At precisely 7:42 p.m. on a damp Thursday, twelve figures in flowing black cloaks and ornate silver masks gathered in the subterranean chamber of the Most Serene and Extremely Inconvenient Order of the Obsidian Badger.
They did not gather at 7:30 p.m., as stated in the ceremonial parchment.
Nor did they gather at 7:45 p.m., as Sir Dreadwick had suggested in the group chat (“More realistic, traffic-wise”).
They gathered at 7:42 p.m., because at 7:38 p.m. someone had sent a passive-aggressive message to the encrypted messaging app:
They gathered at 7:42 p.m., because at 7:38 p.m. someone had sent a passive-aggressive message to the encrypted messaging app:
OBSIDIAN_BADGER_MAIN (Encrypted)
GRAND SCRIBE: Reminder that the ancient rites wait for no one.
MYSTERIOUS_WRAITH_77: I am literally parking.
VEILED_EXECUTIONER: Is the side entrance still blocked by the yoga studio?
The chamber itself was satisfyingly ominous: circular stone table, thirteen high-backed chairs (one perpetually empty for dramatic reasons), candles arranged in a pattern that vaguely resembled a goat but could also be mistaken for a startled dachshund, and a chandelier fashioned from what was either antlers or extremely committed IKEA assembly.
Each member wore the official regalia: floor-length black cloak (dry-clean only), silver mask with intimidating angular features, and the Order’s sigil embroidered over the heart: a badger rampant beneath a crescent moon, holding what might have been a dagger or a spatula.
The door groaned shut.
A hush fell.
Eleven masked heads turned toward the head of the table.
The Grand Obfuscator rose.
Or tried to.
His cloak had become entangled in the chair’s decorative ironwork.
“—One moment,” he muttered, tugging discreetly.
The chair scraped loudly against the stone.
Several members attempted to look solemn while also not looking like they were watching a man lose a wrestling match with upholstery.
At last he stood, freed but slightly rotated inside his cloak, so that the embroidered badger was now hovering somewhere near his left shoulder blade.
He spread his arms dramatically.
“My brethren,” he intoned.
The mask muffled it.
“Mff brffren.”
He cleared his throat.
“My—”
The mask shifted, and the left eyehole slid out of alignment.
He paused, lifted the mask slightly, adjusted, then resumed.
“My brethren of the Obsidian Badger, we convene tonight to discuss matters of utmost secrecy and gravitas.”
There was a respectful silence.
Then a hand rose hesitantly.
“Yes?” asked the Grand Obfuscator.
“Before we begin,” said a voice from behind a particularly ornate mask with curved horns, “are we… are we meant to have arrived already changed?”
The room went very still.
The Grand Obfuscator blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean,” the horned figure continued, “did everyone come here in cloak and mask? Or is there, technically speaking, a designated changing area?”
A ripple of discomfort moved around the table.
Several masked heads subtly swiveled toward the eastern wall, where a folding screen leaned awkwardly beside a stack of spare candles and a mop bucket.
The Grand Scribe coughed.
“As per the bylaws,” he said, shuffling parchment that he absolutely had not consulted until this exact moment, “Article IV, Section 3: ‘Members shall don the Vestments of Dread prior to entry into the Sanctum.’”
A pause.
“Yes, but where?” pressed the horned figure. “In the street?”
“Well,” said the Veiled Executioner, “I personally changed in the alley.”
“The alley next to the juice bar?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
“That alley is very well-lit.”
“I stood behind the recycling bins.”
“Those are transparent recycling bins.”
“Yes, thank you, I discovered that.”
Another hand rose.
“I changed in my car,” offered the Mysterious Wraith.
A collective murmur of approval.
“That seems sensible.”
“I couldn’t fit the mask over the headrest,” the Wraith continued. “So I had to sort of lean forward and thread it on from the side.”
“Did anyone see you?” asked the Grand Obfuscator sharply.
“Only a Labrador.”
There was a silence as this was processed.
“Dogs cannot interpret ritual significance,” said the Grand Scribe firmly.
“Are we sure?” whispered someone.
The Grand Obfuscator raised a hand for silence.
“Brethren,” he said, attempting gravitas once more, “let us not be distracted by minor logistical concerns. We are the hidden hand guiding the fate of nations. We are the unseen architects of destiny. We—”
“Sorry,” said the Hooded Arbiter, “but doesn’t everyone recognize each other’s voices?”
