Blue Wolfe and Friends presents: Camp Here and There.

Episode Forty-Seven: Diagnostic Papers Stained with Soup

[CLICK]

ADAM

Joyous breakfast, youth! And by youth, I mean my lovely, larval agents of bedlam here at Camp Over Where and, of course, the trembling porcelain minds ripening ever so sweetly across the lake at Camp Here & There. Hello! Bonjour! Salutations, mein lieben snacks!

[SNIFFLING]

I’ve interfaced the PA systems in your little camp. It’s me, Adam! Familiar ol’ me. Your favorite infernal nightmare, extradimensional advisor, and now by fire, blood pact, and a disturbingly well-drafted contract signed in crayon by your enterprising peers, I am the acting director of Camp Over Where…

Now, I would be romping through your dreams this fine morning like a deer in a dollhouse—sorry Jane, for the offensive turn of phrase—maybe rearranging the furniture of your psyche, replacing your teeth with grains of rice, but alas. Alas, my darling larvae, I am… indisposed.

[DRAMATIC COUGHING]

Do you know what’s fascinating?

Illness.

I have discovered it.

I hate it.

[ANOTHER COUGH]

The sensation is similar to… being steamed alive from the inside out, while also chilled to the marrow! My brand new bones are whimpering. My eyes are melting. There are bees in my skull… Do humans live like this on purpose?

[HE COUGHS, AUDIO GLITCHES]

Oh! Apologies to whoever just re-experienced their own bloody baptism. That… should fade.

[A PAUSE]

Anyways. Camp Over Where has officially declared a state of [TAMBOURINE] ‘uh-oh.’

I attempted to sneeze earlier… it was unspeakably unpleasant, and I have been dragged through the gears of creation! Twice!

[COUGH]

It is very possible that I am dying. Or evolving. Or molting? Whatever it is, it’s wet, and it’s happening very loudly.

Please send soup. Or blood. Or soup made of blood. Honestly, I’m not picky anymore. The fever has stripped me of culinary discernment.

[HE SNIFFLES]

Do you know who would love this? Sydney. Yes. That one. The boy who smells like loam and ancient bitterness. The one with the voice like a smile dipped in arsenic. He would thrive in a moment like this. He always did love weakness. Not in a cruel way. In that little… delightfully clinical way he was.

Back when he was still mine— [HE COUGHS PAINFULLY] —I mean, back when he was in my care, he used to bring me little “samples” of human things. Fingers in jars. Panic attacks distilled into ink. He said it helped him understand. I once gave him a dream about a fox that couldn’t scream. He thanked me for it. Asked if I had more.

[A LONG PAUSE]

I miss him.

But he has you all now. And I have… an actual temperature. Four hundred eighty-two degrees Lucifahrenheit, roughly equivalent to 99.3 in human American terms, or one-and-a-half concerned nurses per square inch.

I understand that illness is meant to build “empathy.” Oh, I have so much empathy right now. Every shivering Victorian child with a cough and a fated due date, I am them, and they are me. Oh, I am a fleshy pillowcase of phlegm and Victorian despair!

[TAMBOURINE]

Camp Over Where’s status report, as per schedule protocol: The sky is unstable. Again. The mess hall has unionized. The grass is bleeding out but, notably, not in protest.

[ANOTHER TAMBOURINE JINGLE]

And me? I am lying in bed like an Edwardian waif, swaddled in blankets that smell of ash, and cursing the cruel fate that gave me lungs. Curse you, LUNGS! [HACKING COUGHS] That is: Lamentable Unit for Nascent Gaseous Suffering.

[ANOTHER COUGH]

Ludicrous Unnecessary Noisy Gasbags! Satan’s arse!

…

But worry not, my tender rations. I shall recover. I am adamantine, after all. [HE TRIES TO LAUGH BUT ENDS UP COUGHING]

Eternal. Mostly fireproof. Emotionally, very absorbent. I just need rest. And electrolytes. And a hot compress infused with the ambient fear of a dentist’s waiting room. And possibly the soul of a citrus fruit.

