Case 8: Fly in Our Soup
BARISTA: THE AUDITOR
CAFE: NONE
DATE: LATE DECEMBER
RECEIPT ID: FOTF-01
I arrived at Silenus to a truly horrific scene. What was described to me as a "minor fly infestation," in reality is a plague. A swarm. An outright outbreak. Hell on earth… Even worse than the Buzzing Planes of Beez's home. Thousands upon thousands of horrid, pale, dipteras darting about every blink of the eye. And Silenus seems to be dealing with this with all of the urgency of Tesseract. From what I've seen thus far, they have been lazily swatting away these little foul winged beasts like a pack of disinterested cats. Dan hasn't even been bothered to do that much and the only three who seem at all engaged in this current conundrum are Miranda, Brent, and Charlotte. And of those three, only Miranda seems to want the flies gone. How can they live like this?
Silenus is one of the newer Cafes alongside Testament and Sunshine. It was opened in September of 2020 by Jack and Beez for two reasons. First, and most importantly, to safeguard the Bell of Fate. Naturally. Each Cafe has a Sponsor and each Sponsor is there to safeguard one of the various Pieces of Fate controlled by the Cafe and Diner Network. However, there was a specific reason Jack and Beez chose Point Pleasant and Dan Hamilton for Silenus: the Lanes Between. Though I personally don't enjoy adding drink after drink to the Cafe's menu, I suppose an exception could be made for those who walk the twisted back roads of the hotbed of the Coffee Trade. Let's say… those who primarily reside "in between" enjoy a Flat White. And while I am bothering to expand the menus, Bloodglass' unique region of customers enjoy a… Cafe au Lait. Tesseract's unique customers might enjoy a… mm… London Fog (not to be confused with a Double Shot…) and… I think that covers the exceptional customers the Cafe serves. At least, for now.
Anyhow, with Beez as Silenus' sponsor they are no strangers to flies. In fact, in their most recent operation, the "Salvation of the Flies," Silenus dealt with their fair share of, well, flies. However, these flies are clearly different. These aren't the fat, iridescent blowflies of the Beez. These are small, white-eyed, and… surgically clean. They don't land on food… they land on people. Baristas in particular, it seems. So far none have landed on me, thank… whatever is out there… but, regardless, it's time someone dealt with this mess.
BARISTA: MIRANDA POWELL
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: LATE DECEMBER
RECEIPT ID: CD-FOTF-02
If I see one more fly, I’m going to set this entire Cafe on fire. I’m not joking. While Dan was busy hiding inside his headphones the rest of us have been literally wading through a plague. It's been gross. So, thank God this "Auditor," whatever showed up when they did because Dan has to listen to Jack's direct lackey even if he won't listen to me. I just want the buzzing to stop and if it means carving one extra hole in reality then fine. Whatever works at this point.
BARISTA: DAN HAMILTON
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: LATE DECEMBER
RECEIPT ID: C-FOTF-03
Twenty buckets of "fly balls" and a dead Bell. That’s… not great. So, I tried ringing the Bell and got nothing in return. Then the Auditor tried (of course they did) and thankfully when they stepped right up to fix my mess—nada. Silence. Brent, Miranda, everyone took a crack at it while I just stood there. No clue what's wrong now or how to fix it. At least it's not just a "me" thing, you know?
Is this Beelzebub? Did he somehow cut off our Piece of Fate because I missed the latest payment for the feast? God, I hope not… But he wouldn't be that petty… right? No. He's just as busy as I am and also I'm pretty sure none of the Princes actually know how the Pieces of Fate "work," let alone how to turn them on or off. It has to be the Old Orders. They must have sealed the Phantom Lanes around us. Crap. At least that’s the only explanation that doesn't end with this being my fault.
Okay. Focus… So… We're going to need a bit of manual infestation control. We'll put the flies on ice back at the Cafe. If they wake up and swarm Mason County… eugh, I can’t even let myself imagine the cleanup effort that would take. It would be the end of the Cafe. The end of me. So… game plan. Come on, Dan, think. We could ask Beelzebub for help? No, he won't answer. What we need to do is fix the Bell. Maybe Warden can take it a few hundred miles out? See if we’re just being jammed here? And if that doesn't work… we'll cull the flies. Crunch about 90% of them while they're still clustered up like snail eggs. The Auditor says they aren't Esterskaldian anyway. We should keep a few, though. Figure out what they are. Hopefully.