Another silence.
This one more dangerous.
“What?” said the Grand Obfuscator.
“I mean,” the Arbiter continued, “we’ve worked together for years. I know exactly what you sound like, Cl—”
The Grand Obfuscator slammed a gloved fist onto the table.
“DO NOT SPEAK NAMES.”
“Sorry! Sorry. I just meant… when you said ‘my brethren’ earlier, I immediately thought, ‘Ah yes, that’s definitely—’”
“DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE.”
“Right.”
The Mysterious Wraith leaned forward.
“To be fair,” he said, “the masks do muffle us.”
“Exactly,” said the Veiled Executioner. “I can barely hear myself.”
“Yes, but you still sound like you,” insisted the Arbiter. “Just… underwater.”
“Perhaps,” said the Grand Scribe, “we should adopt ceremonial voices.”
“Ceremonial voices?”
“Yes. Lower. More ominous. Less… suburban.”
The Horned Figure attempted this immediately.
“I AM THE SHADOW THAT WALKS—”
His voice cracked violently on “walks.”
A few members coughed to disguise laughter.
The Mysterious Wraith tried next.
“I SPEAK FROM THE ABYSS.”
He sounded exactly like himself, but louder.
The Grand Obfuscator pinched the bridge of his mask.
“This is why we are feared,” he muttered.
“Could we,” ventured someone from the far end, “use voice modulators?”
Everyone turned.
“That’s… actually not a terrible idea,” said the Grand Scribe.
The Hooded Arbiter nodded. “Like those little devices that make you sound like a robot.”
“We are not robots,” snapped the Veiled Executioner.
“We could be ominous robots.”
The Grand Obfuscator considered this.
“Very well,” he said at last. “We shall explore voice distortion technology. In the meantime, we shall speak sparingly.”
They all nodded solemnly.
There was a long pause.
Then:
“Can everyone actually hear me right now?” asked the Horned Figure.
“No,” said three people simultaneously.
As the meeting attempted to resume, a new problem emerged.
“I cannot see,” announced the Mysterious Wraith.
“You cannot see?”
“Not… properly.”
He gestured vaguely, knocking over a goblet of ceremonial water.
The water spilled dramatically across the table, extinguishing three candles and soaking the parchment containing last month’s minutes.
“Sorry. Sorry. That’s on me.”
“Why can you not see?” demanded the Grand Obfuscator.
“The eyeholes are very narrow.”
“They are narrow for intimidation.”
“They are also narrow for stairs.”
“Did you struggle on the stairs?” asked the Veiled Executioner.
“I am saying,” said the Wraith defensively, “that the step after the stairs bend around the corner is hidden by the wall, and that I misjudged it.”
“That explains the thud,” murmured someone.
“I told you that wasn’t thunder,” whispered another.
The Horned Figure lifted his mask slightly.
“Is anyone else’s mask fogging up?”
A collective intake of breath.
“YOU MUST NOT LIFT THE MASK,” hissed the Grand Obfuscator.
“I am lifting it internally,” the Horned Figure insisted. “Just enough for air.”
The Veiled Executioner nodded vigorously.
“I, too, am experiencing condensation.”
Several members discreetly tilted their masks upward by a centimeter.
From the outside, they looked like a room full of confused beetles.
“We cannot conduct a shadow government,” declared the Grand Scribe, “if we are all slightly suffocating.”
“Perhaps,” suggested the Arbiter, “we could install tiny fans.”
“In the masks?”
“Yes.”
“Would that not produce a faint whirring noise?”
They all paused, imagining it.
A council of doom, humming gently.
“…That might undermine the gravitas,” admitted the Arbiter.
“Also,” said the Mysterious Wraith, “my eyelashes keep touching the inside.”
No one responded.
Several people blinked experimentally.
“Is anyone else,” whispered a voice from the darkness, “seeing double?”
The Grand Obfuscator attempted to redirect.
“Let us proceed to Agenda Item One: Global Influence Strategy for Q3.”
He reached for the parchment.
His sleeve caught a candle.
The candle tipped.
The Veiled Executioner lunged.
His cloak tangled with the Horned Figure’s.
Both nearly toppled from their chairs.
