Felix's Journal

Mox was deployed at 1400 hours to retrieve a pen from the upstairs room. Simple errand. Documented objective. Clear parameters.

He returned at approximately 1402. He had the pen.

He also had a small glass figurine of a horse that does not belong to me. I do not own a glass horse. I have never owned a glass horse. I did not ask for a glass horse.

I have placed the glass figurine on the desk. Mox has positioned himself adjacent to the glass figurine and has not moved.

I do not know where the horse came from. Mox cannot tell me. Mox does not speak. I have noted that he does not speak in this log approximately seven times now, and it has not resolved the situation.

The horse appears to be watching me. This is probably the angle.

Mox was not deployed today. I want to be clear about this. He had the day off. There was no assignment. No errand. No documented objective.

At approximately 1800 hours I found Mox next to the refrigerator.

I opened the refrigerator. The milk was missing. The milk was later located on the counter. It had been opened and resealed. Carefully. With what I can only describe as deliberate care.

Mox cannot drink milk. Mox has no mechanism for consuming anything. Mox cannot open a refrigerator. These are documented facts about the nature of unseen servants.

I have entered "the milk was resealed by an entity that cannot interact with milk" into the log. I am aware this reads poorly. I am logging it anyway.

Causation remains unestablished. I am keeping an eye on the refrigerator.

Mox has taken my left sock. Not both socks. One sock. The left one specifically.

I discovered this at 0730. The sock was absent from its documented storage location. Mox was in the hallway. He was not holding anything. This proves nothing and I am aware of that.

At 1400, the sock reappeared on the desk. It had been folded. In a flat fold. I do not fold socks in a flat fold. I use a roll method. The roll method is documented. This was not the roll method.

Mox does not fold. Mox has never folded. I have never asked Mox to fold. He does not have the capacity to fold, to my knowledge, which I am now questioning.

I am keeping the sock. I have photographed the fold. I have measured the fold. I do not know what to do with this information but I have it.

I am watching Mox.

I found Mox in the Bag of Holding.

Not near it. Not adjacent to it. Inside it.

I did not put Mox in the Bag of Holding. The Bag of Holding does not open itself. Mox cannot open the Bag of Holding. These are facts I was confident about until this morning.

I retrieved him. He was, to the extent that an invisible force can be anything, fine. He was also — and I want to be precise here — somehow smug. I cannot quantify smug. I am logging it as an observational note with a methodological caveat.

He had been in there for a minimum of four hours. I asked him what he was doing. He did not respond. He cannot respond. He does not speak. I have noted this approximately eleven times now and it continues to be relevant and unhelpful.

I have moved the Bag of Holding to a higher shelf. Mox is four inches tall when I hold an object at his approximate level. This will not stop him. I know this. I have logged this knowledge.

I woke at 0300. Mox was in the room.

He was not doing anything I could identify. He was simply present, in the way that a gargoyle is present — with a specific quality of stillness that implies it has been there for longer than you think and is in no hurry to leave.

I said: "Mox, go stand by the door." Mox went to the door. I said: "Thank you, Mox." Mox remained at the door. I found this, briefly, reassuring.

I went back to sleep at 0314. In the morning, Mox was on the other side of the room — the far corner, near the window. I did not hear him move. He cannot make sound. The window was not open. I do not know the mechanism by which he crossed the room.

I have begun leaving a small light on. This is a scientific precaution. I am not afraid of Mox. I simply want to be able to observe him accurately in the event of further movement. This is standard methodology.

The following items have gone missing and returned in an altered state over the past two weeks. I am logging this in sequence:

1. One purple gel pen. Returned with approximately 12% less ink. I did not use the ink. Mox cannot use ink. Mox does not write. Hypothesis: none.
2. One vial, Compound 4-B (inert, lavender-scented). Returned uncapped. No compound was missing. The vial smelled different — specifically, it smelled like outside. Mox does not go outside. Mox cannot open exterior doors. This is under investigation.
3. This list. This exact document. It went missing on Day 49. It was returned this morning. One item had been appended, in a handwriting I do not recognise, which read: "Day 43 — errand completed." I did not assign an errand on Day 43. I have no record of an errand on Day 43. Mox completed an errand on Day 43 that I did not assign.

I am keeping this list in the Bag of Holding going forward. I am aware of the irony. I am doing it anyway.

I have identified a pattern. Mox has a bit.

The bit is as follows: whenever I am about to drop something, Mox is already positioned to catch it. Not approximately. Exactly. He intercepts the object at the precise point where it would hit the floor.

I have tested this. I have "accidentally" knocked things off surfaces twelve times over the past week. Mox has caught eleven of them. The twelfth was a pencil. I believe he let the pencil fall on purpose. I do not have evidence for this. I am logging it as a strong suspicion.

He also, twice, has moved an object I was reaching for to a location that was more convenient for my reach. He did this before I reached for it. He anticipated that I would reach for it before I knew I was going to reach for it.

I do not know what Mox is. The spell description says "mindless force." I am going to need a second opinion on mindless.

Cast Unseen Servant today under controlled conditions.