BARISTA: AGATHA BLUNT
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: C-TMH-01
Okay, so! I know everyone has been super stressed about the forbidden fly bobas in the freezer but, uh, ahaha we had another "visitor" today. A, uh, customer. And not one of our usuals either. This guy, kid really, isn't one of the demons of the Old Orders nor any of our Esterskaldian informants or barflies. This… "kid?" is well, whatever it is, it's roughly child-sized, wearing an adorable yellow raincoat, with an extremely bulbous head. Like a water balloon that had been filled way, way past the point of bursting or a rotten watermelon that's been fermenting inside and ready to burst. It's veiny, translucent, and wobbling a little bit when it walks. Present tense, seeing as the kid is currently in our back holding room.
When it initially came inside I tried to see if it needed something but once I pulled down the raincoat's hood I realized it doesn't have a mouth. It's just smooth, scarred tissue. It sort of just tilted its giant, heavy head at me. Then, this sound started coming out of its… throat, I think? It sounded like a cassette tape. There was a distinctive skrr—eee—itch—then click. It (or inside of it?) said: "You seek —kzzk— TRANSCENDENCE. The Twice Third Temple can help. Do not fear —kzzk— Do not fear the Higher Beings. Do not fear the Flies. Do not fear what comes next. Relinquish the Cochlea and —kzzk— TRANSCEND."
Then the big-headed kid lifted its head up and its neck detached like a hinge and there was a fleshy sort of cavity where I can only guess we are supposed to "relinquish the cochlea." What… exactly is "the cochlea?" Is that… is it the Bell? Is the Bell, like, Fate's Cochlea? I mean… I guess that makes sense. But also, what the hell is the "Twice Third Temple?" And who sent this… nightmare child to demand our piece of Fate? Dan might not like it but we're gonna have to call Beez in on this if there are other outside factions demanding our Bell.
BARISTA: BRENT HEARSE
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: C-TMH-02
Unfortunately the strange child sent to us by the Twice Third Temple has perished.
…Fortunately that clears up a lot of my ethical quandaries over dissecting and autopsying the patient!
Preliminary examination suggests the subject was not "born" (mercifully) in any traditional mammalian sense. This is a construct. A biological courier drone. A homunculus. Cheaply made, too. The shelf-life on this thing was likely only a few hours… just long enough to deliver its message before systemic cellular collapse. Agatha’s description of the head as a "rotten watermelon" was actually scientifically astute. Upon incision of the epidermal layer (which lacks sweat glands and appears to be a silicate-grafted skin substitute possibly magically grown or conjured), the cranial vault was not filled with grey matter. Instead, the skull is merely a thin, cartilaginous shell containing roughly three liters of highly pressurized, viscous psychotropic fluid.
Which is to say, there is no brain. The fluid itself serves as the cognitive medium—likely a suspended-solution preprogrammed memory bank. When I drained it, the body immediately lost turgidity and deflated, confirming a sort of "water balloon" structural integrity. Without the psychotropic fluid this being is nothing more than a shell. Furthermore, I have isolated the source of the "cassette tape" vocalization. The larynx has been surgically removed, or perhaps never grown, and in its place is a bio-thaumaturgic resonator carved from bone. Avian bone, specifically. It works on a friction principle: a small, rough tongue (more like a stylus) scrapes against a series of calcified ridges in the throat to produce speech. It’s strictly "read-only." This creature couldn't have improvised a conversation if it wanted to; it was, more or less, a walking playback device.
The neck mechanism is also horrifyingly elegant. The cervical vertebrae are fused into a fulcrum, allowing the head to pivot back 90 degrees. The cavity inside the throat is lined with non-digestive mucosa. A cargo hold. This drone was designed to "swallow," an object and suspend it in that cranial fluid for safe transport, then waddle back to the Twice Third Temple. What we are dealing with here is sophisticated flesh-crafting. I’ve jarred a sample of the cranial fluid for Lord Beelzebub and Arthur Crow back at the Core Cafe. I suspect… somewhere within that fluid lies instructions or directions to this "Twice Third Temple."
