Silver Bells

by phenanthrene_blue

Summary:

The irony isn’t lost on Helen Marshall: her annual Holiday Memorandum, designed to prevent any incidents during a particularly ritualistic time of year, is itself quite archetypal of December. She’ll have to speak more with Dr. Darling about what that might mean that later, but for now, she’s busy at her electric typewriter, tending to this important task on an ordinary Monday morning.

Notes:

• For NotAVeryNiceGuy.

Chapter 1

I.

November 30th, 2025. 

Not one second after his colleague finishes his story, Agent Nolan laughs, a loud burst of disbelief and whiskey fumes. “Oh, come on, that’s bullshit.”

“It’s not!” Agent Diaz rebuts. “I swear to God, Kenny, your skepticism’s gonna get you killed someday.”

There’s a re-shuffling of cards, more liquor’s tipped into Bureau-issued mugs that normally just hold coffee, and Agent Nolan still isn’t convinced.  

“You’re absolutely pulling my leg. You’re over here telling me that you and your grandmother are making tamales, you get up to go to the bathroom, poof, she disappears into an alternate dimension – and that’s how you first made contact with the Bureau?” 

A third agent, Pinson, opines at Agent Nolan while he deals the cards: “I mean, Rob’s story is no more bullshit than your story about a mythical beast in the woods in North Dakota and some pretty lady agent stopping by your cabin.” 

“Hey.” Nolan protests, “That thing was totally real. And obviously, so is Sarah, seeing as we’ve been married for seven years!”

The Assistant Panopticon Supervisor, who normally isn’t in the habit of attending his team’s midnight poker games, picks up his pair of cards and finally talks: “I mean, given the nature of our work, none of your stories are impossible, guys.”

“Well, what about you?” Diaz asks him. “How’d you first run into the Bureau?”  

“Yeah, man.” Pinson says, “Tell us. There’s nothing else to do in lockdown but look at monitors all night!”

The three agents look at the Supervisor. Nolan screws the cap off the whiskey bottle and says: “It’s three against one. Ante up, Boss.” 

“Okay. Ah, well,” the Supervisor starts. “I suppose it’s seasonally appropriate, given that it’s now after Thanksgiving and all. So, like all good stories, mine started at Christmas.”

▼▼▼

 December 1st, 1997.

The irony isn’t lost on Helen Marshall: her annual Holiday Memorandum, designed to prevent any incidents during a particularly ritualistic time of year, is itself quite archetypal of December. She’ll have to speak more with Dr. Darling about what that might mean that later, but for now, she’s busy at her electric typewriter, tending to this important task on an ordinary Monday morning: 

As holidays feature prominently in the collective subconscious of humanity, Bureau employees must be especially vigilant this time of year. Please note, that per Directive ES-O12, the following are strictly forbidden inside of the Oldest House or any at Bureau field office:

1. Christmas trees, wreaths, lights, or other typical holiday decorations;
2. Anything related to holiday gift giving (e.g., holiday gift-wrap or bows);
3. Religious or cultural symbolism (e.g., nativity scenes, advent calendars, menorahs, candles) associated with Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s Eve or Day, Saints’ days observed in December, etc.;
4. Secular winter themes (such as effigies or iconographies depicting Santa Claus, reindeer, snowmen, polar bears, or snowflakes);
5. Food or games/activities associated with winter holidays (ice skates, candy canes, eggnog, cookies, dreidels);
6. Playing or performing any music associated with winter holidays (such as Christmas carols).

Depending on your unit and responsibilities, there may be additional regulations or well-defined, notable exceptions, which will be explicitly communicated by your supervisor in the coming days.

A full list of items and concepts that have been deemed safe and are allowable at your workplace is attached in the appendix–

Helen stops typing when her door creaks open, and Zachariah Trench walks in a second later. 

“Ah, morning, Helen.” He says, digging in his pocket for a cigarette as he aborts a yawn.

“Hey, Zach. How was your Thanksgiving? Did you–”

Helen stops, not knowing what to ask. Spend time with family? Travel anywhere? The possibilities are innocuous enough, but she wants to be sensitive, given that Trench’s divorce was finalized just months ago after the tragic death of his daughter, Susanna, in January. How does one observe a family-centered holiday when they no longer have a family?

“–It was fine. Turkey and football.” Trench seems eager to change the subject. “How about you? Did you go to North Carolina?”

“Oh yes.” Helen laughs. “I even had to dust off my old cover story about being a junior high principal.”

“…Not sure I want to ask.” Trench says. “But it’s already quarter-to-nine. Are you coming down to Casper’s meeting? 

“Yeah. Just let me finish this one part. You know, the stuff about red and green ties and when you can say “happy holidays”.

“Red ties.” Trench mutters around his still-unlit cigarette. He looks down at his tie as if acknowledge that it’s blue, before adding: “Right, I’ll meet you down in our conference room.” 

▼▼▼

December 2nd, 1997.

It’s 7:45 PM, and Dr. Evangeline Thomas is exhausted. Her workday is over, but her mind still races as she walks through the cold to the Chambers Street subway station and boards on the crowded train. She’ll have to finish the interviews with her study volunteers, and her lab’s approaching the four-month check-in on the flamingo. 

Eventually, she shuffles robotically off the subway and up onto the bus. As the bright windows and Christmas lights of New York City at night whiz past, she keeps thinking. She’ll also need to go to the Whitebank hangar to find out whether the observed one-point-seven degree Celsius drop in ambient temperature is anything to worry about. But before that, it’ll be tests with AI14-AE – the Tree. Do they think they’re funny, scheduling work with that item in December? 

She’s too tired to be snarky, her mind pinging from task to task on her mental to-do-list. Evie, you still have to do this; Evie, remember to do that – but it all instantly stops when she opens the front door of her small townhouse. It smells like chicken pot pie, she can hear the TV on in the living room, and a little voice calls out: “Mom!”

Thirty seconds later, a pair of small arms wrap around her thighs – those of her six-year-old son, Logan. 

“Hey buddy.” She pets his sandy blond hair. “Have you been good for your dad?” 

“He’s been pretty quiet.” Her ex-husband, Jason, says, appearing in the hall. “He's tired and he says his stomach hurts. We ate dinner and watched Die Hard.” 