Just in case, however… if anyone has a humidifier, or a sacrificial goat, or perhaps a mug of herbal tea brewed in the light of the waxing moon—please send it across the lake by raven.

…

I am… so very damp.

Thank you, that is all.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

SYDNEY

Personal log, morning entry. Storm warning, wind from the west, sky slightly purple at the edges, though I’m willing to blame that on breakfast. We had something vaguely lilac-colored this morning. Couldn’t tell you, but it made Posy Panic puke, so I have to talk to Matthew later.

I’m feeling… curious. Deeply so. You see, ghost friend, something extraordinary just happened a moment ago. Something so impossibly rare it makes my bones itch! [WHISPER] In a good way.

Adam, my dramatic demonic therapy man, has, apparently, caught a cold.

Biologically, I don’t think demons can get colds. Not standard ones anyways. Not unless they’ve foolishly tethered themselves to a corporeal form. He said his bones are “whimpering”. His words. He said his eyes are melting and he’s gone damp. Damp, Jedidiah! You heard it!

JEDIDIAH

[ANNOYED] Oh, I heard it. I also heard him say he wanted blood soup.

SYDNEY

Yes, and wouldn’t you like to know what that tastes like?

JEDIDIAH

No.

SYDNEY

No or know?

JEDIDIAH

No, I would not like to know what demon fever broth tastes like. I don’t want to know what a sick demon smells like either. I don’t want to go near him!

SYDNEY

It’s valuable data!

JEDIDIAH

It’s dangerous is what it is. You want to take a paddleboat across the lake?

SYDNEY

No, I wouldn’t take a paddleboat. That would be absurd!

JEDIDIAH

Right.

SYDNEY

I’d take the little green canoe behind the paddleboat pile.

JEDIDIAH

Right.

SYDNEY

The one nobody uses because it smells like mushroom brine. I’ve been cleaning it for weeks just in case.

JEDIDIAH

[SIGH] Please don’t go. Why would you want to go?

SYDNEY

Because he’s my familiar, Jedidiah. Or he was. Once. We’re… tangled. Besides… I want to see it.

JEDIDIAH

You want to see him sick?

SYDNEY

Why did you even go to med school?

JEDIDIAH

Because… that doesn’t matter.

SYDNEY

You know the urge. [HE SNICKERS] What if he sneezes in Latin? I want to study him.

[JEDIDIAH SIGHS]

SYDNEY

Like he’s a butterfly with fangs [HE MAKES BITING NOISES] Hangh Hangh!

JEDIDIAH

You’re talking like you’re invincible. You’re not.

SYDNEY

I know—

JEDIDIAH

Do you?

[SILENCE]

JEDIDIAH

[SOFTLY] You shouldn’t be the one to go.

SYDNEY

[ANNOYED] And yet, I’m going. Boo-hoo.

JEDIDIAH

Sydney—!

SYDNEY

Who else is going to recognize the signs of metaphysical septicemia?

JEDIDIAH

Ugh!

[HE PACES AROUND]

SYDNEY

[IGNORING HIM] Personal plan of action, recorder:

I will pack one thermos of broth, non-lethal, non-ironic, fully edible. One thermometer. One weighted blanket. One spray bottle for misting if he starts evaporating.

Oh, and I will bring Rowan!

JEDIDIAH

You are not bringing Rowan!

SYDNEY

Rowan’s already packed his shovel. So I can’t stop him. He says “the sky needs grounding over there.”

JEDIDIAH

Of course!

SYDNEY

Probably something to do with the tunnels.

JEDIDIAH

[JEDIDIAH BREATHES FOR A MOMENT, THEN MAKES AN EXASPERATED NOISE] … Fine! Fine. But if any tentacles appear, Jesus, please come right back.

SYDNEY

Deal.

[JEDIDIAH MAKES A SOUND OF FRUSTRATION AND STOMPS AWAY.]

SYDNEY

Note to self:

Pack gloves. Adam may be contagious.

Pack a pen with black ink. Adam respects proper documentation.