The empty thirteenth chair wobbled ominously.
“ENOUGH,” roared the Grand Obfuscator.
They froze.
Breathing heavily.
Cloaks pooled around their feet like treacherous puddles of fabric.
“Is it possible,” said the Mysterious Wraith carefully, “that floor-length cloaks are not… optimal for seated meetings?”
“They are traditional,” snapped the Grand Scribe.
“Yes, but so were plague masks,” replied the Wraith. “We adapted.”
The Arbiter raised a hand.
“I tripped on mine in the hallway. I fell against the ceremonial gong.”
“We have a ceremonial gong?” asked someone.
“Not anymore.”
A beat.
“What if,” ventured the Horned Figure, “we hemmed them?”
A gasp rippled around the table.
“Hemmed?” repeated the Grand Obfuscator faintly.
“Just… slightly. So they don’t drag.”
“That is how it begins,” muttered the Veiled Executioner. “First we hem. Then we consider capri cloaks. Before you know it, we are wearing business casual.”
“Business casual is the true enemy,” someone agreed darkly.
“Fine,” said the Arbiter. “But could we at least install cloak hooks on the chairs?”
This idea hung in the air.
Practical.
Reasonable.
Dangerously sensible.
The Grand Obfuscator looked around.
“We shall… form a subcommittee,” he said reluctantly.
The Cloak Optimization Subcommittee was born that night, and immediately no one volunteered to chair it.
Midway through Agenda Item One (which had so far consisted of the phrase “global influence” spoken three times and followed by silence), a faint crinkling noise echoed in the chamber.
All heads turned.
The sound continued.
Crinkle. Crinkle.
“Who dares disturb the Sanctum?” demanded the Grand Obfuscator.
A figure at the far end of the table froze.
“Is that… a snack?” asked the Veiled Executioner.
“No,” said the figure quickly.
Crinkle.
“That is unmistakably a snack,” said the Grand Scribe.
There was a pause.
“…It is a granola bar,” the figure admitted.
A stunned silence.
“You brought a granola bar,” repeated the Obfuscator.
“It’s a long meeting.”
“We convene to shape the fate of empires!”
“Yes, but I came straight from Pilates.”
“You cannot eat during the Rite of Obfuscation.”
“It’s very quiet chewing.”
Crinkle.
“It is not,” said six voices at once.
The figure sighed and attempted to nibble discreetly.
The mask prevented this.
The granola bar collided with polished silver.
There was a faint scraping sound.
“I cannot get it in,” the figure confessed.
“Sounds like my first time,” a voice whispered-cackled.
“You must not remove the mask,” warned the Grand Scribe.
“I am not removing it. I am… angling.”
The room watched as the figure attempted to slide the granola bar under the lower edge of the mask.
It disintegrated into oats.
Oats cascaded down the front of the cloak like wholesome confetti.
The Veiled Executioner made a strangled noise.
“We are a secret order,” he said weakly. “Not woodland creatures.”
The Mysterious Wraith brushed a rogue oat off the table.
“Are there… crumbs in the sigil?”
No one answered.
Just as order began to reassert itself, there came a knock.
A very normal, very mortal knock.
All twelve figures stiffened.
Another knock.
Louder.
“Is that… the door?” whispered the Horned Figure.
“No one knows this location,” hissed the Grand Obfuscator.
A third knock.
“Hello?” called a cheerful voice from the other side. “We’re getting some noise complaints?”
The chamber dissolved into chaos.
“Noise complaints?”
“From whom?”
“The yoga studio,” breathed the Veiled Executioner in horror.
“The yoga studio closes at eight,” said the Arbiter.
“It is 8:17.”
There was a collective gasp.
“We have exceeded our booking,” said the Grand Scribe faintly.
“Booking?” echoed the Obfuscator.
“Yes, I booked the basement through the community center website. It was the only way to get the insurance.”
“You told them we were—?”
“A historical reenactment society.”
There was a silence.
The knock came again.
“Guys?” called the cheerful voice. “We can hear… chanting?”
They all looked at one another.
“Who was chanting?” demanded the Obfuscator.
The Horned Figure raised a tentative hand.
“I was testing my ceremonial voice.”
The knock grew firmer.
“We can also hear what sounds like… furniture scraping?”