When Evie says “…Isn’t that rated R?” Jason seems to guiltily shy away. But she turns her attention back to Logan and gives him another hug. “Aww, sorry you’ve got a tummy ache. Did you eat too much again?”

When her son doesn’t respond, she turns to Jason and half-sighs, “Thanks for coming over, J.”

“Long day, Evie?”

“Impossibly. Just drowning in paperwork.”

Jason’s blue eyes tip up toward the ceiling, “The Bureau’s like that sometimes…but you obviously don’t need me to tell you that.”  

He would know – he works for the same Bureau, albeit in Accounting, and not with possessed objects and dimension-breaking events. 

“…Is the rest of that pot pie still in the oven?” Evie asks. “I’m starving.”  

“Oven’s off. It’s probably cold by now.”

Evie groans, and Logan, who had been silently leaning against the wall, whimpers: “I don’t feel so good.” 

Evie reaches out and touches a palm to the boy’s forehead. Her fingers flinch at his warmth. 

“Oh buddy, you’re burning up.” She turns back to Jason. “Probably that flu going around at his school. I’m gonna get him to bed.” 

“And I’d better go take a shower. My hair’s greasy.” Jason pats his son’s back, utters a brusque, “Feel better, kiddo”, and sees himself out. 

Evie helps Logan change into pajamas, gives him a children’s Tylenol, and ushers him upstairs and into bed. She turns on the Christmas lights strung around his headboard, and, now in her PJs too, lies down next to him.

“Mom, I’m cold.”

“You’ll feel better soon.” She fluffs the blue, star-patterned comforter around his shoulders. “We just need to wait for the medicine to work. How about–” She has a lighthearted idea, “–you tell me what you’d like Santa to bring you for Christmas.” 

“A Super Soaker. And a Knicks jersey. Number thirty-three.”

“Hm, that’s his number, right?” She points at the poster of Patrick Ewing above Logan’s bed.

“Yeah.” Logan yawns. “Do you think Santa likes basketball too?" 

“Probably. Everyone likes basketball.” Evie smiles. “I’ll put in a word with Santa soon. It’s just twenty-three days until Christmas.”

“Hm. Christmas.” Logan yawns again and rolls over. “Silver bells.” 

Like the Christmas song, Evie thinks, letting her eyes fall shut.

▼▼▼

December 3rd, 1997.

As she plugs all the jacks into the side of the main terminal, Evie yawns loudly. She swears she’s spent a good twenty percent of the last hour’s setup time just yawning, and Dr. Caroline Friedman, her much-older mentor and closest friend at the FBC, finally says something. 

“Rough night?” 

“Yeah.” Evie says. “Logan’s got the flu.” 

“Poor bub. Hope it doesn’t end up here. Is Jason watching him today?”

“Yeah.” With the cables connected, Evie’s now changing the tape reels in the recorder. 

“Ah, you’re a lucky one, hon.” Caroline clicks her tongue. “When I got divorced, it’s a wonder Phil and I didn’t strangle one another. But well, I guess hating your ex can manifest itself in all sorts of different ways. You can stick yours with babysitting duty.” 

“C’mon, Caro, it’s not like that with Jason. I don’t hate him, he’s just…well, clueless. Especially about being a dad, sometimes, and–"

“Are we ready, ladies?” A voice to the left interrupts. It belongs to Dr. Ian Yang, the third member of the Ritual Division’s Altered Item Surveillance Group (known around Research as the “AIS”) now standing in the antechamber outside containment Unit 10. 

Caroline, typing a few commands on the computer, says, “I think so. Mic’s on, and the list is queued.” 

“Okay. Go for it.” Ian says, sitting down next to Evie. 

Evie looks through the reinforced glass at AI14-AE, slides on the headphones, and pushes the button on the microphone stand. 

“This is Dr. Evangeline Thomas of the AIS group, conducting our tri-yearly monitoring of AI14-AE, the Holiday Memories Tree. The date is December Third, 1997. I’m now moving to the prescribed distance of four meters from the item to begin our trial.” 

Suppressing another yawn, Evie then scoots her chair across a red line of tape on the floor and reads the first line on the computer screen – the first of a randomized series of “test” phrases: 

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

Her words are transmitted into the Item’s soundproof cell. The item repeats back, “The ____ brown fox jumps over the lazy dog”, its words patched into the speaker and recorder via Black Rock-plated cables (to lessen psychological effects on the observers). 

Evie circles the word “quick” on her clipboard and moves on to the second phrase. 

“Ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country.”

The Tree says the same words back, minus one – “country” – as expected. 

She says three more phrases: “Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle”, “may the Force be with you”, and “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep”, and in each case, she circles the known omitted word on her form. Cat. Force. Miles.

“Reading the control phrases now.” She says. She then reads: “He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land.” 

The item repeats the identical phrase back. Nothing is missing – as they expect. Evie checks the “unremarkable” box, and Ian nods. 

Three more phrases yield three more checks for “unremarkable”. 

“Okay.” Evie says. One more. “Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, and can’t tell where to find them.” 

“Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep and can’t tell where to ____ them.” The item says, with a brief pause before “them”. 

“Um.” With a little beat of nervousness in her chest, Evie turns to Ian. “Omitted word.” 

“Repeat the phrase.” Ian directs. “It might struggle if you’re not properly enunciating.” 

So Evie says, as clearly as possible: “Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, and can’t tell where to find them.” 

But the word – find – is again missing from what’s said back.

“St-still omitted.” Evie stammers. “It’s not saying ‘find’.”

Ian’s brow suddenly scrunches up behind his glasses. He looks down at his notebook and coughs. “Uh, Caro, double check the filter and frequency modulator.”   

Caroline’s typing accelerates, and the computer beeps; she slides a few knobs on the console and says, “Everything’s normal, Ian. I replaced the RF board components in October. It’s unlikely to be some electronic malfunction.” 

“Find.” Evie repeats into the microphone. “Find. Find.”  

But she’s met only with silence – and an inescapable sense of unease.

“Stop the recording.” Ian says. “And let’s call Dr. Darling later.”

▼▼▼

December 4th, 1997.

The early morning’s drizzle has finally become a steadier rain. It wicks easily off Helen’s raincoat, but the damp cold goes right through her. She pulls her beret further over her ears and focuses on the warm contact between her fingers and her mostly-full coffee cup.

