his first.

Okay, I’m just going to be upfront and honest with you guys. I’m just really not feeling it for this batch of comics, and that’s part of the reason why I had taken the previous week off. That’s not to say this batch is bad or anything, it’s just... I feel like I have a lot less to say about it than I should. So I apologize ahead of time if this feels too short or if it’s much more dull than usual. I’ll try hitting the high points and give you the proper character analysis I can muster here - the fact that what you see right now, with Marten and Dora going on a date and Faye’s reaction to it, will provide quite a deal of character insight.

For example, right here. Not even a single page later and Faye’s genuine irritation over the situation is showing, despite what she has to say about the situation.

Ignoring for the moment the stupid contraction thing (which, if memory serves, will thankfully be dropped after this batch of comics), do Faye’s eyes look... different to you guys? I don’t know, it feels like Jeph’s making an attempt at a slight tweak in his style here and I mostly notice it in Faye’s eyes. I could be looking way too deep into it though, I’m willing to accept that.

They have some light banter, part of which includes Faye continuing to press on the fact that Dora is hyper-sexual and will jump Marten’s bones the second she gets the chance, Faye goes on and continues her nice streak with Marten by offering to make him dinner. Now, I could take this time to point out the obvious, that Faye is clearly doing this much for him not just out of a sense of guilt over how she’s treated him but also bolstered by the fact that, even if subconsciously, she does NOT want Marten to be with another woman and is vying to keep his attention on her... But Faye doesn’t give us a chance to ponder that for very long.

I don’t blame her, the rims of cans are fucking horrifying. Not as bad as the edges of an outlet box, but thin slices of metal ain’t fun let me tell you.

Despite this, there’s really not much to say about the outcome - we learn that Faye’s last name is Whitaker and that this city has a “punching intern” for the local hospital.

That... can NOT be legal. Then again, if this city held itself to any standards of legality I’m certain the Irony Cafe would be closed already due to false advertising. Plus, this is taking place in America and Faye isn’t freaking out more about not being able to afford the hospital bills than the fact she was injured, so maybe that’s the trade-off to having a halfway decent medical facility.

Oh, and when everyone gets back home, we get a bit more insight into the mechanics of Pintsize.

That raises some questions. If this is unique to this particular platform Pintsize’s AI is housed in, how was he able to taste the cake mix in his previous body? If this is universal between Anthro PCs, then why didn’t Marten already know this if he’s been with Pintsize as long as has been implied thus far? I mean I get it, Jeph’s using this as an outlet to create some lore behind the funny robot people in his comic’s universe, but... I dunno, it just feels like this makes Marten seem more incompetent than anything if he didn’t know this about his own Anthro PC. Maybe if he helped explain it alongside Pintsize to Faye to showcase that he knew about this as well? I dunno.

The next day, Steve gives Marten a call:

Faye, your irritation over the situation isn’t exactly subtle. Also I’ve said it before but I’ll keep saying it - sarcastic Marten is best Marten. I like this Marten a lot.

And so, as a wise Skeleton once said... DATE: START!

We’re already off to an amazing start with Ellen kicking off! And, oooh, it looks like she tripped and injured herself in the initial play! Can she recover, folks? Well before we find out, we have another comic involving a drastic art shift deliberately invoked from Jeph:

In all seriousness, the art shift isn’t... bad, per-se, it just looks so drastically different that it catches me off guard. As is what usually happens with Jeph in these situations, it takes the next comic for him to reel himself back and find a happy medium between his original style and the new one he wants to experiment with:

Marine Biology is not for the weak of heart. You knew what you were getting into when you took on that major, Ellen. But yeah, while I’ll get more into detail as to what I think about the art shift at the end of the post, I’ll say here that I like it as a natural evolution. It seems like every time Jeph improves, the face is the bit that gets the most focus every time. Remember just last post when I was complaining Jeph wasn’t talented enough to portray the silent emotion he wanted to in Faye’s face? Now, I feel like he probably could.

The date goes well enough, and the evening comes to a close:

My bet is that Steve’s like the Pied Piper of arachnids. I’d believe it were that the case, at least. Also it was mentioned to me that Marten probably did have the eye-shine like the rest of the cast did, but his eye color just made it harder to spot. In this page, that becomes clearer - still hard to see, but much easier than previously.

Oooh dear. Steve’s in some hot water now. Also I just realized that as of yesterday I’m as old as Steve is. Good God, I’m an actual full-blown adult. Christ.

...I’m going to put off thinking about that for too much longer as we move onto the rest of this batch, okay? Okay.

Anyhow, Dora invites Marten into her apartment for some coffee where she cuts right to the fucking chase:

It’s probably for the best you read the conversation yourself, they’re pages 226-228. I say this mostly because I really don’t have anything to add or comment on here - Dora’s a smart lady who gives good advice here, makes it clear that while she’s interested in Marten she wants him to be happy, and all-in-all is one of the coolest people ever. Go Dora!

Go... Dora. Oh. Well, I still think you’re cool. Let’s give this woman some time and cut back to Steve and Ellen!

I have some things to say about this situation that I’ll touch on a little bit later. Marten gets home and makes it clear to Faye that nothing happened between himself and Dora. While quite clearly relieved, she’s a touch confused.

