Hide Your Pride - SCP Foundation

As narrative trends change, so too do the anomalies within Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. One of the most unfortunate examples of this is the fact that, due to the prominence of 'queer' characters continually dying in American media — a phenomenon so regular that the larger internet has termed the trope 'Bury Your Gays' — Sloth's Pit has the lowest per capita population of any openly LGBT individuals in the state of Wisconsin, and the third-lowest nationwide, when taking into account non-anomalous municipalities. As a result, there has not been an open celebration of 'pride' in the city since a disastrous day in 1992…

- Dr. Phillip Verhoten, S & C Plastics: Story Of Your Life, 2017.

Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin

COVID had majorly altered Laura Valentine's (neé Ashbrooke's) life and business. She had started the Witch's Hut to sell costumes year-round, as a preponderance of nerd conventions were in the Midwestern USA, and Sloth's Pit had a large nerd community; however, after COVID closed down the majority of cons and the Halloween celebration (in this reality, at least) she had to shift gears. One of the ways in which she did so was a room off to one side of the store, behind a door marked "Staff Only"; it had yellow brickwork within, and she had intended to use it for storage, but it had found a new life.

June 1st was a particularly slow day; the majority of the 'nerd' population in Sloth's Pit was either off at QuadCon in Oshkosh, or having to make up for their senior prank causing Jackson Sloth Memorial High to become flooded with shaving cream two weeks prior. Laura had a few commissions to work on that weren't particularly time-sensitive, but for now, she was manning the counter, playing with her ponytail, when the door opened with its signature tingling of the bell overhead.

The person who walked in had a grey sweatshirt and sweatpants on, and thick sunglasses; from their stature, Laura could tell they were a teenager. They came up to the counter, silent, pale, shaking, and from the pocket of their hoodie, produced an enamel pin in the shape of a red shoe. In a shuddering voice, they said, "D-Dorothy sent me."

Laura nodded, and after checking out the window, led them to the room with the yellow bricks. Inside, there were two racks of clothing, of various sizes; one more masculine in nature, ranging from suits to overalls, and one obviously feminine, with dresses of all shapes and designs, skirts, and blouses. Racks of wigs, freshly treated with an anti-louse agent, were on the back wall. "If you find anything that you like," she said, "Put a yellow tag on it and come up front. I'll make sure it's kept for you."

"T-thanks." The nervousness faded away as they stepped inside. Laura closed the door behind them, and left the occupant to an amount of privacy that Laura wished her sister had had, back in Milwaukee. Maybe if Meghan's door had locked, their father wouldn't have walked in on her wearing a dress, back when her driver's license still had that annoying "M" on it. Maybe if Meghan had some privacy to be herself, her father wouldn't have had her committed. Maybe… maybe Laura should call her sister sometime. Her husband hasn't met them yet. She should change that.

The Foundation had a strict code when it came to tattoos. No names, no identifiable faces or dates, no task force emblems, nothing above the neck (though religious exemptions were sometimes made) and no symbols that could be associated with groups of interest. Now, after six months of waiting, Seren Pryce was getting her latest batch of Foundation-approved ink.

She'd already skirted the line with the 'no identifiable dates' regulation. Over a decade ago, Seren had gotten the date of her best friend's death tattooed on her right wrist after their deployment in Iraq where he was KIA. It got grandfathered in, since it was classified under a 'tattoo of spiritual significance'.

It took an embarrassingly long time to convince the Cleanliness & Grooming board that what she was getting wasn't associated with any Group of Interest, thanks to fucking Gamers Against Weed apparently making the symbol memetic at some point. She would have to have it covered so it could heal, and she didn't know who it was going to impress, if anyone. But one in five people at Site-87 had met the love of their life there, so maybe…

"You'll have to come back in a few days," her artist, a woman with dark skin and a pink mohawk named Beatrice, said as she wiped her forehead. "Shade of orange isn't doing the best with your skin tone, but that's the only shade we have in. Sorry."