Helen and Trench had gotten coffee and breakfast outside the Oldest House today. Now on their way back, Trench doesn’t seem to be one for conversation, slouching along quietly beside Helen. His face, still quite youthful in his 40s, looks especially tired and gruff today, his typical unlit cigarette sagging from a corner of his mouth.

Around them, the miserable weather hasn’t dampened the city’s festiveness. Holiday shoppers, arms laden with bags from boutiques and toy stores, zip through the crosswalks, and the small trees lining the street are already strung with lights.

A trio of young teenagers, one of them pulling a wagon containing a pile of wreaths, sprint past them, laughing.   

“Hm.” Trench mumbles. “Seven million people in this city, and we’re the only ones who know how archetypal it all is.”

“And yet, you and I still celebrate Christmas.” Helen smiles. “At least, I hope you still do.” 

Trench looks off down the street for a few seconds. He says, “Susie used to like wreaths”, before falling quiet again. 

“Zach.” Helen says. “I know this all probably brings up some painful memories. Are you doing okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Helen.” Trench says. “But I do appreciate the concern.” 

He lights his cigarette as they reach the corner of Broadway and Thomas Street. Helen turns up her collar against the freezing wind. 

“So.” Helen starts again. “What’s your bet as to why Casper and Lin have called us to a briefing at eleven?” 

“Who knows.”

“Oh, humor me, Zach. Give me your best guess.”

“…One of Casper’s experiments probably went sideways and he got Lin involved.” Trench finally postulates, “I just hope there isn’t a floating toilet this time.”   

▼

Helen’s notepad is open to a blank page, where she dates the top-left corner. To her left, Trench stares dully into his coffee.

At 11:04 AM, Lin Salvador sits back down at the conference table, and says, “Well, it’s two things, really. We’re just covering our bases here from the security standpoint. Casper, do you want to go first?”

“Sure.” Casper Darling starts, appearing to summarize the document in front of him. “Ritual’s AIS group’s doing regular monitoring of Altered items, and they’ve found some…abnormalities in AI14-AE’s speech.”                                                                                            

This finally breaks Trench out of his silent funk. “Like, the kind of abnormalities that could affect the Formulas?” 

“Yes. And that’s why we’re a little concerned. Obviously, if something’s that’s been unchanged for seventeen years suddenly changes, that’s a variable that we need to address. A change like this could make some Formulas ineffective. Or it might mean there are new ones we’ll need to discover. Either way, it’s not the best result when half that Division’s going to take some time off for the holidays.” 

“Well, I’d say the obvious course of action is to have your folks repeat their tests,” Trench says, “holidays or not.” 

Casper seems amused. “Well gee, Zach. I hadn’t considered that. I thought we might hang some ornaments on the item instead. Maybe put a present or two underneath while we’re at it.” When Trench clearly doesn’t respond to his jokey sarcasm, Casper’s voice goes flat. “One week after an abnormal result is our standard re-test time, but the group lead, Dr. Yang, can bring his team in on Sunday afternoon. So that’s…the Seventh.”

Helen writes down that date and flips the page. “Just make sure you keep us updated. What’s the second thing? Lin?” 

Salvador is next to speak: “We had a weird little event in Containment. As you know, most of the Panopticon’s still unoccupied while the Sector’s folks move in, so they’ve got a lot of empty cells to keep track of.” He continues: “My deputy, Langston, said they found one unlocked early this morning. On the second floor. It was one of the low-security units, but the door was wide open.”

“Huh.” Helen says. “Any records of anyone entering that cell in your logbooks?”

“No ma’am. And nothing’s kept in there, so there’s no real reason for anyone to visit. And here’s what’s weird: inside the cell, we found water on the floor, and it looked like someone had jimmied open the lock.” 

“Someone broke into a cell in the Panopticon?” Trench says, his posture showing a bit more engagement. 

“No, Director. The lock was damaged on the inside. The signs point more toward someone breaking out of a cell in the Panopticon.” Salvador adds. “We’re going to look through our CCTV footage from that whole area over the next few days, but to me, something doesn’t pass the smell test.”

Helen turns to Trench. “Obviously not a floating toilet.” 

“I don’t know, Lin.” The Director addresses his Security Chief, “It’s unusual, but I’d still call it pretty low priority for now.” 

▼▼▼

December 5th, 1997. 

From under his pile of blankets, Logan passes his mother the thermometer that had been under his tongue. Evie reads it with a little hum of concern.

Still 102˚F.

Walking out into the hall, she calls down the stairs: “Jason?”

When there’s no response, just the faint murmur of a college basketball game on TV, she jogs downstairs to find Jason asleep on the couch.  

“Jason.” She says, louder, and he jerks awake with a confused “wha–?”

“When did Logan last have Tylenol?”

“Uh…four. No…six. Yeah, six. Right before we had dinner.” Jason mumbles.  

“Was it four or six?” Evie asks.

“…Six. Yeah. When we had dinner.” Jason sits up, craning his neck to see the game around his ex-wife, who is blocking the television. “Shit, what time is it now?”

“Nine. And he still has a fever.” 

“Evie, he’s got the flu.” 

“A fever for four days? And even with the Tylenol? Don’t you think we might want to call Dr. Chavez at this point?” 

“…Doctor who?” Jason looks up at her. 

After another very long day, Evie now feels her temper starting to bristle. “Dr. Chavez. Logan’s pediatrician, J.” 

“It’s Friday night.”

“It’s called an answering machine!” She huffs. “Did you at least call Mrs. Clement to see if he has any homework?” 

“Homework?” Jason retorts, “He’s in the first grade. They barely know how to add and subtract, for Chrissakes.”

“If you’re not doing anything to help, then why are you over here?” Evie snips at him. “You’re here watching a game, and he’s up alone in his room? You know Logan likes basketball more than damn near anything.” 

Jason seems to think about how to answer before finally saying: “Look, I know you’re stressed at work with this whole Christmas tree mess, but you’re worrying about nothing. Logan’s fine. Go eat something, I made mac and cheese. I mean…it’s from a box, but it’s pretty good.” 

“I hope you at least made him some damn vegetables with that mac and cheese.” Evie curses as she gales off to the kitchen. 

(He didn’t, and he burned the bottom of it, so she opts for instant oatmeal instead).  

Bowl in hand, she heads back to the stairs. But when her hand touches the railing, she hears something different. 