So I’m not the only one who feels strangely sad whenever I eat a s’mores Pop Tart? Oh who am I kidding, I’ve got depression, I’m always fucking sad. And hey, speaking of sexy times, Pintsize throws his proverbial hat into the ring!

Honestly, I kind of knew I should’ve kept track of that pink Anthro PC, but would you believe me if I told you they never got a name? Also could AI fuck over IM? My bet is that 2004-speed internet wouldn’t exactly make it smooth. But man, imagine having sex over the ‘net on Fiber.

...too much? Too much.

The night ends, Steve parts from Ellen telling her he needs a couple of days to sort his head out, and Faye comforts Marten...

...in, erm, a very Faye way... oh hey, Faye, Fae! I wonder if that was intentional on Jeph’s part. Probably not, Faye isn’t quite a Maniac Pixie Dream Girl. For one thing, she’s better written.

If memory serves, I think Dora mentioned she was a blonde previously? Either way she’s crystal clear with it now. Also, while I complimented Jeph before on his faces... I’m not going to lie, he could stand to improve drawing skirts. I don’t blame the guy, I imagine skirts are fucking hard to draw.

Oh, and here we begin an annual tradition of Questionable Content:

I’d like to start a petition for all Questionable Content fans to go by the fan-name “Turkeys” now. You with me, fellow Turkeys?!

...no? Eh, fair enough.

Here we get some interesting information. At least, it gets interesting in the wake of what comes up later - the timescale is more-or-less confirmed here that this takes place around the early to mid 2000s, likely 2004 or so since that’s when the comic was written. I always assumed, considering we have walking AI around, that the universe of Questionable Content took place in the near future... but rather, it seems more like it takes place in an alternate version of history where our technology is slightly ahead of the curve. And yet a lot of pop culture phenomena remained as it did in our version of history, if what they’re saying is true. Again, this doesn’t get super relevant until later comics where we see just how far advanced the technological level in QC has become.

Ellen drops by the Coffee Shop for some advice:

Faye’s gotten a LOT more open recently. Back near the beginning of this comic she would never, never openly admit to giving into any kind of carnal need, and now here she is candidly talking about private shower times.

And while they’re discussing things at the Coffee Shop, Marten and Steve are having their own conversation back at the apartment:

Now here I need to put in my two cents. The characters make a point of saying how they don’t really think the age difference is that big of a deal. Were she legal, which she will be in less than a week, there’s no real problem with an 18 year old dating a 24 year old. I know this is entirely a matter of personal opinion and I fully expect people to disagree with me here. I also suspect this is going to make me sound like a prude, but... yeah, I think there is a problem, there.

Ellen’s a freshman in College. She’s JUST turning 18. While she’s shown to be intelligent enough to get into college early - and good on her for that - she lacks the emotional intelligence or maturity to really strike out into a relationship with someone six years her senior. And Steve, for his part, is too old to get anything out of a relationship with someone so much younger than he is. There’s no real connection there, the difference in emotional maturity is going to make itself evident before too long and the relationship is more prone to self-destruct.

Like I said, feel free to disagree with me there. If you feel like there’s room for a relationship in such an age gap, let me know. I wouldn’t mind starting a conversation or changing my mind, but that’s where my mindset is there - it just wouldn’t work out.

Remember that last line Dora said. It’s going to get much funnier later, to the point where part of me wonders if that was deliberate foreshadowing on Jeph’s part.

And here we welcome Ellen’s roommate, Natasha. My oh my, characters are building up, ain’t they? Just give it time, guys. It gets so, so much worse.

(Also am I the only one stuck on that first panel? Just... I know they already made the joke about her dual-major but there’s something so surreal to that I kind of can’t escape it)

And now, to round out our batch of 50:

Wow. It seems like Dora’s a touch more insecure than she lets on, huh? She seems so cool and in-control of herself that moments like this where it’s surprisingly easy of her to accept that she may have weirded the object of her affections out are much more blatant.

Now that we’ve reached the end of the batch, let’s do our usual beginning and end comparisons:

Like I said before, Jeph has clearly put more detail into the faces. He’s taking steps in the direction of “realistic cartoon” if that makes sense, further details in the wrinkles of their clothes, their bodies looking more defined, that sort of thing. I can’t really decide if I like this newer style better than the older one, but it’s no question that the newer style is a technical improvement. Nice work!

So what’d I think of this batch? Eh... plot happened, I suppose, but it feels like not much ended up happening. I dunno, for my money this felt a lot slower than the last batch... but then again, last batch had Amanda drop by for a visit, so that may have something to do with it. Either way, we have outright confirmation if we didn’t think so before that Dora is super into Marten, but it’s also made clear she’s not going to step in between the dance he and Faye are partaking in right now. Whether this is a good or a bad thing is entirely up to personal opinion, I suppose. I dunno, I feel like having Dora as a potential wild card offered the possibility for drama to shake up the dynamic going on, and without her I fear the dynamic may stagnate.

I mean, I know exactly how the dynamic’s going to go because I’ve read it, but you get the point I’m trying to make here.

Anyhow, you know what time it is now - data analysis time! In this batch of 50, we have...