BARISTA: TYLER SCHWARZWASSER
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: C-FOTF-04
Apologies for the unscheduled update, but the data from the security feeds is… distressing. I have isolated a vector in the flies' movement. It isn't random. It’s an algorithm. I cannot currently decrypt the specific pattern—a failure on my part, I admit—but the objective is undeniable. They are mapping us. They are mapping our Diner. At first I considered that they might be attempting some sort of large-scale sigil magic, but given the flies adaptability to our positions within the diner this cannot be the case. Still…
To confirm this, I require authorization to unfreeze one of the remaining clusters. Immediately. I realize the others (perhaps, of course, except for Brent and Charlotte) may find this… distasteful. However, please observe the timestamp at 08:47. A fly encounters the Auditor, retreats, and returns forty-seven minutes later to map the empty space where the Auditor was. That is not instinct. That is error correction. That is intelligence. It is an algorithm.
The flies are not merely biological, if they are biological at all. They are surveillance drones. If the "Melonhead" was a messenger from this Twice Third Temple, the flies are likely its scouts. And if they are scouts, they are recording. We cannot wait for consensus. The mapping is likely already complete. The Bell’s silence suggests they have already compromised our perimeter. I have devised a plan to utilize Agatha and Madeline's powers to force the flies to reveal the location of the Twice Third Temple assuming Brent's hypothesis is also correct that its locational data is stored in the cranial fluid of the Melonhead. I am aware this plan is unpleasant, perhaps even dangerous, but we must use the Temple's "tech" against them.
Waiting for Dan’s sign-off. Please hurry.
BARISTA: WARDEN
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: CD-FOTF-05
The swarm is agitated.
They move in vectors of panic.
Tyler perceived a pattern, but he has confused it for intent. There is no intent. There is only input and error.
I am standing at coordinates 0,0 relative to the freezer unit within Silenus' layout. The flies collide with my face in constant buzzing waves. They bounce off my shoulders, my ribs, my arms, my legs. They do not veer. They do not learn what I am. To their sensors, the space I occupy reads only as empty. Error. They are attempting to fly through me because they cannot detect what they were sent here to map. They have been receiving a null response. I am a blind spot in the room.
Tyler requested their optical data. I have begun the collection process. It is not difficult. They fly into my hands because they do not know my hands are there.
Intercept. Capture. Compress. Cessation.
Intercept. Capture. Compress. Cessation.
Intercept. Capture. Compress. Cessation.
Interceptcapturecompresscessation.
Interceptcapturecompresscessation.
Interceptcapturecompresscessationinterceptcapturecompresscessationinterceptcapturecompresscessationinterceptcapturecompresscessation—
Their carapaces snap with very little pressure. The buzzing has lessened. It is growing quiet now. I have accumulated a pile of twenty-four units on the floor. With what little programming they have left they twitch and writhe. They cry out a signal to their fellow flies. They do not feel pain. They do not fear death. They are not.
The swarm is thinning. They are confused. They are mapping a room that is shrinking, yet they cannot find the wall that is killing them one by one. I am the wall. I am the Warden. The flies will falter. The flies will fall. The flies will break one by one.
I will continue until the buzzing stops.
Silence is the optimal state.
Intercept. Capture. Compress. Cessation.
Intercept. Capture. Compress. Cessation—
BARISTA: AUDITOR
CAFE: NONE
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: FOTF-06
Ah, the Twice Third Temple.
A vile and insidious fast food chain, thus a competitor to the Cafe and Diner Network, which has so far been lurking in the shadows outside of our view. I wasn't sure if they were going to pop up, but I suppose it was only a matter of time. Though, I can't possibly say how long the Twice Third Temple has been in operation or even who is currently employed there; except for, of course, its owner: Lyle Crow. Yes, that Crow, brother to our very own Arthur Crow. The Crows as a family are well enough known in the coffee trade. They reside on Dracula Drive in New Canaan, Connecticut and have always been eager to explore… shall we say… "unethical" means of customer satisfaction and food and drink offerings.