Singing. 

“–In the air there's a feeling of Christmas…Children laughing, people passing–" 

Logan is singing. Evie heads up to investigate. 

When she opens the door to his room, she finds him sitting up in bed, facing the window and looking outside. 

“Silver bells, silver bells…it's Christmastime in the city. Ring-a-ling, hear them sing…”

“…Logan?” Evie asks. “Are you…feeling better?”

But he keeps singing, not seeming to acknowledge his mother’s presence at all. 

“Soon it will be Christmas Day.” 

She walks over to him. He’s staring at the window in an unblinking trance,the Christmas lights reflected in his eyes.

“Logan?” 

“Soon it will be Christmas Day.” He sings again. His voice draws out the last note for several seconds.

“I’m dizzy, mom.” He then moans, flopping over on his bed.  

▼▼▼ 

December 6th, 1997. 

Helen sits in the dim Security Office, watching through the door as Salvador inspects a large shipping crate. The younger man with him, Deputy Langston, is an animated blur, obviously excited over the crate’s contents.

“Sure, fourth floor’s fine.” Salvador mumbles, before returning to Helen.  

“Everything all right?” She asks.

“Yeah. Sorry to make you wait. This move’s taking longer than expected. What brings you up here on a Saturday?” 

“I was thinking about what you said on Thursday. The Director’s skeptical, but this unlocked cell thing made me curious. I’d like to have a look around, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course. The area’s still secured, but I think my guys’ve been pretty thorough. Just let me just finish up here and I’ll take you on in.”

Fifteen minutes later, Salvador ducks under the “Caution!” tape and opens the door to the containment cell in question. 

It’s a different setup than most of the Panopticon’s new cells: there’s no overhead spotlights, no plinth to place an Altered Item on, and no scientific instruments, but the cell still has two of its walls covered with Black Rock panels overlayed with corrugated foam rubber, and a steel door with a double-glazed window. It’s Clearance Level 1 – the kind of room where Investigations might interview a suspect that they’re only 72% convinced is a para-criminal. 

The cell is empty. The only sign of any activity at all is a set of scratch marks on the door right near the lock, as if someone’s used a tool to haphazardly pick it open.  

“This door doesn’t have an electronic locking mechanism, right?” Helen asks, turning the door handle.

“No.” Salvador says. “In these low-security units, you could probably use a credit card to bust the lock. Not that anyone in here would have a credit card – all Panopticon personnel keep their personal belongings in the lockers outside.” 

“Hm. And you said something about water on the floor?” Helen’s now in investigator mode, a permanent holdover from her CIA agent days. Her eyes scan the ceiling for a fire sprinkler or pipes, but don’t find them. “…But there’s nothing in here that could leak. Any records of House Shift activity?” 

“No. We thought about that too, but this is a low shift probability area. The folks in Research that study that stuff haven’t flagged anything.” Salvador continues, “Anyway, the water had evaporated by that evening, and around that same area, one of our agents saw what looked like a couple of faint boot prints, but our guess is those are from the crew that put the panels in. You know, the guys that communicate the specs we need to the rock-cutters in the Quarry.”

(The intensity of Helen’s investigator mode is now ratcheting up, like a volume knob slowly turned to its max.) 

“And did you lift these boot prints at all? Like, with tape or gel?” She asks. 

“…No, we didn’t see any reason to.” Salvador seems surprised by the question, but he isn’t defensive.

“Might be worth a look. If you’ve had anyone who works near the Quarry here, you’ll see Black Rock dust. Stuff gets everywhere. Can at least rule out that you haven’t had someone in here that you shouldn’t.”

Salvador scratches his chin. “Christ, nothing gets by you, Marshall. Guess I ought to take your shoe prints and mine for reference, too.” 

“Mhm.” Helen nods, giving him a half-smile. As she kneels to look more closely at the floor, something catches her eye. Something shiny, lodged in the foam rubber of one of the panels to her left. 

There, a flick of her fingers rolls a small object into her hand – a tiny silver jingle bell, no bigger than a fingernail.

“...Huh.” Helen says. “Any idea where this came from, Lin?”

“No, ma’am. Never seen it before.”

▼▼▼

December 7th, 1997.

Influenza was Dr. Chavez’s verdict. There’s a lot of flu right now. Dizziness can happen with nose and ear congestion. Keep an eye on him, keep giving him Tylenol, and let us know if he’s worse. 

Standing in front of AI14-AE’s containment cell, Evie remembers the phone call. She had been looking into the bathroom mirror, the cordless phone handset pressed to her ear, listening to the doctor while fixating on her own messy blonde hair and turned-up nose – realizing they were just like her son’s.

Logan, fortunately, seemed mostly normal today. When she left her ex-husband’s apartment after dropping him off, he was sitting up, parked in front of the TV with Jason, watching the Knicks play the Charlotte Hornets. 

“Okay, are we ready?” Ian says, finally breaking through Evie’s distractions. 

“Y-yeah.” Evie smooths out the front of her lab coat where it’s bunched up over her sweater, and walks back to the desk. 

It’s the same routine as Wednesday. Ian pores over his notebook, Caroline fidgets with the jacks and knobs, and the computer loads a new, randomized series of iconic phrases.  

The red microphone button sinks under Evie’s finger; she clears her throat. 

“This is Dr. Evangeline Thomas of the AIS group. We are following up on an anomalous result observed on December Third, 1997, while testing AI14-AE, the Holiday Memories Tree. Today’s date is December Seventh. Moving to our prescribed distance now.”

She rolls her chair over and reads three control phrases: “Leave the gun, take the cannoli”, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall, and "Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is" – and as predicted, no words are omitted. Unremarkable. Unremarkable. Unremarkable. 

But when she reads the flagged phrase from earlier in the week, the item still omits the word “find” from its speech. And something else is different this time – the word “little” is missing too. 

“Two words omitted!” She gasps. ‘Find’. And the first word, too. ‘Little’.’ It just said Bo-Peep. Not Little Bo-Peep.” 

Beside her, Ian’s taking notes at a fever pitch. “Try one more control phrase.”

Evie taps the ENTER key, and reads: “Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn. The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.” 

Through the headphones, she hears: “____ Boy Blue, come blow your horn. The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.”                                                                                                                                                              

“‘Little’ is still missing, Ian.” 