Marten: 34/50 – 68%

Faye: 29/50 – 58%

Dora: 24/50 – 48%

Ellen: 15/50 – 30%

Steve: 12/50 – 24%

Pintsize: 11/50 – 22%

Natasha: 2/50 – 4%

Miéville: 2/50 – 4%

 Grand Total:

Marten: 200/250 – 80%

Faye: 192/250 – 76.8%

Dora: 75/250 – 30%

Pintsize: 61/250 – 24.4%

Steve: 34/250 – 13.6%

Ellen: 18/250 – 7.2%

Amanda: 12/250 – 4.8%

Sara: 7/250 – 2.8%

Jimbo: 5/250 – 2%

Turing: 4/250 – 1.6%

Raven: 3/250 – 1.2%

Miéville: 3/250 – 1.2%

Scott: 2/250 – 0.8%

Natasha: 2/250 – 0.8%

Ell: 1/250 – 0.4%

Personally, I won’t be satisfied until Jimbo overtakes Sara in his number of appearances. You can do it, Jimbo! I BELIEVE IN YOU!

...erm, in any case, tune in next week for the thrilling next installment of QC! You ready for more backstory on our main characters? I know I am! See you then.

Dressed to Kill - Chapter Sixteen

<– Previous Chapter

Next Chapter –>

Months passed. The Alesia Circus continued further south as winter turned its freezing head, allowing for shows outside in the winter to be even more comfortable than the chilly Halloween show Tsukiko and Galen had performed so long ago.

It had taken its time, but Tsukiko now felt used to the lifestyle. The movement of her trailer during the night no longer disturbed her sleep; in fact, it felt almost calming. Tsukiko and Galen had even begun to get used to dryad attacks; they had started a scoreboard to compare their dryad kill count, though with Tsukiko's four-pumpkin early lead, Galen felt he didn't have much of a chance of catching up.

And of course, stage magic had always felt comfortable to Tsukiko and Galen, but they had finally become accustomed to the new opportunities the Alesia Circus provided them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Galen said to the crowd. “This will be Tsukiko's final trick of the day. We'll be using a very special prop for this.”

He gestured towards the center of the stage. A six foot wooden box stood tall. It was not the Box of Unrelenting Doom that the audience could have witnessed during Tsukiko's previous shows earlier in the week. It looked similar enough; the same black paint and triple-segmented door. To differentiate it, a metal trim lined its edges, and had the Alesia Circus' logo in lieu of the skulls Tsukiko and Galen had painted themselves on their box.

This was the very box that Tsukiko had been locked into when she and Galen first met Vercingetorix. What was once a frightening day for both of them had become a distant, laughable memory.

Equally laughable was that, at the time, Tsukiko hadn't known how to escape the box. Now, she sat comfortably upon the top face, looking towards the audience and Galen from her perch.

“Tsukiko will escape this box,” Galen explained. “But first, I invite anyone who wants to inspect it to come on stage now. You can check for trap doors, false panels, anything that might help Tsukiko escape. But I'm going to guarantee that you won't find anything that explains Tsukiko's method.”

“Hey!” Tsukiko hissed. “Don't spoil the trick.”

“Oh come on, that was vague.”

Several audience members took Galen up on his invitation. Tsukiko hopped off the box and allowed a dozen or so people to inspect the prop from all angles.

“Can we check inside it?” An older woman asked, already leaning her head in.

“Sure, but don't close the doors,” said Galen. “We don't want anyone accidentally getting locked in.”

“Sounds to me like the secret involves the doors,” said one man with a gratingly nasally voice.

“You're welcome to check,” Tsukiko said, smiling politely. “Actually, Galen, take the padlocks off. Then they can close the doors all they want.”

“Point,” Galen admitted, yanking away the locks.

After a few minutes, none of the audience members could find anything resembling an exit. This came as no surprise to Tsukiko and Galen, who had spent far longer analyzing it on the day of Tsukiko's kidnapping and a few other times out of curiosity over the months.

Galen cleared his throat. “To the audience members who decided not to inspect the box, we'd like to assure you that none of the people who came onstage were plants.”

“We have had some very bad experiences with plants,” Tsukiko added.

Galen shook his head, knowing the audience wouldn't understand Tsukiko's joke, and the two of them began their trick. Galen hooked the padlocks back onto the three doors as Tsukiko walked in.

“Good luck, Tsuki!” Galen said, locking the doors.

“Don't need it!” Tsukiko replied smugly.

Tsukiko remembered the last time she'd been locked into the box. She'd done everything she could to look for a way out. In truth, she'd been motivated more by curiosity than fear, though looking back on it, she had good reason to be afraid.

There was no hidden escape route from this box. She was surrounded by four solid sheets of wood and a sturdy top and bottom. Only the barest level of light made its way into the box, giving her barely enough visibility to see what needed to be done.

Unbeknownst to the audience, she'd managed to bring a change of clothes into the box with her.

“We'll give her five more seconds,” said Galen. “Count with me, audience!”

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

Before the audience could count to one, the box exploded. Shards of splintered wood and crumpled metal locks bounced around the stage, narrowly avoiding Galen. The audience, rightfully, was stunned.

Where the box had been, there was now a tank – an army vehicle much larger than the box had been. As always, Tsukiko dangled within, suspended by her shoulders.

Before the audience could truly take in the sight before them, Tsukiko ungloved one of her hands. The wires forming the tank receded back into her outfit in less than a second. She felt the last wires making up the tank's gun spiral back into her chest.

The trick was complete. The audience roared with applause.

“Well,” Vercingetorix said, watching a few stagehands sweep up the destroyed pieces of the box. “That's certainly one way to dispose of old props.”