Pack a mirror. Just in case.

And pack my stitched-together field journal.

[CLICK]

ADAM

And another thing! I can’t eat. I can’t even look at food. Do you know how humiliating that is? Me! Adam! A being forged in feasting, a gourmand of galaxies, a connoisseur of marrow and cinnamon! And now? I gaze upon a bowl of meat and feel… revulsion. Me! Revulsion! Like a human! A thing meant to go in me now threatens to come out the very same way, but faster and with more drama.

Ough. I am nauseated, children. Nauseated! A word that once belonged to seasick poets and anxious debutantes. And now it belongs to me. My stomach, a theoretical organ until recent, has turned on me. It makes little threats. It sloshes. I do not like being sloshed, children, and yet… I slosh. [HE SHUDDERS]

If I were to vomit—and let us be clear, I have no plans to, but reality has ceased to respect my intentions as of late—it would not be simple. It would be the most eventful of events.

[HE GROANS]

Why do humans do this to themselves? How is this considered survivable? And what, may I ask, is the evolutionary benefit of a body that expels its own blessings?

[HE GRUNTS AND GROANS]

Bad tidings.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

MYSTERY MAN

The room is too dark, except for where it’s too bright. The ceiling blinks. Light bulbs hang from cords like spider eggs, pulsing softly with a humid nausea. The terrible creature lies on a pile of bedding so absurdly ornate it could be mistaken for a throne. But no throne would hold such a pathetic sickness. Silks ruined and velvet soaked. The creature is wrapped in all of it loosely, shaking like a leaf.

SYDNEY

Your pulse is missing again.

ADAM

I’ve misplaced it. Somewhere under the spleen, I think.

SYDNEY

I’m not sure you have a spleen.

ADAM

Exactly.

MYSTERY MAN

Despite their joking, the creature does in fact posses all human capacities. There are no theatrics left, only the ritual of being witnessed. The boy reaches for the cloth on the creature’s forehead and re-wets it in a bowl. The water is no longer clean, no doubt smelling faintly of sulfur and rosemary.

He squeezes the cloth out, wrings it gently, and lays it back across the creature’s brow. It hisses against its skin.

ADAM

That hurts.

SYDNEY

I know.

ADAM

You’re doing it anyway.

SYDNEY

I know.

[ADAM BREATHES OUT]

SYDNEY

I also have to wipe the blood welling from the spot where you shed your horns. I didn’t know demons could do that!

ADAM

Neither did I. I Suppose I have empathy for Jane, now.

SYDNEY

Can I have them?

ADAM

I assume I have no use for the spare keratin. Perhaps it is the least I can do for your companionship in my cursed state of vulnerability.

MYSTERY MAN

The terrible creature opens its eyes slowly. Its pupils flicker, each one a slideshow of alternate faces, all shaped like its own and none quite the same. The boy doesn’t flinch from the sight as he continues to wipe the wound.

ADAM

You’ve always had skilled hands.

SYDNEY

They shake sometimes.

ADAM

They didn’t used to.

MYSTERY MAN

He’s memorized this ritual. Not this exact one, no, but care like this. Heat and touch and silence. He’s good at it. The kind of good that comes from practice too often, too young.

He pulls back the bloodied wipe from the creature’s head and picks up a spoon from the side table. He dips it into a small bowl, tests the temperature against his wrist and stirs again.

Then he holds the spoon to the creature’s mouth.

SYDNEY

Try again.

ADAM

I told you I can’t eat. I tried earlier and everything fell out.

SYDNEY

This brew is less ambitious.

ADAM

How comforting.

SYDNEY

C’mon. [TEASING] Have a bite.

ADAM

I find your mockery invigorating, wench.

MYSTERY MAN

The creature slowly obeys. The soup tastes like a pale broth, like boiled roots and summer squash, with an afterthought of ginger.

ADAM

That wasn’t entirely awful.

SYDNEY

[CHUFF] High praise.

ADAM

Did you brew this yourself?

SYDNEY

I think Matthew did. But I added the ginger.