"No problem, Bea." Seren looked at her bicep in the mirror; shades of pink, white, and orange were on her skin, surrounded by a corona of raw, red flesh.

"So…" Beatrice said, sitting back in her chair. "Why be open about it now?"

"…oh, uh." Seren chewed her lip. "I… kinda got this thing for a co-worker. But I… I want to make sure she knows what I am, first."

"Knows what— Sera, you're a lesbian, not a werewolf. Ain't nothing weird about that."

"Knowing this town, I could be both before the end of the month," Pryce groaned as Beatrice started applying the gauze.

"Who's the lucky girl?" Beatrice asked.

"…her name's Gwen," Seren said. "Gwen Liao. She works medical."

"Then she probably won't be squeamish about seeing you naked."

"Wh—" Pryce's face flushed.

"You know how many tattoos I've given you that have covered up frankly suspicious wounds, Sera? Too damn many. We both know this town is weird, but…"

"Bea, if you're going to fuck with me this badly, buy me dinner!"

Beatrice snorted and put the medical tape over the gauze. "All right. Come back in three days and we'll finish up. Happy June."

"…you too." Pryce got up to leave.

"Oh! One last thing. Tell that punk Alejandro that he still owes me $50 from touching up his cross tat last month."

"He's good for it," Pryce assured Bea. "He's just… busy."

Alejandro Carrasco and Blake Williams had evacuated Sloth's Pit to greener pastures— places where they could be themselves. The town was normally welcoming, but in June, it felt like a blanket was smothering them, forcing them to conform. Kisses were felt as if through an inch of plastic wrap, held hands felt like a rubber glove was between them, affectionate gazes were seen through sunglasses… neither of them knew what to make of it, but it felt wrong.

"I mean, on the one hand, what did we expect?" Alejandro shook his head as they waited for the stoplight to change. "'Average American small town' means A) white and 2) conservative. Of course the Nexus would try to fuck with us."

"Not just us," Blake shook his head. "You know the full story of how Reese got the way she is?"

"Some of it. She hasn't been keen on sharing. You think Sloth's Pit let her be found by her old cult?"

"I don't know what to think hon," Blake shook his head. "But we got the day off for this. Let's make the most of it, okay?"

"All right." Alejandro stretched in the passenger's seat as the light finally turned green, and they sped off towards the Minnesota-Wisconsin Border, and Duluth's pride celebration.

Dr. Katherine Sinclair had been drunk two hours ago. It was a rare occasion, but it was one that her husband Montgomery had anticipated; she always partook of the mead a bit more heavily around June, but he had always been hesitant to ask why. He had always assumed it was some unpleasant association with her birthday — Katherine had a hard life with her family when she was young — but now, as their family sat on the couch, watching Bluey with their daughter Phoenix sitting on Katherine's lap, she struck up a conversation.

"…I ever tell you about my old therapist?"

"Which one? Lowell, or Chime?"

"Sue Lowell. The one I had when I was about sixteen." Katherine picked up a brush and started running it through her daughter's hair; Phoenix liked her hair being played with. "You know why I fired her?"

"I know that she's come up more than once in our meetings with Dr. Palmer," Monty confessed. "But you never made that explicit." He looked at her, brow furrowing. "Why bring it up now?"

Katherine paused the TV; the Australian accents of the characters were distracting her. "Before Ben, before college, I… was in a relationship with someone. Lowell told me to break it off with…" There was several seconds of hesitation, before she finished her sentence. "With her. Her name was Melissa. Lowell said that I was… just so desperate for human contact that I… that I was willing to 'degrade myself' — her words — in order to have some form of… in order to be with someone."

Monty blinked rapidly several times. "You… really?"

"Do you have… a pr—"

"Katherine, there is nothing you could say to make me stop loving you. I just…" Monty took off his glasses and wiped them against his shirt. "I'll confess, I'm mostly wondering why you didn't tell me sooner."

"…because until this week, I didn't… I didn't think she remembered me," Sinclair sighed. "But… I got invited to my high school reunion and she shot me a message. I just… I'm thinking of going, maybe? 25 year reunion and all."