The Grand Obfuscator closed his eyes.
“Everyone,” he whispered, “lower your voices. Remain still.”
A cloak rustled.
A chair creaked.
Somewhere, a rogue oat crunched underfoot.
“Hi!” called the voice again. “We just need you to wrap up in like, five minutes? The mindfulness group is setting up.”
The Veiled Executioner leaned toward the Obfuscator.
“We are being asked to vacate by a mindfulness group.”
The Obfuscator inhaled deeply.
Then, in his most ominous tone, he shouted toward the door:
“WE ARE ENGAGED IN DARK AND TERRIBLE RITES.”
A pause.
“Oh! Okay,” said the voice brightly. “Just, like, dark and terrible until 8:30, please.”
Footsteps retreated.
Silence.
The twelve masked figures stared at one another.
The Grand Obfuscator sank slowly back into his chair.
“Agenda Item Two,” he said hollowly. “Soundproofing.”
As the meeting limped toward its conclusion, one final problem emerged.
“I have a question,” said the Mysterious Wraith.
The others groaned softly.
“What now?” asked the Arbiter.
“If we are so secret,” said the Wraith, “why do we all park in the same three spots behind the building?”
Everyone froze.
“What?”
“I noticed. We always park in the same order. It’s… recognizable.”
“That is absurd,” snapped the Veiled Executioner.
“Is it?” said the Wraith. “Because the yoga instructor definitely saw me arrive, and then saw you arrive, and then saw him—”
“DO NOT POINT,” hissed the Grand Scribe.
“I’m just saying. If someone wanted to connect us—”
“They would have to assume,” interrupted the Obfuscator, “that twelve individuals in cloaks and masks entering a basement at the same time were engaged in coordinated activity.”
A silence.
“Yes,” said the Wraith gently.
The Obfuscator opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The Horned Figure spoke up.
“Also, does anyone else’s spouse know?”
Another silence.
“My partner thinks this is a book club,” admitted someone.
“Mine thinks it’s improv,” said another.
“That explains a lot,” muttered the Executioner.
“I told mine it was a professional networking group.”
“Is it not?” asked the Arbiter.
They all considered this.
“…It might be,” said the Grand Scribe.
There was a long pause.
The Obfuscator looked around the table at the slightly fogged masks, the tangled cloaks, the extinguished candles, the oats.
He sighed.
“Brethren,” he said softly, “perhaps the true power of the Obsidian Badger does not lie in fear.”
They leaned in.
“Perhaps,” he continued, “it lies in… adaptability.”
A murmur.
“What are you suggesting?” asked the Veiled Executioner cautiously.
The Obfuscator stood.
This time, he freed his cloak with practiced efficiency.
“I propose,” he said, “that next month, we experiment with a trial meeting.”
“Without masks?” gasped the Horned Figure.
“Without cloaks?” whispered the Arbiter.
The Obfuscator swallowed.
“…Business casual.”
Pandemonium.
“Blasphemy!”
“Sacrilege!”
“My ankles will be exposed!”
He raised both hands.
“Just for one meeting. To assess operational efficiency.”
They argued for twelve full minutes.
At last, exhausted, they voted for something unthinkable.
Seven in favor.
Five against.
The motion carried.
The Obfuscator nodded gravely.
“Very well. Next month: Zoom meeting.”
A stunned silence.
“And perhaps,” he added carefully, “we could just use filters to disguise our faces.”
The door creaked open again.
“Hi!” said the cheerful yoga voice. “It’s 8:29!”
The twelve figures rose in unison.
Cloaks swirled.
Chairs scraped.
One by one, they filed out through the side exit, masks slightly askew, stepping carefully to avoid tripping.
In the alley behind the community center, beneath a flickering streetlight, they paused.
Awkwardly.
“So,” said the Mysterious Wraith, lifting his mask halfway.
“See you next month,” said the Veiled Executioner, already fumbling with his cloak zipper.
The Grand Obfuscator removed his mask entirely.
He blinked in the ordinary night air.
A Labrador across the street stared at him.
The whole group stared back.
For a moment, the ancient dignity of the Obsidian Badger wavered.
Then the Obfuscator squared his shoulders.
“We remain unseen,” he declared.
Behind him, someone tripped over their hem.
A mask clattered to the pavement.
Cantankerous Cockerel 