Clean-faced and clear-eyed, Aldon spotted the cereal box and 
grimaced at its design. Then her brow furrowed and she stumbled 
forward. She brought the box within an inch of her face and then 
dropped it. After a mutter of thanks she dropped into the chair and 
poured some into the bowl Finnegan had left out for her. When she 
realized she needed milk she set her forehead on the table and 
mumbled to herself. 


"I'll get it," he said. 
Her head snapped back up. "What- no, | can-" 


"Getting it," he sang as he opened the fridge. He retrieved the carton 
and even attempted to pour it for her, but she smacked his hands in 

a flurry of limbs and snatched it away from him. She poured the milk 
herself and screwed on the cap, but didn't fight when he took it back. 


She took a few bites and set the spoon back into the bowl. "It upsets 
me how good this is." 


Finnegan chuckled. "Think it's anomalous?" 


"Eh, doubt it. Magic food is hard. Sugarcomh is the only-" The spoon 
paused just short of her mouth. "Wait, are you being a smartass?" 


"Maybe." 
"Oh, fuck off," she said with a smile. 


Finnegan took up a seat across from her, his vision roaming around 
the room. Eventually his gaze settled on her, and soon after his 
vision blurred as he really looked at nothing. He pondered all they 
had done recently, images and sounds floating around. Fond 
memories, by and large. Considered what they would do in the near 
future, all of which was about as clear as the the unfocused haze of 
his eyes registering. He didn't see much point in thinking about it. 
Then Aldon stood and his eyes snapped back to attention. He 
thought about what they were currently doing. Not always exciting, 
but never really boring. A happy medium. Contentment. 


"So I'm thinking about going back east," Aldon said. "To visit my 
folks while | have some extra cash." 


Surprise pushed Finnegan's eyebrows up. In the two years he had 
known her, Aldon had only mentioned her parents once. To say she 
wasn't living with them anymore. Presently, she was staring at his 
face with a bit more scrutiny than was typical of her. No doubt trying 
to gauge his reaction. He gave her little to work with. 


"How long?" The question was easy enough. So of course Aldon 
just shrugged. Now that the questioning light was on her, however, 
she refused to meet his gaze. The back of Finnegan's chair hit the 
wall behind him as he leaned back. "Do you want to talk about it, or 
is this one of those things where | just nod and let you do your 
thing?" 


"| had sorta thought about it before we left," she said. She crossed 
her arms on the table and set her chin on her forearm. Her gaze 
remained focused on the floral print of the tablecloth. "And being at 
the drive-in just made me really... nostalgic, | guess." 


Finnegan glanced at the ceiling absentmindedly. "Going alone?" 


Her head tilted, her cheek resting on her arm. She was finally 
looking at him. "Yeah. That okay?" 


He shrugged. "I'll try not to be offended." 


A soundless laugh escaped her. She pushed herself back up and 
after a moment she stood. Finnegan followed suit, and they 
collected their things from around the room. Their host had already 
left for work long before either of them had awoken, so Finnegan 
took it upon himself to write a note. 


Again, thank you for everything. We really appreciate it. Cereal box 
is from a Foundation front, by the way. You did know that, right? - 
A&F 


Aldon caught sight of it and punched him. "What did | tell you?" 
Finnegan just grinned and rubbed his stinging arm. 

"Gimme that pen." 

Thanks. Bye. -A&F 

"Pertinent," he said, reading it as she jotted it down. 


"As it should be," she said, tugging on her backpack. "Now. Let's 
dance." 


"Ugh." 


Standing beside each other, the duo glanced at one another. In 
tandem, they threw their arms up in opposite directions. After a flurry 
of arms and knees and burning cheeks on Finnegan's end, they 
ripped through spacetime and stepped into their Way. 


Adjacent to the counseling center, with the food truck parked right in 
between them, was the Moonlight Theater. It was fresh in their 
minds, and bold in detail within their Way. Bits and pieces flickered 
as their mental pictures of it did battle, but as a whole it seemed 
much more real than the rest of the Way's contents. After a brief 
stride they were at their doors, and then they were in the Library. 
The walk to the door containing a Way to her hometown was made 


in silence. 

"Guess this it," Aldon remarked when she reached the archway. 
"Yup. You gonna be alright by yourself?" 

Aldon rolled her eyes and began to turn. "Later, dude." 

"Aw, come on." Finnegan held his arms out. "Humor me?" 


She stepped into him almost immediately. It was hard not to 
chuckle. The embrace was short, but tight. When she released him 
she stepped back, sighing. 


"It'll be fine," he assured. 
"Yeah." She half-snorted. "Yeah! I'll see you later, Finn." 
"Bye." 