Tsukiko picked a padlock up off the ground. She clicked it locked. “Hey, I think this one still works!”

“There's no reason to keep it,” Vercingetorix said, idly waving his hand. “If it's at all damaged, one of the audience members might think it to be the secret to the box escape trick. At least, until they see how it's really done.”

“So, is this how you wanted Tsukiko to get out of the box way back then?” Galen asked with a smirk. “Were you hoping she'd turn into a tank?”

Vercingetorix laughed.

“As I said, I was hoping to see performers who would not believe in the impossible.” He clapped a hand each on Tsukiko and Galen's shoulders. “I wanted people for whom the box would stick in the back of the mind – a mystery waiting to be solved. People who would stubbornly work towards improving their act, even beyond what they thought was possible.

“And I see that I have received exactly what I was hoping for.”

Tsukiko and Galen looked at each other, both proudly smiling.

“I'd like to talk to the two of you,” Vercingetorix continued. “I'd like to add another three or four shows to your schedule each week.”

“Great!” Tsukiko said eagerly.

“Now, this will mean you'll be performing more than once a day several times a week,” Vercingetorix pointed out. “My goal is that the second show of the day will be just as crowded and as profitable as the first. Therefore, the two of you will need to ensure that you don't repeat too many tricks.”

“Of course!” Tsukiko said.

“We probably would have done that anyway,” Galen agreed.

“That's what I was hoping to hear! I've seen enough of your shows to know you have enough tricks for this plan. However, please come up with written plans for both shows. I'd like to look over them to ensure that both will have a proper build-up and climax.”

“This sounds like homework,” Tsukiko said with a chuckle. “Fun homework. I can handle that.”

“Ah, and I almost forgot to mention,” Vercingetorix remembered. “Performing extra shows will also require me to increase your pay.”

Tsukiko tried to hide the fact that she would have happily agreed even without the pay raise, but she expelled a surprised “Oh!” that likely gave her away.

She wasn't sure if Vercingetorix had noticed, but Galen certainly had. She watched him try to stifle a laugh.

“Please try to limit yourselves to the number of props you destroy during each show,” Vercingetorix added. “Of course, we're happy to build a few more replicas of Freya's inescapable box, but let's not go overboard.”

“We'll only do it on special occasions,” Tsukiko promised. “I just really wanted to try out that trick.”

“Of course. Ah, there is one more thing,” Vercingetorix said.

He lifted the metal briefcase that Tsukiko sometimes suspected was fused to his hand. She didn't expect it to be carrying yet another Religalia, but she couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation.

Vercingetorix clicked open the case, pulling out a sheet of paper. Despite being almost the entire size of the briefcase, he had to unfold it twice to extend it to its full size. Though it was not a Religalia, Tsukiko realized her anticipation was fully warranted.

It was a poster. It had the same faux antique effects and logo that all the Alesia Circus' advertisements had, with one key difference in the center.

Drawings of Tsukiko and Galen themselves were the ones depicted in the poster. They were sketched in a vaguely cartoonish style, but one so detailed and expertly-drawn that, for a moment, it had looked like a photo.

The scene in which they were drawn had Tsukiko stand on top of a staircase, ready to perform her false tumble into a quick-change act. The bat wing-shaped coat tails of her normal coat were accentuated, flapping behind her almost as dramatically as real wings.

The caricature of Galen stood at the bottom of the stairs. Though his drawing form was gesturing emphatically towards Tsukiko on the staircase, he was no less emphasized, taking up just as much of the poster space as Tsukiko.

As a charming finishing touch, Gary the snake sat coiled around one of Galen's outstretched arms, his tongue flicking out at nothing.

“It's a bit of a circus tradition,” Vercingetorix said, handing the poster to Tsukiko and Galen for a closer look. “Most of our advertisement is done electronically these days, but every star act since the 30's has had a poster done in this style.”

Tsukiko was speechless.

“It's amazing!” Galen piped up. “Thank you!”

“You'll each get a copy to put up in your trailers or wheresoever else you may choose,” Vercingetorix said. “A copy that has been less folded than this display version. I've also taken the liberty of sending a couple extra copies to your parents.”

Tsukiko found a spot for her copy of the poster, but it wasn't as easy as she'd initially thought. Shiba Kariki glimmered proudly in its new display case, hanging near the bed. One wall that could have been a good spot for the poster was covered; a dresser full of small props and costumes sat in front of half of it, with the other taken up by a cross-shaped stand she used to display the Tank Top.

Tsukiko had to carefully remove one of her posters of The Amazing Amazio and move it to a small portion of empty wall space by the window. Then, she hung the poster of herself and Galen where Amazio had once sat.

Her trailer certainly felt a little more cramped than it had started, but not in an unwelcome way. She drifted off to sleep, imagining how full the walls might get if she were to get a few more posters to display.

That night, for the first time in a long while, Tsukiko dreamt.

Once again, she found herself walking down a dirt path through the forest. The sunlight still sparkled down through the treetops, giving the grass its familiar ethereal glow.

Last time Tsukiko had found herself here, something had been chasing her. Something deadly, no doubt after her blood. This time, there was nothing. She hadn't noticed before, but the forest hid birds that chirped every now and then, and the wind blowing through the underbrush made some curious noises. Tsukiko allowed herself to enjoy the walk, fully absorbing the sounds and sights.