Now even Ian’s normally calm voice seems perturbed. “…Caro, bump us to two-hundred-eighty Hertz.”

“Already at two-eighty.” Caroline panic-grabs a second pair of headphones and puts them on.  

“Three hundred, then.” Ian orders. “Or, you know what? Try three-hundred-twenty.” 

“The full procedures for this item say to always stay below two-ninety.” Caroline says. “Over three-hundred and we risk having panic attacks. I don’t even want to think about three-hundred-twenty. You’re asking for this thing to give us all a psychotic episode.”  

“Okay.” Ian’s now tapping his pen. “Three hundred.” 

Caroline shrugs and turns the dial; Ian says, “Again, please, Evie.” 

The results are unchanged. Evie’s now sweating around her hairline. Her hands feel cold and shaky as she shuts off the microphone and tape recorder. To her right, Caroline’s got her chin in her palm, her eyes locked on the headphones she’s just removed. 

“This is…really weird, guys.” She says. 

▼▼▼

Chapter 2

 II.

December 8th, 1997. 

Helen isn’t one to beat a dead horse, but a potentially archetypal object found in a locked area of the Containment Sector has brought both corpse and cudgel to the forefront. 

It’s Monday again. She only has fifteen minutes until their meeting with Salvador, so she types quickly:

This is a reminder to please adhere to the guidelines outlined in ES-12197 (the “Holiday Memorandum”) regarding prohibited holiday-associated objects and concepts. Your compliance is necessary to ensure the safety of all Bureau personnel. Please direct any questi–

Across the room, a pained little grunt emanates from the couch, where Zachariah Trench had been reading his newspaper.  

“Still have a headache?” Helen asks. 

“You type too loud, Marshall.” A laugh creeps into his last word. 

“Sorry. Just trying to get it done before ten. Is Casper coming today?”

“I think so. Said he had some update.”  

Helen finishes typing, yanks the paper from her typewriter, and exhales. “Okay. We’ll have Barbara send this out after lunch.”  

“Ugh.” Trench rasps, “Do I have to go to another damn meeting about this Panopticon thing and Christmas items?” 

“Yes. Don’t be such a Scrooge.” 

“Isn’t that one of the prohibited–” 

“–That particular reference is not on the list.” Helen proudly brandishes a finger at him.

▼

It’s hot in the conference room, and even though thirty minutes have passed since he took an aspirin, Trench’s demeanor still suggests he’d rather be literally anywhere else than in here, watching Helen grilling Lin Salvador.  

“And there’s nothing on your CCTV footage?”  

“Yes ma’am. Nothing and nobody.” Salvador says. “If someone went in or came out of that cell, our cameras didn’t pick them up.” 

Helen keeps up her questioning: “How’s that possible? Every inch of Containment’s under surveillance. I don’t even like using the ladies’ room up there because I don’t know where your cameras aren’t.” 

“No idea!” Salvador raises his hands. “I’m having Langston comb through everything again in case there’s missing footage somewhere, but–”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Trench interrupts. “People, this is nothing. There’s nobody on the tapes because there was nobody there. The lock was probably damaged when it was installed, because shit happens. The door probably just popped open. Can we move on to actual security issues?”

Salvador’s expression is oddly defiant. “…Okay, what about the water on the floor?” 

“Do you know how many things randomly appear in the Oldest House on any given day? We’ve seen water before.”

“Mhmm.” Unconvinced, Salvador motions at Helen. “And she was right, you know. Johnson and Lyman lifted a pair of partial boot prints from inside that cell. We’re sending them to Investigations for a full forensic analysis. C’mon, Zach, you were a field agent once. Where’s your detective instinct?” 

“Okay. If you’re really concerned,” Trench says. “Add it to the list of areas to watch for developing Thresholds.”

“I think that’s reasonable.” Helen agrees.

“Now, can we talk about something else?” Trench tries to redirect the conversation. “What’s the status of the move? Which Altered items are already in the Panopticon?” 

“Before we go there, I have one more question.” Helen butts in. “What happened to that little jingle bell?”

Next to her, Trench looks like he’s been force-fed a lemon. 

“Ah, Casper’s got that.” Salvador says. “Took it for some paranatural assessment or another. Shit, you can ask him now!” 

Helen turns around. Darling’s now propped himself in the doorframe, a messy bundle of papers tucked under his arm.

“Oh, the jingle bell’s nothing special.” He says. “No detectable paranatural activity. It might violate your Holiday Memo, but as far as we can tell, it’s…just a jingle bell. Maybe the kind of thing you’d find sewn on an ugly Christmas sweater.”

“Right. So we need to be on the lookout for a perp who escaped an office Christmas party.” Trench growls sardonically. “Casper, what’s your update?” 

“Sorry I’m late, Zach.” He takes the chair next to Salvador and unburdens himself of his papers. “Honestly, this thing with the Tree’s getting pretty worrisome. We’ve now got two omitted words.” 

The snark seems to fall right off Trench’s face. 

▼▼▼

December 9th, 1997.

It had been an excruciatingly long day, occupied entirely by preliminary documentation on the Tree’s omitted words. Even transcribing the tape recordings had left Evie’s stomach heavy with disquiet, a sensation that seemed to follow her all afternoon (and it’ll likely resume the day after tomorrow, when Dr. Darling’s ordered a second follow-up session with even more experiments). 

Logan’s temperature had finally dropped to half a degree above normal. Although Evie was glad to see him off to school, he had missed the bus home. Jason had arrived nearly an hour late to pick him up – the catalyst for a prolonged shouting match over the phone.  

(Jason didn’t even acknowledge her when he left after dropping Logan off. Asshole). 

At 9 PM, the microwave dings, and Evie removes her bowl of ramen noodles. She snatches a clementine from her fruit bowl, carries her meager post-work meal into the living room, and slumps down on the couch. 

Logan’s asleep on the floor, tucked halfway underneath the Christmas tree. Only half the ornaments are up and it’s a tad scrawny, something she bought from a guy selling them in a parking lot – but the lights are still pretty enough, glinting off the panes of the bay window and casting a rainbow of light on Logan’s face. Just a bit more comforting than the Christmas tree at the Oldest House. 

Evie slurps her noodles in silence, looking past the tree and out the window. It’s barely above freezing outside, the cold fog ringing the streetlights now turning into snow flurries.  