The walk back to their local Way was uneventful. Taking the trip 
from the library to their apartment was easy, quiet. He found the 
golems playing hide and seek, but their tiny bodies and lack of 
voices made it a hushed game. The enchantment around their room 
that prevented sound from entering or exiting, sans for noise made 
by the door, isolated him from the hustle and bustle of the street 
below. 


To fill the silence, Finnegan activated his personal computer. The 
desktop quickly powered to life and he checked the various tabs he 
kept open. Once caught up on local events and goings-on, he 
opened up one of the various sound files he had been working on. 
He gave it a quick listen and then opened an editor to play around 
with it. After about twenty minutes he had to close the program, 
distracted by the growing bouncing sensation in his stomach. He 
attempted a different file, another project. It refused to garner his 
attention. 


He closed everything and sat still for a moment. It felt like he had a 
stone sitting in his stomach. His gaze turned to the empty beds 
against the wall. At the door across the room, which was empty sans 
for clay. 


For once in a very long time, Finnegan was alone. He had been by 
himself, surely, but it had always been a voluntary isolation. Aldon 
had always been right there, often trying to pull his attention away 
from his work when he was focused and ready to play when he grew 
restless. Even when she was at work, she often answered texts, and 
her guaranteed return had been something to anticipate. And now 
she was on the opposite side of the country, gone for an unknown 
amount of time. 


Finnegan sighed, loud and long, into his beret. 
"Oh gods, I'm bored." 


« Hugo Hijinks | Hub | Jam Jars » 


Jam Jars 


The Utterly Bazaar was a roaring sea of merchants hawking, buyers 
haggling, and everyone in between fighting to make their voice 
heard over the rolling din of noise. Wooden stalls stood in the street 
to oppose the massive brick and mortar stores that flanked either 
side of the winding bazaar. The variance of the species within the 
throng was only outmatched by that of the goods around them, 
something the locals — if you could call a merchant who spent the 
night within his shop a local — were quite proud of. 


Paddling through the peddlers was Finnegan, blissfully ignorant of 
the screaming around him thanks to a pair of faintly enchanted 
headphones. Instead he cycled through a playlist of an artist he 
had recently discovered, humming along as he went. It did quite a 
lot to quell the smashing in his chest from the pressure of the crowd, 
both physical and otherwise. But the small bundle of spending 
money he had recently earned weighed heavy in his pocket, and 
without Aldon to present a project he was left to his own capitalistic 
devices. 


Finnegan squeezed himself between a pair of bickering Clowns, his 
backpack momentarily catching on the latch of cage carried by the 
merrier of the two. He quickly excused himself and slid further into 
the crowd, not noticing he had inadvertently freed the contained 
Fun-Lover. Because he was essentially deafened, Finnegan didn't 
hear the loud popping noise accompanied by an ecstatic "Wowweel" 
So instead he entered Ed & Al's Alchemist Emporium, unaware of 
the chaos he had just unleashed. 


After purchasing a pinch of magnesium and two vials of O-negative 
he slipped back out before the brothers running the store could try 
talking him into more. To escape the crowd he turned off into a side 
street nestled between the alchemists' supply store and an 
interdimensional pet shop, and save for the merchants distributed 
through the alley he was almost alone. The shops forced into the 


alley ways often were little more than a carpet with all the 
merchant's otherworldly possessions laid out before them, forcing 
Finnegan to hesitantly tiptoe across the minefield of tiny skulls and 
jugs of potions. 


It was not until he was half-past the one actual stall in the alley that 
something caught his attention. Or more accurately, his arm. 
Finnegan looked down at the cloth wrapped around his sleeve, 
following it to the mass of cotton and wool covering the merchant in 
question. Finnegan squinted into the gap where the merchant's 
head should have been. Instead he just saw the inside of the woolen 
hood. 


The headphones on his head were displaced by a limb he couldn't 
actually see, and a whispering voice spoke to him in urgent tones. 
"How would you like to make some easy money?" 


Finnegan considered his options. He could accept a job proffered to 
him in a back alley by a bundle of rags. Or he could eat ketchup 
packets when he got home. Tilting his head back and forth, he 
examined the stall. Every single item on it had the word "ghost" in its 
name. In some cases that was simply its entire name. 


Finnegan took a short breath. "What would | have to do?" 


A watch emerged from the cloth. Or something akin to a watch. 
Instead of an analogue or digital clock face it had a small meter with 
a black needle. Said needle was warbling very far into the red 
territory. 


"Don't mind that, just picking up interference from my... uh, wares. | 
need you to take that and this filter here to this address, and collect 
all the ectoplasm you can. Really easy job. I'd go, but | have, uh... 
allergies." 


Finnegan examined the large air filter. A sticker on its side claimed it 
to be doubly effective against both allergens and the various forms 
of ectoplasm. He took another look at the twitching ectoplasm 
detector and then looked back at the merchant. 