After an indeterminate amount of time and steps, Tsukiko found herself at the crossroads; the left-hand path of trees and thorny vines versus the right-hand city street.

The storm had subsided over the city. It looked peaceful again, with a bright blue sky and shining sun behind the enormous skyscrapers. It was indeed inviting; a gentle stroll down the paved city streets would be just as relaxing as the trip through the forest.

Still, Tsukiko turned away in an instant and faced the left. The plant life hadn't changed. The thorns were just as sharp and terrifying, and the vines no further apart than they were when Tsukiko had dove into them so long ago.

Tsukiko even noticed the disturbed grass and dirt where she had tried to pull herself through the thorns. A piece of her pajamas was still hanging from a thorn, wiggling pathetically in the forest's wind. She pulled it loose, despite no longer having any use for the scrap.

This time, Tsukiko wasn't wearing pajamas.

On her torso sat the green camo tank top she'd used to perform, its golden epaulets dangling and jingling with each movement. She wore the entire costume – gloves, combat boots, and the peaked cap to which she reached.

Tsukiko swiped the brim of her hat.

The vines and thorns were no more forgiving than they were in previous dreams, but Tsukiko found herself far more determined to fight her way through them. In seconds, the shirt around her had become the top ridge of a heavy, metal tank, with its weapon platform aimed at the shrubbery.

Tsukiko kicked the fire button. An enormous blast echoed through the forest.

With its work done for her, Tsukiko's tank retreated once more into her shirt. She smiled at her handiwork; the wall of thorns was completely obliterated, and a new path had been carved in its place.

With no doubt in her mind, and nothing making her look back towards the city on her right, she walked confidently through the left-hand path.

Tsukiko may have been the only one to see the Tank Top in her dreams, but she was hardly the only person to have the Religalia on the mind. Somewhere many miles away, a man sat in hunched over his desk, scribbling away on a sheet of paper. He rubbed his temples. His office was annoyingly bright; the lights above him reflected perfectly off of the surrounding white walls and floor. It was not ideal for his concentration; the man would have preferred natural sunlight to artificial bulbs. He shook his head and tried to refocus his thoughts.

“The shirt isn't loose enough for her to keep an entire collapsible tank in it,” He decided, muttering to himself. “Perhaps the box itself...? No, no. January 7th, she was seen in the tank without any box involved...”

He leaned back in his chair, chewing the metal tip of his pencil. It was his lean that allowed him to notice a silhouette at his door. He turned the paper on his desk over to the blank side, unsure of what his employees would think of his research.

The door opened, and a timid man in a lab coat stepped in.

“Mr. Cypress?” He asked.

“Please, Garrick is fine,” said the man behind the desk. Garrick then noticed the lab coated man held a clipboard. “Do you have some results?”

“Yes, sir,” said the researcher. He smiled as he flipped the clipboard's pages and eagerly explained, “The plant's biomass grew by approximately 200% overnight. This is actually far outside our expectations!”

Garrick completely forgot about the mysteries of Tsukiko's tank. He stood up in glee.

“200%... incredible. Wonderful.”

He composed himself, walked over to the door, and grabbed the clipboard from the researcher's hands.

“I'll be handling the experiment myself from now on,” said Garrick, looking through the notes. “Your team will be given a new assignment shortly.”

The researcher frowned, but knew better than to argue. Instead, he simply accepted whatever his next assignment would be, and walked back down the hall the way he came. No one but Garrick Cypress had ever seen the final results of any of their projects for several years, and he doubted anyone ever would.