ADAM

I hate ginger.

SYDNEY

You’re lucid enough to complain. That’s good.

MYSTERY MAN

The creatures breathing wasn’t steady, but it had found a rhythm. Something low and achingly human. Its skin steamed slightly at the collarbone, where its robes had slipped. There were symbols drawn across its chest. Some in ink. Some in scar.

The boy didn’t stare for too long, so as not to be rude. He looked once, then away, and got to sketching down the symbols in his data-book.

ADAM

Why are you here?

SYDNEY

Because you’re sick.

ADAM

You could’ve sent anyone.

SYDNEY

I did. Then I followed them.

ADAM

Why?

SYDNEY

[SYDNEY TAKES SOME TIME TO ANSWER] Because no one else knows how to take care of you now that you have a body. Because the campers are scared of you, and Jedidiah is pretending not to be. Because I don’t really understand “Jane.” And because… you helped me once, kept me safe. You were the first constant for me in a time when everything else was a terrible noise.

And you’re helping me now, aren’t you?

Listen, I don’t remember a lot from college, just how it felt. But I’m starting to, I think. I’m pretty sure I remember you now. And… I think I’ve missed you.

MYSTERY MAN

The grotesque, terrible creature listens. That is, considering, the strangest part of this twisted scene. It actually listens.

The terrible creature is quiet. It turns its head slightly towards the boy. Its cheek brushes the fabric of the compress.

ADAM

You’re not angry?

SYDNEY

Should I be?

ADAM

I severed the bond when I took on a body. I broke the thing that made me yours. That made you mine. Familiar and practitioner. Symbiotes.

I never asked for your approval.

SYDNEY

Hmm. [A PAUSE] Something very human in that, Adam.

MYSTERY MAN

The boy adjusts the blanket over the creature’s legs. His fingers brush the skin. The creature flinches, though not from pain.

ADAM

You’re being kind.

SYDNEY

I am.

MYSTERY MAN

The creature’s eyes flutter closed again. Though not from deficiency this time, but as a chosen surrender. It’s not a dramatic submission, that is, not theatrical, but the kind that only happens when no one is watching. Except someone was watching, and neither of them seemed to mind.

ADAM

Promise me you’ll think more on the blood-letting treatment.

SYDNEY

Hmm. I have thought about it.

ADAM

I do believe it will help you.

SYDNEY

Enough of that. Rest now.

ADAM

You’ll stay?

SYDNEY

[HE LAUGHS ONCE] Only if you promise not to sneeze reality apart while I’m in the room.

ADAM

…I’ll try.

SYDNEY

Good. And I have my recorder to keep you honest, hehe.

MYSTERY MAN

The boy shakes the device, then leans back in the chair. He crosses his legs. He folds his hands. He closes his eyes. And the creature, eternal and fireproof and absurdly, horrifically uncanny… let itself sleep.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ADAM

Good morning, my gorgeous disarray of glandular disappointments! Campers of Camp Over Where and, by the now cursed thread that binds our unfortunate broadcast systems, Camp Here & There as well.

Hello again, Sydney.

Hello, Jedidiah.

Hello, Rowan. Please stop waving to the sky.

Now. Before we begin the day’s festivities, I would like to address a vile and insidious rumor currently being whispered by the walls and, possibly, the nefarious woodland critters. It has come to my attention that some of you, perhaps in a fit of mass hysteria or collective cultural delusion, believe that I, Adam, extradimensional consultant, eater of tongues, architect of several new organs, have recently suffered from an… ailment.

[A PAUSE. HE CLEARS HIS THROAT DRAMATICALLY]

Let me be perfectly clear:

I was not sick.

I do not get sick. I am immune to frailty. I am categorically incompatible with “catching a cold.” My lungs are ornamental. My spleen is theoretical. My temperature is a quantum suggestion. If I appear flushed, it is because my blood runs like magma and my soul cycles through alternative color palettes.

If I was seen in bed, sweating, trembling, murmuring incoherencies to my elbow, then you witnessed an experimental performance piece.