"Yeah, | could do that." 


Hinges squealed and light pushed its way through the must of the 
cellar. Finnegan squinted into the darkness through the visor of an 
old respirator. At first all he could see was dust flutter through the 
weak beams of illumination, giving the long-abandoned place a 
constant flurry of filth. He made sure his cuffs of his jacket sleeves 
and pants cuffs were taped down, that his gloves were tight, and 
that his hood formed a seal with the mask. After making sure his 
signature beret was firmly in place he scooped up the modified air 
filter at his feet with both hands and crept into the crypt. The needle 
of the device on his wrist slowly crept to the right. 


The cellar was a mess of shelves and crates. Rusted metal and 
cracked porcelain jutted from wood and plastic, tempting him with 
the possibility of finding something worth salvaging. But he moved 
on, to the staircase leading into the house of the Birch family. Stairs 
creaked and the railing groaned, but Finnegan pressed on. 


Only a glance was spared toward the detector, where it petered an 
eighth away from the left end; the place only had trace amounts of 
ectoplasmic vapor in the air. Something between caution and 
paranoia kept the mask on. Getting possessed was not exactly on 
today's itinerary. 


The Birch home proper was not quite as bad off as its cellar. Its 
surfaces only wore a thin layer of dust rather than an inch-thick coat, 
upon which Finnegan deposited the large white device he had been 
carrying. The glass container snuggled into the filter slowly filled with 
a glowing green fluid. 


The house was small, arguably tiny. Two bedrooms and one 
bathroom, and joint kitchen/dining room. A quick look into the 
cabinets earned nothing but cobwebs. The drawers were similarly 
empty. The fridge contained nothing but an array of jam jars. 
Pomegranate, if their labels were to be believed. Most of them 
looked coagulated enough to qualify as a solid. Turning the handles 
on the sink resulted in glowing jelly ejecting itself from the faucet. 


He lifted the latch on the glass cylinder attached to the filter, and 
went about ferrying the goo from the sink and into the glass. The 
ghostly moan that accompanied each deposit did little for his mood. 


It all struck him as doubly odd. Nobody had died within the Birch 
home within the last twenty years, and yet the place was chock-full 
of ghostly energy. Despite this, nothing was actually happening, 
outside of the usual ectoplasmic buildup. He supposed it was 
because he hadn't breathed enough of the air to allow a possession, 
and there wasn't much of anything left in the house suitable for a 
poltergeist. But there had to be something going on here he hadn't 
spotted yet. Once the sink was clean he turned the filter's power dial 
to max and went about exploring the house. 


He found a bathroom and gave the sink an experimental use. More 
goo globbed out and slowly slid down the drain. Finnegan sighed. 
The entire plumbing system was likely backed up with ghost goo. He 
gave the toilet seat a lift to inspect the interior and promptly let it fall. 


There had been a face in the toilet. 


Muffled yelling came from beneath the porcelain, which Finnegan 
immediately took to ignoring. Fingers wiggled nervously while he 
considered what to do. Ghosts — or whatever these things qualified 
as — or not, a scientific approach was probably his best bet. 


He walked back out to the kitchen and peered into the vial of 
ectoplasm the filter had collected. A tiny face looked back up at him 
from the liquid's surface. It gave him a high-pitched "ooo00000" for 
his effort. 


Finnegan gathered a fair amount of saliva in his mouth and spit onto 
the floor. A face arose from the wet spot on the tiles. When it tried 
yelling at him he stepped on it. When he lifted his foot the face was 
still there, only now its tinny wail was chorused by a face on the 
underside of Finnegan's shoe. 


Curiosity pushed him over to the fridge, and he slowly opened the 
freezer. Frozen faces stared back at him, warped into tiny 
stalactites. He breathed on them heatedly, earning a chilly wail in 
return. The moan petered out with his breath. He shrugged and 
yanked out what icicles he could, tossing them into the cylinder. 


After wiping up the spit he went about exploring the house in full. A 
whole lot of nothing turned up until he entered the master bedroom. 


Sitting on the floor next to the indent marks the bed had made in the 
carpet was a white panama hat. It didn't look anything special, other 
than the fact that it was in good condition. 


But something about the hat gave him a weird feeling he couldn't 
quite place. Blurry memories of the anart mecha competition in 
Japan surfaced, and an indistinct image of the Wanderer's Library 
sat just outside his mind's eye. 


He twirled the hat idly while his brain tried to unravel why it was 
thinking what it was being made to think. It didn't work particularly 
well. The more he pushed at the mental blockage the stronger it 
seemed to become, compacting in his mindscape. He found himself 
unable to draw his attention away from it. As the mass grew more 
dense, it began drawing in surrounding thoughts and memories.