Chaff

"hey, I don't mind adverts" said Shellay Smithson as she casually vaped from the e-meth pipe. It was Friday night at the Junior Hedonists Ball and all the perma-terns were there drinking their weekly salary "I just don't like adverts that try to sell me things I actually want" "yeah, too right" said Sampson, ur bald androgynous  head bobbing in time to the music ee was streaming direct to ur ears. For her part Shellay preferred to hear the house tunes, old fashioned style. Though the Junior Hedonists Ball tended to have a very specific aesthetic it took place in the nearest pub to the office. The pub itself was an ancient looking glazed brick building, its interior ripped out to satisfy certain steampunk machine gothic tastes. That the entire building had been standing for less time than Shellay had been working in social media relations didn't matter. The city around her changed so much and so quickly Shellay barely noticed even when whole streets and neighbourhoods vanished. Once upon a time fashion had merely been about clothes and hairstyles. Now with largescale 3d printing meaning that the average time to build an entire street could be measured in days whole neighbourhoods came and went according to the whims of fashion. Shellay could still remember last season’s look- Bauhaus glam with a hint of gay seventies New York. Not her favourite style, but she was clearly in a minority. Even so she knew she only needed to go across the river to the parklands to drink up the whole Victorian glasshouse vibe. She could never get enough of Crystal Palaces with their ornate manmade flower displays. She wondered idly if it was still there, but then a glance in her smartglasses told her the truth. Day pass to the new arboretum extension for half price. Just the thing to take her latest fella on the weekend. That grated, made her feel cheap. What was the point in doing anything if it was given straight to you? Everyone knew the best things in life were what you earned for yourself. "I'm getting sick of getting what I want" continued Sampson, ur delicate eyes narrowing "maybe it’s time to start getting what I don't want" "no, but seriously. It’s really pissing me off” said Shellay, knowing that Sampson was just quoting the lines from a song. Probably one ee'd written as well. All artists were self referential but Sampson found it hard to be anything else "it just, well, it just sucks the fun out of life. I'd like things to be a little random, know what I mean?" she took a hit on the pipe and looked around the lounge of the junior hedonists ball. Several dozen long thin creatives lounged at different fey angles. On the walls adverts that were linked to her smartglasses told her of her favourite bands and when they'd be in town "I used to like being surprised by getting ads for shit I'd never ever want" "life insurance" said Sampson with a grin "or incontinence pants. Seeing hundreds of ads on the tube trying to sell me bank products I could never afford. I used to like that" ee looked nostalgically into the middle distance "knowing that it didn't matter how little money I had, because I certainly wasn't going to spend it on any of that crap" ee sighed "now I find myself reaching into my pocket all the time because as soon as there's a new line of grungesynths in at Hypersound or if they start reissuing genuine vintage Konverse I know about it, like, point 9 seconds later. I'm just one click away from bankruptcy" "yeah, it’s killing me too" agreed Shellay, leaning back against the black crushed velvet furnishings. She noticed that there was a link on the wall for a new hypermodernist night club on the New Kent Road. One she had been wanting to go to for weeks but her bank balance hadn't been healthy enough "I mean, for fucks sake, how do they always know?" "S'your line of work love" said Sampson, taking a deep draught of ur snakebite and black "all algorithms isn't it? Way we learned it at school every time you do a search, every time you buy something or even look too long at an ad it gets recorded. Ol' google and FB and the rest keep a big bloody list so advertisers can build a virtual model of what you like and what you hate so they can make sure your eyeballs only ever see good old high value content" "huh. Well I guess you paid attention at school more than me" said Shellay, sipping her red wine "besides, I do apps. I design little programs that make life easier for people. Algorithms and all that are big level stuff. Not my cup of tea at all" "well maybe you should design an app" said Sampson, eyeing an ad for the sort of casual cuddle encounter that ee craved on those long lonely weekends "you know, like an adblocker, but instead of showing nothing it lets in ads people don't want to buy. Same difference I guess, but at least someone sees the ads" "yeah, I like that” said shellay idly "but don't they still have the death penalty for ad blocking software?" "nah" said Samspon "just life with no WIFI" “you’re right. That’s probably worse”

The idea should have joined the other half drunk, half stoned conversations between Sampson and Shellay- posted to social media and then forgotten about. But for some reason it didn't, not least because several days later Shellay saw some market research that confirmed that it wasn't just her and Sampson that were getting pissed off at getting all they wanted. Shellay read through it thoughtfully and got designing. "I mean, it wouldn't be too hard to do, would it?" she asked Jackie Oh, her legal advisor and chief coder. They were sitting in Regents park, in a popup coffee place resembling a Mongol Yurt – one seemingly designed by Alexander Hemingway "we don't even have to use adblocker, we can rip off some of that old TOR code, right?" "no one's used TOR in years" said Jackie "it’s like a red rag to the software gods" she nodded up at the holy trinity up on the wall- Google, Apple and Facebook "because for them if they don't know who you are then they don't have a business model. If you aren't a trackable node then they can't sell your data. And without that they've got nothing" "well, that isn't really what I want to do" said Shellay "it’s really the opposite. I want to send out false data, you know get the app to do random searches for things so you get ads for tampons if you're a bloke or whatever. The advertisers shouldn't notice because it’s not like you're blocking the ads, if anything technically you should be seeing even more of them" "I guess it can be done” said Jackie, scratching her head. The open plan coffee yurt in the park was a focal point for the sort of popup office in which Shellay like to do business "but why? I mean, who the fuck wants to see ads for things they don't want to buy?" "you'd be surprised" said Shellay "there's always a niche in the market, and besides as soon as people get what they want then they usually want the opposite straight away. That's a law of human nature. I mean that's why Hindr was so successful. Who'd have thought a dating app that matched you with the most unsuitable person ever would be so popular? It's like half of my married friends met on there" “Huh, I suppose" said Jackie, stretching her fingers in the imitation gauze contact gloves that allowed her to manipulate the code she spent her life immersed in "but, you know, just in case it's not. I'm still getting paid. Right?" "this will work" said Shellay, sketching out the design of the app already. She'd make sure that the interface showed a melange of ads that people didn't usually see anymore. She paused for a moment to think about the name. Something short and punchy. Well, that would come last. You always knew a good name when you heard it, and sometimes a rubbish name was even better. So long as it stuck in your head it didn’t matter. "chaff" said Jackie after a few minutes, a statement so out of the blue that Shellay almost spilled hr cup of magic mushroom tea. It didn't help of course that the shrooms were coming along a little stronger than planned. Her own fault for ordering the grande instead of the regular. "the fuck?" "its what the code was for. Back in the day. The TOR code" sighed Jackie, wondering why people didn't just have the auto explain on their smartglasses enabled at all times. It had certainly helped her navigate the minefields of social interaction. Now she was so socially adept she could detect irony so long as it was made fairly obvious "it’s a military thing. Best way apparently if you're in a jet plane and someone locks a missile onto you. Well, you can't outrun it and you probably can't shoot it down because it’s too small. Instead what the jet would do was let out a bunch of little silver bits of paper that would confuse the targeting system of the missile. Meant that instead of detonating against the jet they'd just blow up in the air" "what's this got to do with my software?" asked Shellay, wondering whether the shrooms were making this impossible to understand or whether Jackie was just babbling shit. "it’s what the TOR code did. False positives. Means that the missile- you know, Google or whoever – can't get a lock on you because the software performs random searches in your name. Added into that the software can access your cam and fuck with the eye recognition. Meaning you can pretend that you've spent ages looking at this or that ad. It'll totally fuck the tracking software. They won't know who you are or what you want" "cool" said Shellay "people get tired of their own personality anyway. They like to have someone else for a while. There's a reason people used to check into hotels using a false name" as she spoke she selfied, a quick kooky shot of her on the beanbag, evidence of her creativity around her. A few drawing pencils to make it look like she designed her apps the old fashioned way. This she then uploaded to the dozen or so social media sites on which she carefully curated her public persona "its nice to be anonymous for a change" "right" said Jackie, eyeing her own feed as it suddenly became dominated by chatter about the new app that Shellay was working on. As she watched Shellay carefully massaged into life several twitterbots and zombie accounts who would speculate wildly on the new idea she had "I'm sure you do. Anyway, at least you can use that for the name" "eh?" asked Shellay, slightly distracted "chaff" said Jackie, idly surfing in her e-glasses through great DNA ribbons of code, cutting and repasting them together into a new pattern as demanded by Shellay "S' what you can call the app" "genius" said Shellay, her eyes half closing as she looked at the light filtering into the yurt from outside. It made such pretty patterns on the inside of her eyelids.