Her husband nodded. "Tell me, does Sue Lowell still practice?"

"Unfortunately. She should have retired years ago. Why?"

"…well," Monty said. "I know that Dr. Palmer has a few friends on the APA Board. Perhaps she should be… looked into."

Katherine leaned over to kiss his cheek, nuzzling against his stubble, before Phoenix demanded "On!!!" and the show resumed.

"What do you mean, you don't think I'm straight?" The Goatman squinted at his girlfriend as he tried to kindle the freshly-abandoned campfire. The efforts of him and his partner had scared off several campers, and now, they were attempting to make smores. His fur was matted and black, and he was clad in bloodstained overalls, his horns curling forward into his skull.

Across the campfire, Sinning Jessie grinned, her left eye socket dripping with blood as she extracted the knife that her partner had placed there. "Jasper, sweetie, I'm literally the manifestation of a moral about the consequences of being sexually open. I know when someone isn't straight."

The Goatman rolled his eyes and picked up one of the abandoned barbecue forks that was laying around, impaling a marshmallow on it. "Okay, then what am I? And why broach this subject now?"

"Because for some unfathomable reason, human popular culture is now linking 'demonic creatures' — I know you're not a demon, Jas, I'm just saying that's how a lot of people characterize you — with both 'being queer' and 'needless swearing'."

"…I have been cursing a fair bit more," Jasper admitted. "But that's pretty shaky grounds for thinking I'm a Friend of Dorothy."

Jessie rolled her eyes. "The 1970s called, they said you're under investigation by the US Navy."

"The woman who runs the Witch's Hut still uses that phrase! And anyway, what would I be? You know, first-hand, I'm attracted to you."

Attempting to embarss Jessie with her sexual history was getting a politician to be sincere. "I think you have the potential to be pansexual."

"..Jessie, if that's a goat joke…" Jasper sighed as his marshmallow caught fire, pulling it out of the hearth and popping it in his mouth.

Jessie pinched the bridge of her nose. "It means 'has the potential to be sexually attracted to anyone, regardless of gender identity'."

The Goatman squinted, chewing on a mouthful of burning gelatin. He swallowed, and asked, "And what makes you think that, exactly?"

"You remember the Halloween party last year? How you were making eyes at this one person wearing a really elaborate Irene Adler costume?"

"Yes…"

"I got into touch with them a while back. He was a bit weirded out by our whole deal, but he said that if you ever managed to get a phone—"

"Wait, he?" The Goatman thought hard about the person who he had bought a drink for at the Eight Rings the previous October, squinting. They certainly looked like they were a woman, but… "He? Really."

"Yep." Jessie pulled out her phone and displayed a photograph to the Goatman of a very attractive-looking, slender man in his late twenties or early thirties. "This is what they look like out of costume."

Jasper's face flushed, and even though it was hidden by matted black fur, he knew that Jessie could tell. "I…"

"It's not like we're exclusive! I'd be fine with you getting a bit of somethin' on the side."

"Jessica, you do that to pay the bills, not out of—" The Goatman stopped before he could choke on his hoof any further. "I… what's his name?"

"Erik, with a K. He lives on an apartment overlooking Francis Ave." She grinned. "I can text him if you want to meet up."

"Even so," Jasper muttered. "I can't go cavorting about with townsfolk every night. And if this doesn't work out, you drop it. Okay?"

"Okay! And there's nothing wrong with cavorting. I do it almost every night! Honestly pretty fun."

Jasper picked up another marshmallow. "You were late the day god was giving out shame. I keep forgetting."

Jessie just grinned at him with a set of sharpened teeth. "Worst comes to worst, he'll have an interesting story to tell."

Director Tristan Bailey was avoiding mirrors. At first, he thought it was just out of guilt— not wanting to see the faces of one of his brothers looking back, and being reminded of what had happened with Tom. He showered before brushing his teeth just so the mirror would be fogged, and ordered a Foundation contractor to remove mirrors from any bathrooms on the site with Director access. Someone had drawn a caricature of him as a vampire in one of the stalls on Sublevel 6; utterly juvenile, but it wasn't an unreasonable assumption to make in this line of work.