Title: “The Temporary Collapse of the Divine.”

Medium: Dampness.

[TAMBOURINE] If I was heard saying, quote, “Please send soup,” you misunderstood. That was a dare. I was daring you to see if you could concoct anything worth my attention. You failed. The ginger was insulting. If I allowed myself to be seen in a blanket, if I consumed liquids, if I permitted a boy with warm hands and a history of mortal attachment to lay a cloth across my brow… that was charity. I was allowing him to rehearse caretaking for his eventual, burgeoning career as a haunted hospice nurse. I was indulging his nostalgia. I am very benevolent, after all.

…And I did not need the weighted blanket. I was simply testing it for gravitational consistency. It’s called science, after all, children.

Now. I will not be taking questions. I will not be receiving further broth. I will not be offering apologies to the fabric of reality for the minor fluctuations in my metaphysical cohesion. These things happen, especially when one is as busy and powerful as I.

Also, for judicial reasons, I am required to inform you that the sky has resumed its usual temperament. It is no longer whispering about libel. The mess hall is no longer unionized, but it has, curiously, adopted a barter system. I encourage you to trade wisely. Warning: the new currency appears to be dreams you’ve had before age seven. Authenticity will be verified.

The grass is still bleeding, but we believe that’s just seasonal.

And if you happened to see a certain nurse in my cabin—short, adorning fungi as a hair accessory, prone to sighing and ethical boundary violations—you did not. There is no record of such a visit. No thermometers were used. No hands were held. No soup was administered with something approaching tenderness. That is absurd. You are absurd. Please return your eyes to your faces and your dreams to your pillows.

Anyway! Today’s activities will proceed as normal.

Group A: You will be forging your emotional anchors out of quartz and unsupervised merriment.

Group B: Please assist the rec hall in restabilizing the concept of “inside.”

Group C: You’ve been chosen for what we’re all calling “the forgetting.” You’ll know what to do when it happens.

And to all groups: if you see me anywhere on the grounds today, glowing, flickering, or otherwise behaving normally, please do not mention anything about illness, thermoregulation, vulnerability, emotional growth, or “the human experience.”

If you do, I will be forced to vaporize your entire sense of childhood wonder and replace it with a very specific kind of adult dental anxiety.

Oh, and for those of you who have inquired about my new look. Yes, I am, at this very moment, wearing a set of horns. They are plastic. They are, appropriately, bright red. They were gifted to me by our dear camper Natsume, who informed me, with a misguided sincerity, that I “looked more powerful when I had points.”

So I have points again.

And if anyone dares suggest they are not real demon horns—if anyone so much as giggles at the squeaking sound they make when I tilt my head too fast—I will reverse your chronology until you are once again a soup of cells negotiating where to put your puny nose.

They make me feel…

[HE STOPS HIMSELF]

Never mind.

They’re festive!

This concludes your morning announcement. Thank you for your attention, your loyalty, and your silence.

[TAMBOURINE JINGLE]

Let the day begin!

[CLICK]

Today’s episode of Camp Here & There was written and directed by Blue Wolfe.

The role of Sydney Sargent was performed by Blue Wolfe. 

The role of Jedidiah Martin was performed by Voicebox Vance. 

The role of Up and Adam was performed by Dio Garner.  

The role of Mystery Man was performed by Jalen Askins.  

With original music composed by Will Wood and produced by Jonathon Maisto. 

Additional music composed by Kyle Gabler and Another You. 

Dialogue editing by Beetlesprite.

Sound Engineering by E.M Butler

 Sound design by Blue Wolfe and Another You.

And a special thanks to Patrons for making this possible! 

We have no new patrons to thank this week, and if you would like your name in the credits, visit the Patreon and patreon.com/bluewolfe

You can also join the official Discord server to connect with fellow listeners and discuss the latest episode—find the link in the description of today’s episode. 

And finally, if you’d like to support the show and ensure we can keep going, the most meaningful thing you can do is to help spread the word! 

Thank you for listening to Camp Here & There! And remember: Always heed the fork in the road.