When Arthur was first offered a job at his family's fast food establishment he was excited to finally be part of his family's business. But then, as it always is with fast food joints, he saw how the sausage was made, the mold in the ice machine, and the buckets of reused oil. He fled. He has been completely out of touch with his family since which would explain why he was up until now unaware of his brother Lyle's continuation of their father, Alfred "Al" Crow's work.
I suppose next, Silenus will need to uncover where exactly "Dr. Crow" has set up his first establishment and who he has on his payroll. I have a few guesses, though I would hate to speculate so early on. Thankfully, it seems Tyler, Agatha, and Warden have a hypothesis on how to utilize Mr. Felt and Mr. Evenhuis, with the help of Madeline's unique talents, to locate the Twice Third Temple. Mr. Felt, though his tab was paid in full by his very nature, had some "good ideas" as to where the Temple must be and Mr. Evenhuis is quite the locator according to Tyler and Warden's continued efforts to serve him.
BARISTA: MADELINE SATURN
CAFE: SILENUS
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: C-FOTF-07
My hands are numb. Heavy. The vibrations are still in my bones. I hope you’re happy with the results, because I’m NOT doing that again. Tyler and Agatha wanted a heavy weight. That’s all I am to them, apparently. Just gravity stashed away in their pockets, ready to be pushed out whenever they need someone to pull. They needed to force the flies onto Tyler’s little map to see where they would land, to reveal the location of the Twice Third Temple, but the flies were fighting the programming. Agatha opened her connection to the Phantom Lanes, which, for the record, feels disgusting, like breathing in ice water, and then she told me to pull.
So I pulled. I did exactly what I was told to do.
I anchored them down. It wasn't my fault the Phantom Lanes tend to pull harder. I felt the tension snap. The flies shattered. Crumbled like dry autumn leaves. A thousand tiny crunches compressed between two supermassive forces. Honestly? Good riddance. I was getting sick of those damn flies.
The fly dust settled on Cincinnati. We all saw it. But then the counter-weight of the Lanes shifted. And don’t look at me, don't you dare look at me, I didn't let go. I held it tight, even when it hurt. The dust crawled on its own. It dragged itself from Cincinnati to Ashland. Then Charleston. Parkersburg… That isn't a map of the U.S. It’s not here. The Twice Third Temple isn't a place in the Flipside, it's moving about in the Lanes, circling us like a shark. And since the Bell is broken, there’s nothing stopping it.
BARISTA: THE AUDITOR
CAFE: NONE
DATE: EARLY JANUARY
RECEIPT ID: CAD-11
And that is why I have put off working with Silenus thus far. They always seem to be neck deep in some sort of disgusting horror, be it body, mind, soul, or otherwise. Mild fly infestation… ha! Well, at least they now have a direction even if their sense of location is perpetually phantasmal at best. Mr. Felt had his tab paid in full and his customer satisfaction survey should now be in Arthur's hands. And Mr. Evenhuis' tab has also been paid in full. The infestation is cleared, er, crushed, but their Bell remains silent.
Warden even went so far as to take the Bell to Wichita and still—nothing. Whatever Dr. Crow has done to silence their Piece of Fate (assuming Dr. Crow is the one to blame) it is not a matter of mere proximity to Silenus' local Lanes. It's an issue to be sure, but not mine, I believe Beez will have to make nice with his Cafe if he intends to continue his sponsorship. No Bell, no need for Beez, and no access to the Cafe and Diner's contributions to his everlasting feast.
As for my next move, I need to pay Bloodglass a visit. They have a… mm… a component that CaDence has requested for our side project. Additionally, the twins could use some help with their familial feud concerning their evil and estranged aunt. Though, in the meantime while I sort out CaDence's components and audit what can be done at Bloodglass, I think it is finally time to revisit my earlier October trip to the Cafe and Diner: Testament in lovely Las Vegas, Nevada. Deciding whether or not to publish this case was… difficult. But I would rather keep transparency than to hide behind a swarm of secrets.