She puts her feet up on the coffee table, next to the storage box with the rest of the ornaments. Next to them, along the table’s edge, Evie sees a row of Hershey’s kisses – all silver – lined up in a row. Logan’s handiwork, no doubt. He must’ve found the bag in the cupboard next to the fridge. She smiles. Fortunately, he didn’t find the other four bags she’s saving for Christmas. 

At 9:19 PM, by her watch, Evie drops the clementine peel into her empty bowl and swipes one of the chocolates. 

“Okay, buster.” She nudges Logan’s back. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

Logan doesn’t respond, so Evie rolls him over and hauls him up into her arms, the dead weight of his deep sleep borne by her shoulder. 

“Jeez, you’re getting heavy.”  

She carries him up to his bedroom. He stirs as she tucks him in, saying something to himself: “Don’t. Don’t like–” 

“Hm? What’s that?” Evie asks. 

“Don’t like when you n’dad fight.”

“I know, buddy. I don’t either.” She sighs, looking around for something to force a subject change. “...How about I read to you?” Her hands fumble into a book on the table next to his bed – a kids’ hardcover book about sharks.

"Oooh, sharks!" Evie giggles. “Should we read about sharks?” 

Logan nods. At 9:28 PM, Evie flips open the cover to read. But as she reaches the bottom of the first page, she hears Logan humming. And when she stops, he starts singing: 

“City sidewalks, busy sidewalks. Dressed in holiday style...”

The same Christmas song he sang four days ago, before his dizzy spell. 

“Huh.” Evie says. “Where’d you learn that song?”

“…In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas.”  

“Did you…hear it on TV?” 

Logan shakes his head no and continues: “…Children laughing, people passing, meeting smile after smile, and on every street corner you hear…” 

“From dad?” 

Another no. “Silver bells, silver bells…it's Christmastime in the city. Ring-a-ling, hear them sing…” 

“At school? You had music class today again, right?”

Another no.

“Soon it will be Christmas day.” 

When Logan finishes the chorus, he says: “It’s just…in my head.” 

“What do you mean, it’s ‘in your head’? Like, you heard it somewhere and it’s stuck in your head, and now you want to sing it?” 

“No. I can hear it. I’d never heard it before, and then a few days ago, I just...” Logan sniffles, yawns, and then his eyes slowly close, “–started hearing it…” He babbles. “...Sleepy.”

Evie doesn’t push the issue. He’s still recovering. He needs rest. 

She gently ruffles Logan’s hair and sees herself out, and it’s not until she’s downstairs, unpacking blown-glass baubles and miniature basketballs in Knicks colors, that she lets herself think again – at 9:42 PM. 

Just started hearing it?  

He has to have learned that from Jason. Just like how he taught him “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer” last year, and then Logan wouldn’t stop singing it. Evie had definitely yelled at Jason for that.

▼▼▼

December 10th, 1997. 

The two words are still omitted when Ian or Caroline read the phrases. They flip every switch and adjust every knob, to no avail. They say the phrases in Spanish, Russian, and Japanese. They even play a tape of Evie reading: sped up, slowed down, and played backwards – and the two words are still omitted. 

Notebooks and files are accumulating on the desk outside of AI14-AE’s cell, behind the portable blackboard that Caroline’s brought in. And today, Ian’s not just writing, but pacing while writing – a sign of significant perturbation. 

“Did you talk to Bukowski?” Caroline asks. “Or Smith?”

(She refers, of course, to Ron Bukowski and Dominique Smith, the two heads of the Pacification Group, whom Dr. Darling claimed were eager to test how their new developments might impact the Formulas.) 

“Smith.” Ian says, scratching his chin in deep thought. “And she says she’s writing up a protocol. You couldn’t get Bukowski to sign off on a Formula modification if you nailed it to his ass.” 

Next to Caroline, Evie gulps in the laugh that had involuntarily begun to pop out. 

“Evie, hon, did you find anything in Book 16?” Caroline asks. “The date on that one was 1981.” 

“…What am I looking for again?” Evie hurriedly flips through an old, leather-bound notebook. 

“Rectifier parameters. Dr. Ash ran a whole bunch of trials in–” 

Ian’s interruption is testy: “–Seriously, Caro? That shit isn’t going to translate from sixteen-year-old instruments. You’re wasting your time.”

Caroline is equally irritable back: “So you think we should just start the next set of tests? You’re not concerned about the ‘emotional distress factor’ here? Because I don’t know about you, but I am not getting sent to the loony bin because of a talking Christmas tree.”

The laugh that Evie had choked back now bursts out in entirety, and Ian shoots her a stern look.

“Yes.” He states. “I do think we should start the tests, with the same settings from last time. Dr. Darling sent us here to confirm our results, not go on some wild goose chase for rectifier parameters.” 

“All right, all right.” Caroline gets to work starting her usual routine, turning around only to utter: “Jesus, Evie, he’s turning my hair grey” to her younger friend. 

It takes them only five minutes to set up; the results of today’s experiments are unsurprising: three more unremarkables, two omitted words, and one beeping computer.

“Trying a new set of test phrases now.” Evie says into the microphone, the muscle-memory of her fingers finding the “ENTER” key. 

“Monday's child is fair of face; Tuesday's child is full of grace.” She reads. The Tree repeats the phrase back, word for word. 

“Huh.” Evie smiles at the second phrase. “George Harrison lyrics. I like this song.” She leans toward the microphone and decides to sing them, if for no reason beyond just lightening the serious mood: “It's not always gonna be this gray. All things must pass; all things must pass away.” 

Caro laughs. “Look at that, she’s a regular Barbra Streisand.”  

And then the tree doesn’t say “must” back.

“Omitted word.” Evie checks the “anomaly” box on the form, noticing the tremor forming in her hands. “Must.” 

“Son of a bitch.” Ian groans. “What’s gotten into this thing?!” 

Caroline writes the new word on the blackboard in pink chalk, next to the other two. Ian puts on his own headphones and quickly commandeers the microphone, as if he’s completely in disbelief and needs to hear it himself. 

Now displaced, Evie takes a few steps back, away from this little alcove of nerves and scientific desperation – and nearly collides with someone. There’s another person in the antechamber. 

Evie recognizes her from one of the other Research teams that monitor up here.