Shellay didn't have many dealings with the police, what with her being a moderately wealthy middle class white woman coupled with the almost complete eradication of poor people from entering the city. So when the not very plainclothes man and woman grabbed her on the way back to her apartment some days later Shellay immediately texted her lawyer. "what’s the trouble officer?" she asked, then instantly regretted it. Using the word trouble suggested that she had a guilty conscience "how can I help you?" "oh, we're not with the police" said the male “you could have fooled me” said Shellay “what with the whole earpiece things you’ve got going on and the fact you’re both obviously wearing bulletproof vests. You couldn’t be more obviously in security if you were wearing a uniform” "we’re from an independent agency" said the female, her smile all sharp teeth and no humour. "one that dabbles in your chosen economic sphere" echoed the man "I'm not sure what that means" said Shellay baffled "are you the app police?" "no" said the female "but we represent some large advertising concerns. They aren't happy with your app" "why not?" asked Shellay “people still look at the adverts. So they get paid either way. What difference does it make to them?" "oh, it makes none. In fact they don't really give a shit. If they did, well, we'd probably be beating the crap out of you. They just wanted you to know that it’ll probably cause something of a shit storm" "why?" asked shellay "look at it this way" said the female "everything we do in society is based on market research. The sort of market research that comes from using ad revenues and pageviews. If enough people buy your app then it’s going to get seriously skewed because we won't know what people actually want" "you exaggerate" said shellay "all that's going to happen is a few people are gonna download my app, go 'huh, fun' for about ten seconds. Then they'll go onto something else. That’s what apps are about. It’s not something life changing, is it?" "lets hope not" said the female humourlessly "otherwise we'll be back, and we won't be so friendly"

"…and raise our glasses to Shellay, who made this event possible by making a fuck load of cash this week" Sampson raised ur glass and saluted the group of friends and hangers on who had filled the Junior Delinquents ball. The app had been out two weeks and so far had beaten even the most optimistic estimates, even those made by the most obvious of Shellay's sock puppets. "hey, it was nothing" said Shellay modestly, placing her lace gloved hand against her chest "and by that I mean I actually worked really fucking hard. And usually that means nothing. So its ace that people actually bothered to download this app" she saluted with her glass "Cheers guys" she added, and drained the glass in one. The evening would on as expected, Shellay prowled the room, making sure to flirt with anything and everything with two functioning legs. Eventually she found herself pressed against an earnest young researcher from a local bespoke search company. Rather like the bespoke tailors of years gone by his company specialised in finding all the things that google couldn't. The name that were too common to give a unique google search, the information redacted for copyright or decency reasons. If it existed and was worth looking for, it was reasoned, then someone was probably trying to hide it from you. Bespoke search meant you always found what you were looking for. "sounds fascinating" Shellay had yawned. She had a low threshold for earnest people. They always made the world sound so difficult. Full of hard moral choices when in reality everything was equally compromised, so you may as well have a good time. "well, we can't all do what you do" said the boy, and Shellay glared at him, one eye pressed closed so she could see whether he was being sarcastic or not through all the booze she'd drunk. "I'm serious" the boy added, his face blushing slightly "I think its genius. And so subtle. The big software boys don't seem to have twigged yet. By the time they do they'll be up shit creek and no mistake" "what d'you mean?” said Shellay, unsure whether the boy knew he was talking to. "chaff" said the boy, helpfully reminding her "its genius, pitched perfectly to take in both the retro market of people who remember when adverts weren't all micro targeted to our specific desires and to people like me who get the real deal" "real deal?" said Shellay weakly, the room was starting to spin and she was feeling suddenly rather sloshed. "that it's going to fuck capitalism up royally" beamed the boy "you got their weak spot. Without accurate information they can't know what we want. If they don't know what we want then they can't give us what we want. If they can't give us what we want then we'll rebel and take it ourselves. Its genius. Absolute bloody genius" "yeah. Yeah I meant that" said Shellay, leaning into the boy and putting an arm around his tweed encased shoulder "we should discuss this further. Perhaps somewhere quieter" But if they did discuss it Shellay didn't remember. When she woke up in the boy’s bed all she could recall was how he had pleasured her in the back of a self driving pedicab. They'd been riding through the new Manga district that had just been built and she'd orgasmed to the sight of a giant mecha Pikachu shooting past. Its jetsteam had been like rainbows, and if the boy had still been discussing the overthrow of the capitalist system she certainly wasn't listening.