He didn't realize it was a problem until he noticed he was avoiding his reflection everywhere. He always made efforts to stand with his back to windows, glass, and always booted up his computer from behind so he wouldn't have to look at the black mirror that was the screen. It wasn't that he disliked his face — Tristan thought he was handsome — but there was something about it that just… felt off to him.

He didn't have time to contemplate such things, especially not at his age. People didn't discover their gender identity when they were pushing forty, they didn't question their sexuality after years of having heterosexual relationships. That wasn't the paradigm the Bailey family existed in; they were as close to 'old money' as you could get in the Foundation, outside of something like the Anboroughs or the Okories. Those families were stable, and Tristan was over the hill when it came to making any new discoveries about himself.

This paradigm suddenly shifted when he received an email from his colleague at Site-43.

From: Ilse Reynders

To: Tristan Bailey

Subject: Regional Command Conference

Tristan,

Director McInnis was locked out of his email this morning due to a technical issue, so I am replying in his stead.

He agrees that, given our proximity and the similar nature of anomalies studied by both sites, Site-43 should be rolled into the Midwestern US Regional Command Conference this July. However, if at all possible, the Delegation from Site-43 should not be in contact with the Delegation from Urban Site-99 (Cleveland, OH); Dr. Juniper from US-99's Department of Naval Studies has been insistent on having Site-43 investigate the Wreck of the Edmund Ftizgerald from 1975 for anomalous activity, and is becoming increasingly belligerent with his demands. Beyond that, no objections.

See you in a month,

Acroamatic Abatement Chair

Site-43

Dr. Ilse Reynders

she/her they/them

Tristan stared at the pronoun field; that was certainly new. Dr. Reynders was much older than Tristan, and she was now going by "they/them"? That was… he didn't know how to feel about that. Anxious? Nervous? Hoping to commiserate? Some combination of the above?

Tristan sighed, and typed up an email, after fiddling around with a few settings.

From: Tristan Bailey

To: Ilse Reynders

Subject: RE: Regional Command Conference

Dr. Reynders,

Would you be available for a video call later today on a personal matter? It's not urgent, but I'd like to talk to someone like-minded about what I've been experiencing.

Thank you,

Director

Site-87

Dr. Tristan Bailey

<pronoun field left blank>

Not even five minutes later, a reply was sent back.

From: Ilse Reynders

To: Tristan Bailey

Subject: Regional Command Conference

Tristan,

I believe I know what this is about, given the edit you made to your signature. If you'd prefer to talk in-person, I could be in Duluth in two day's time. To borrow an expression from a friend of mine, it is never too late for something to hatch.

Acroamatic Abatement Chair

Site-43

Dr. Ilse Reynders

she/her they/them

Tristan contemplated that email for several minutes, and ran his fingers through his hair as he thought. After looking up decent places to eat in Duluth, he sighed, chewed his finger, and began typing a reply back.

From: Tristan Bailey

To: Ilse Reynders

Subject: RE: Regional Command Conference

Dr. Reynders,

See you in two days. Lunch at the Zeitgeist? My treat.

Director

Site-87

Dr. Tristan Bailey

<pronoun field left blank>

Tristan shut his computer and got up, heading down to the Lobby of Site-87, and the anomalous coffee shop that had taken up residence in part of it. Behind the counter was a flag with rainbow stripes, and a chevron of black, brown, pink, white, blue, and a yellow field with a purple circle in the center. Tristan didn't know what most of this meant, but… they could probably learn. They still had time to be themselves.

…Despite this fact, and the reactionist political climate in the United States continually focusing on stripping the rights away from marginalized individuals who are sexual and gender minorities, I am hopeful that, as the arc of history slowly curves towards justice, so too will the anomaly that empowers Sloth's Pit.

— Dr. Philip Verhoten, S & C Plastics: Story Of Your Life