“Dr. Thomas! There you are. Mr. Salvador said you’d be up here. There’s a phone call down in the Security Office for you.” 

Evie thinks maybe, just maybe, Jason’s calling to apologize for yesterday’s whole picking-up-Logan-fiasco, and asks: “Who?”

“Dunno. Some lady – didn’t recognize the voice.” 

Evie follows the woman to the office, where she picks up the phone handset from the desk. 

“Evangeline Thomas speaking.” 

It’s Jeanine, the school nurse at P.S. 234, calling an emergency contact number.

Logan had thrown up at school. 

▼▼▼ 

December 11th, 1997. 

“Zach, come on.” Helen pleads. “It’s just a meeting, not the Spanish Inquisition. Casper and Lin aren’t going to torture you.”

Helen walks around Trench’s desk. She briefly looks down at a summary of the Director’s life: an empty ashtray, a stack of papers, two fountain pens, and behind them, a framed photo of a preschool-age girl wearing a pink jumper.

“Well, they might as well, Helen.” Trench’s voice is hollow in his coffee mug as he downs the rest of its contents. “This ridiculous bullshit in the Panopticon – why do you keep enabling them?”

She could, of course, talk about security, or even the merits of investigation for investigation’s sake, but when her friend’s mood is especially low, she opts for reverse psychology (it’s…another CIA thing). 

“You know, you’re probably right. This whole thing probably is nothing. So come down to the meeting and let them tell you that it’s nothing. I will stand corrected, and you can rest on your laurels.”

Trench’s groan segues into, “All right. And only if there’s more coffee. I’m worn out. Think the low light this time of year’s getting to me.” 

“I’ll make a fresh pot as soon as we get down there.” 

Trench walks out from behind his desk and Helen gives him a once-over, her eyes drawn to the fir-green tie he’s wearing. 

“Green.” She says, “I like it. Seasonally appropriate.” 

“Don’t push it, Helen.” 

His voice is tired, but she sees the smallest trace of a smile on his face. 

▼

Casper’s update has Helen’s hair standing on end. While the jingle bell still didn’t have a paranatural signature, a third omitted word from AI14-AE’s speech had immediately made him schedule even more additional tests for tomorrow – but that wasn’t the concerning part.

“Wait.” She waves a hand. “You’re saying that you have a Formula that doesn’t work, now?” 

“Yes. One of the ones we used with the Ocelot’s Anchor. Dr. Smith said that when they moved some of the panels around in its cell, they found its sphere size had increased by fourteen percent since their last check-in two weeks ago. I don’t think I need to say why that’s not good.” 

“Make sure Containment’s aware and has emergency procedures in place.” Trench rubs at his brow, as if signaling to the Bureau Heads: this is the last thing we need right now. 

Salvador laughs nervously. “Oh, we’re well aware.” 

“Alert Investigations, too.” Helen says. “Will has procedures for if the doo-doo really hits the fan.” 

“You know, we’re all adults here.” Trench says back to her. “You can say ‘shit’.” 

Casper smiles. A minute of uninteresting small talk follows.

“Speaking of shit.” Salvador finally chimes in. “I’ve got two new leads on this open cell investigation.”  

“Go right ahead.” Helen says.

“Well, first, we got the chemical analysis results on the boot prints we lifted. I sent your shoeprint and mine for reference, as well as one we got from a quarry engineer. A guy named José. Really pleasant fellow.” Salvador opens a binder and his eyes skim a page inside. “José’s print had a lot of fine Black Rock dust. Yours and mine were just the typical debris and dirt. But the boot print we found in the cell was odd. We found a high concentration of sulfur, elemental carbon, and poly…uh, poly-sickle–” He struggles to mispronounce something in the report. 

“Polycyclic hydrocarbons.” Casper says. “Almost like the chemicals you’d find in charcoal or burnt wood.” 

“So what?” Trench says. “Someone went to a cookout and then came to work the next morning.” 

“…In December?” Helen snipes at him. 

“Okay, a bonfire, then.”  

“It’s a long shot, but we’re going to request prints from some of the Containment Sector agents who work in that area. See if there are any matches.” Salvador says. “But there’s something else. Check this out.” 

He walks to the nearby TV cart, turns on the monitor, and pushes “PLAY” on the old VCR. The screen shows CCTV footage.

“This is around the corner from that cell. Look at the time stamps in the corner. Watch what happens when it reads zero-zero-five-one – that would be just after midnight on December Fourth.” 

As the numbers in the corner tick forward, a line rolls down the screen. It’s followed by a snow-like static that dissipates after several seconds.

The irritated clack of Trench’s coffee mug on the tabletop seems too-loud. “Lin, did you really come up here to show me a tape artifact?” 

“Sir, that’s the thing. Other tapes from that night have this exact same artifact. We paused it and compared tapes from different cameras in Containment. The ‘snow’ pattern is virtually identical! I’ll show you some of Langston’s printouts in a minute, but all of it happened between midnight and around twenty-past midnight on the Fourth.” 

At that, Trench inhales his own dismissal and sits up straighter. “Okay, okay. You got my attention. Go on, then.” 

Helen looks at him while Salvador continues. Maybe there’s something to this reverse psychology thing after all. 

▼▼▼

December 12th, 1997. 

When Dr. Chavez calls back, Evie listens over the phone: “Okay. If he’s got a fever again, he might have a secondary infection that he needs antibiotics for. Does he have a cough? Any complaining about an earache?”

“No.” Evie says. “He’s just…a hundred-and-two again. He threw up at school on Wednesday. He’s mostly been sleeping today. I’ve been home from work with him yesterday and today. Jason hasn’t returned my calls.” 

(They still haven’t spoken at all since their row three days earlier, but Evie doesn’t want to say that).  

“Okay. If he’s still running a temp in the morning, you’ll want to bring him in.”

“Got it. Thanks.” 

“Poor little guy.” Dr. Chavez now sounds like a sympathetic mom herself. “Just call me back if you need anything. I hope he feels better soon.”

Evie presses the “end call” button and stretches out on the sofa, the phone resting against her hip. Closing her eyes and tugging the throw blanket up around her neck, she lets herself float into a welcome nap.  

She jumps awake when the phone rings again – several hours later, based on how dark the sky is through the bay window. This time, it’s Caroline. Evie stumbles over a “Hello.” 