The first time that Shellay noticed something was wrong was when she wanted to visit Regents Park. She was hankering for a grande Shroom latte and Jackie had wanted to go over some updates. The Chaff app was still selling well, and selling well enough to make sure that there were now about twenty knockoffs floating around. Shellay had cheerfully launched legal challenges in the hope of being bought off in order to add to her revenue stream. All in all life was going rather well, or it was until she noticed what had happened to the park. "what the fuck" said Shellay "oh yeah" said Jackie who had shared the uber with her "yeah, they changed it. I guess it just wasn't popular anymore" "what?" said Shellay, pointing at the vast block of buildings that had replaced one of her favourite haunts "and this is?" "well, I guess people like modernism again" Jackie replied, looking at the cold brutalist features of the blocks of buildings. They were the colour of London sky, and the windows were small and mean looking "I suppose we could hope that its going to get resprayed by graffiti artists or something. You know this grey block look really offsets electric pink…." "no such luck" said Shellay with a sigh, she had brought up the plans on the googlemaps app which tracked the ever changing city as it emerged from the great collective unconscious of the millions that lived there "its just going to stay like this. Why the fuck? I can't think anyone would like this" Jackie folded her arms "really, you don't know?" "trust me, apart from a few architecture perverts I can't think of anyone" "Maybe your app is having an effect already" "no way" said Shellay "come on, its random. It shouldn't have any effect on the data that goes into the great google-lord. There are filters and stuff" "clearly they aren't working" said Jackie, peeking at the planned developments on the drawing board for the next six months "and I can't see a single new district I'd actually like to live in. World of leather sounds so much more exciting than it really is" "seriously?" said Shellay, scrolling in horror through what the city would look like in a few mere weeks time. All the fashion chains she had loved to hate, the trashbarn where you could get an entire new wardrobe for a quid, all of them were being demolished in favour of entertainments that barely deserved the name. Museums of stamp collecting. Monuments to great engineers past and present. Massage parlours for the elderly. Who the fuck would want to visit that? "you think our app is doing this?" "I can't think of anything else that would" said Jackie "not unless the people of this city have a sudden stiffy for a district made of glass dogs, or one built to resemble the bombed out London streets of the blitz" "that last one sounds fun" said Shellay hopefully "no, its very realistic" said Jackie "right down to the dead bodies and the potholes in the road. And the rationing. I saw it this morning. It was trending on WTFF news" "shit. Maybe it is us" said Shellay, blinking in surprise "fuck, maybe we did do this. We broke the world with our app. And if we broke the world with randomness…." she turned to Jackie with shining eyes "just imagine what we could do if we planned it" "way ahead of you boss" said Jackie, tapping away in the empty air "I can change the code so we can get anything we want. You fancy having a district based on that crappy kids show you loved?" "hey, Round the Twist was ace" said Shellay irately "and yes, yes I do" "then its just a matter of…." Began Jackie and then trailed off, the smile draining from her face "what is it?" asked Shellay "can't we alter the code? We put it there, so we should be able to" "you didn't tell me you did this" said Jackie, looking at Shellay accusingly. "do what?" asked Shellay, suddenly confused "I've been locked out" said Jackie "specifically you’ve  locked me out. Is it because you've found another coder? Because if it is can I just tell you that…." "what other coder? What are you talking about?" asked shellay "I haven't done anything with the code. I'm a designer. I do concepts and colours. Numbers is your domain" "well somehow you locked me out” said Jackie irately "and so I can't do anything till you let me back in" "oh for fucks sake" said Shellay "clearly there's been some kind of mistake" she pulled on her smartglasses and brought up the interface for her app "I'll reset the admin privileges so you can get back in there. And hurry, I want to start fucking with the city. I’ve always wanted to shape something using just the power of my psyche" But it would be easier said than done. Passwords were entered only to be rejected. Appeals to the higher name of security scans, iris and thumb print were likewise rejected. "someone's hacked you" said Jackie plainly "they've changed your access codes. You better just hope they're doing it to extort money, because if they've twigged how powerful Chaff can be then we are in deep shit" Jackie looked closely at Shellay "so is there anyone you suspect could have done this? Have you shared any intimate moments recently?" "just one" said Shellay "but he was such a sweet guy. All he went on about was…." She trailed off, recalling the boy who'd gone on about the end of capitalism. The swirl of pink mist where her memories should be "that bloody bastard" she cursed "he's hacked me. He's going to bring about the end of capitalism, using my fucking app" she stared about her at the city, recoiling with horror as she imagined the blasphemies that the errant code would create. She imagined whole districts devoted to living examples of Marxist theory, roads that were named after obscure soviet thinkers “oh christ” she said, looking at Jackie in terror “I think we broke the world”