“How’s the little tyke, hon?” Caroline asks.  

“Sleeping. Still sick.” 

“Right. Just thought I’d get through the pleasant stuff before I get to the bad news.” 

“Oh. The tests.” As Evie sits up, her memory catapults the stress of her job back into her mind. “...What happened, Caro?”

“It’s not good. Three more words were missing today. ‘That’, ‘I’ and ‘boy’. Obviously, we’re real concerned about those first two, because they’re so common.” 

“Did you try what you found in Dr. Ash’s papers?”

“Yeah. No luck. We tried for around three hours, and then Ian called Dr. Darling. Dr. Darling apparently laid an egg in the Pacification Group’s office, and now Smith and Bukowski have Ian’s phone ringing off the hook. Something about the Anchor? Oh, it’s a whole lot of drama.” 

“I’ll try to help out tomorrow if Logan is–” 

She’s cut off by a tapping at her front door – the tinny sound of someone using the old door knocker.

“Gotta run, Caro. Someone’s here.”

Sprinting to the foyer, Evie opens the front door to find Jason, standing there with snow accumulating around him on the stoop.

She greets him frostily: “I have a doorbell, you know.” 

“Yeah, and a sick kid upstairs that I don’t want to wake up.”

“How do you–”

“Okay. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to pick him up today or not, so I went to his school. His teacher said he was sick again, so I thought I’d come by and…”

Evie’s reply is an exasperated pant.

“Look, Evie, I’m sorry about the other day. That was on me. It–it wasn’t right for me to blame you for anything. I just–I’m trying. I need to try more, I guess.” 

Evie says nothing, instead just holding the door open for him until he steps inside.

“Thanks. Everything’s freezing. Slicker than snot out there.” He takes off his hat and scarf and adds: “How about you go check on Logan, while I try to rustle us up some food?” 

“Okay. Just…not mac and cheese.” 

“Not mac and cheese.” He repeats. “Got it.” 

While Jason disappears toward the kitchen, Evie ventures up the stairs. Logan’s bedroom door is closed, but when she pushes it open, her eyes widen at the sight:

Logan is sitting bolt-upright on top of his comforter, surrounded by a circle of silver Hershey’s kisses – that he’s stolen from her other hidden candy bags.

“Hey!” She scolds, “You’re not supposed to have those, buddy.”  

“Course I am.” Logan says. “They’re my silver bells.” 

And then he sings: “Strings of streetlights, even stoplights, blink a bright red and green, as the shoppers rush home with their treasures…” 

“Logan, come on. Let’s not play games. Just…apologize for stealing and I’ll give you one.”

“Hear the snow crunch, see the kids bunch, this is s-s-s–” 

He hisses the consonant, as if it’s lodged in his throat, but can’t finish his verse.  

“Logan.” She repeats. "Logan, what’s wrong!?” 

And then Logan’s eyes roll back. He falls forward, tumbles off his bed, and rigidly thuds onto the floor. 

And then Evie screams. 

▼▼▼

December 13th, 1997.

The waiting room counter is strung with tinsel. A teddy bear in a Santa hat rests against the sliding glass window, next to a little ceramic tree with glass lights. Next to Evie, Jason’s nodding off in his chair, his chin drooping toward his chest.

It’s 2:30 AM, and the muted TV in the corner of the room is showing hockey highlights. A nurse in green scrubs is visible through the window. She disappears behind a partition, and a few moments later, walks through the nearby doors with a tall, balding man, presumably an ER doctor. When he points at Evie, she nudges Jason awake. 

“Ms. Thomas.” The doctor says, walking up to her seat, “Or is it Mrs. Thomas-Foster? Or Dr. Thomas? Which do you–" 

“…Evie’s fine.”

“Evie. Nice to meet you. Sorry for the wait – I’m Dr. Applebaum. I’m the pediatric specialist on call.” 

She and Jason shake the doctor’s hand before Evie asks, “Is Logan okay?”  

Dr. Applebaum sits down across from them. “Logan’s had a pretty good fever, so our first guess, based on his symptoms, was a febrile seizure. That can happen in kids with high fevers, and that itself isn’t too concerning. But I do have a few questions for you.” 

“Yes, of course.” Evie says.

“He’s having some kind of…hallucination. A state of delirium. He’s been shouting nonsense and singing, maybe talking to someone who isn’t there, that sort of thing. We started an IV, just a big dose of acetaminophen to get that fever down, and he’s at around a hundred degrees now, but he’s still not all there mentally. Before we do more tests, we want to rule out the obvious culprits. Are there any medications in your home he could’ve gotten into?”

“No.” Jason says. “The medicine cabinet’s locked at her house, and there’s nothing in mine but antacids.”

“Any exposure to other substances? Household chemicals? Berries or mushrooms from outside? Any illicit drug use in either of your homes?” 

“No.” Evie says, her worry growing. “No to all of those.” 

Dr. Applebaum jots something on a clipboard. “And his regular pediatrician is Muriel Chavez, right?”

“That’s right.” Evie says.  

“Okay, we’ll fax everything to her, and I’ll give her a jingle in the morning.” More jotting. “I’d like to keep Logan here overnight for observation. Just to see if his mental state improves, and we’ll go from there. We’ll get him real comfortable upstairs in Pediatrics, and–”  

The doctor keeps talking, now to Jason, but Evie just looks at the TV, her ears hollowly ringing from exhaustion and tension. The sports channel’s now replaying college basketball. She stares at it until the players are just blurry blobs, trying to be mindless, barely acknowledging when the doctor leaves. 

“Hey.” Finally, Jason gets her attention. 

“Yeah?” She deadpans.

“I was gonna look for a vending machine. You want anything?”

“Anything’s fine. Just…get two of whatever you’re getting.” 

He’s halfway down the hall before she realizes she should thank him. Instead, she glances around the waiting room and her eyes find the little ceramic tree on the counter.  

The sight of a Christmas tree just makes everything feel worse right now. 

▼▼▼

Notes:

For the 2025 Remedyverse Holiday Exchange, here is my completely ridiculous end-of-the-fall-term-project. It's a sort of Midtown Mayhem prequel, and, more importantly, it's a gift for my very good friend Fraser! Happy Holidays and much love - thank you for being there for me for all of these years and being such a great Exchange co-mod!!

100% complete. Gonna update like every four days or so.