Servant immediately began rearranging my reagent bottles by 'emotional damage per ounce,' which is not a recognized chemical property.

I have named it Mox for logging purposes.

Mox has no visible body, no measurable mass, and no respect for my labeling system. It appears to understand basic instructions, complex sarcasm, and the precise moment at which I am too busy to stop it from 'improving' something.

Further observation required.

Mox has developed preferences.

This should not be possible.

It dislikes loose cables, bad acoustics, improperly sealed containers, and 'vibes-based medicine.' On that last point, we are in agreement, though I object to its method of expressing agreement by knocking Dubya's drink off the amp.

Mox continues to insist most magical phenomena are 'routing problems.'

I did not teach it this phrase.

Concern level: moderate. Usefulness level: unfortunately high.

Mox has taken up residence in the messenger bag. I did not authorize this.

The Bag of Holding now occasionally emits:

• tiny clanking noises
• muttered diagnostic commentary
• one perfectly folded black napkin
• a guitar pick labeled PROBABLY CURSED
• three screws I do not recognize and am increasingly afraid were important

When asked what it was doing in there, Mox tapped twice from inside the bag.

This may indicate intelligence. It may also indicate attitude.

Despite several disciplinary concerns, Mox has proven useful during performances.

It can:

• hold sheet music
• tune instruments
• retrieve dropped components
• adjust the keyboard stand
• slap Dubya's hand away from volatile compounds
• produce dramatic stage smoke from nowhere

The final item is not part of the spell description. I have chosen not to investigate until after the next show.

Current hypothesis. Mox is either:

1. A standard unseen servant exhibiting impossible emergent behavior due to Hades-related curse interference.
2. A localized extradimensional gremlin phenomenon using my spell as a delivery mechanism.
3. A divine prank.
4. A stress hallucination with excellent organizational instincts.

Regardless, Mox has improved lab efficiency by 14%, reduced cable-related incidents by 31%, and bitten no one, as far as I can prove.

Continued deployment approved. Under supervision.

Mox wrote 'LOL' underneath this line in invisible ink.

I hate this campaign.

Mox performed what it apparently considers preventative maintenance on the amplifier.

This involved:

• tightening two screws
• replacing one cable
• drawing a small skull on the volume knob
• relocating the smoke machine to a position I can only describe as tactically malicious

The amp now produces cleaner sound, less feedback, and a faint smell of burnt cloves whenever Dubya says 'strategery.'

I cannot prove Mox caused this. Mox cannot prove I can stop it. We appear to have reached a governance problem.

I drafted a formal complaint to Hades today.

The first version was twelve pages, including appendices, observed curse symptoms, proposed remediation timeline, and a dosage-adjusted theory of metropolitan despair.

Mox added a thirteenth page consisting only of the words:

FIX YOUR ROUTING, BASEMENT KING.

This is unacceptable diplomatic language. It is also, in broad strokes, not inaccurate.

I have moved it to Appendix D.

Mox has begun anticipating my needs before I state them.

When I reached for the pipette, it was already in my hand.

When I looked for my notebook, it fell out of the messenger bag, opened to the correct page.

When I considered asking Dubya not to touch the glowing vial, Mox slapped his hand with a rolled-up set list.

This suggests either advanced pattern recognition or an escalating lack of boundaries. Possibly both.

I am choosing to describe this as 'assistant behavior' until better terminology becomes available.

Rogers spoke to Mox today. Not near Mox. Not around Mox. To Mox.

He said, 'It's good to have someone helping behind the scenes.'

The messenger bag made a small metallic sound that I refuse to classify as emotional.

Afterward, every cable in the room had been coiled perfectly, every chair had been returned to its place, and a single peppermint appeared on Rogers' drum shield.

I have no useful theory. I have thirteen useless ones.

Dubya attempted to teach Mox stage presence. This was a mistake.

Mox has no visible body and therefore no stage presence in the conventional sense. However, after the lesson, three spotlights began tracking an empty area beside the keyboard whenever something dramatic happened.

Dubya called this 'leadership.' I called it 'photonic misconduct.'

Mox tapped twice from inside the bag.

I am beginning to learn that two taps means it is proud of itself.

I have revised Mox's classification.

Previous designation: Unseen Servant.

Current designation: Semi-autonomous extradimensional support phenomenon with technical aptitude, limited patience, and a troubling understanding of comedic timing.

This is not a pet. This is not a familiar. This is not a band member.

At the next rehearsal, Rogers left a small stool beside the keyboard. Mox placed a tiny folded towel on it.

Dubya said, 'Looks like a band member to me.'

I am outnumbered by nonsense.

I discovered a wrench in my coat pocket today. It was not mine.

A paper tag attached to it read:

FOR WHEN YOU START DOING THE FACE.

I asked the others what 'the face' meant. Dubya made the face. Rogers gently said, 'The face you make when you're trying not to care.'

The wrench is now in my kit. For purely practical reasons.

Mox is disruptive, unauthorized, insufficiently documented, and possibly capable of sarcasm without language.

Mox is also helpful. These facts are in conflict.

For now, I will permit the arrangement to continue under strict supervision, revised containment procedures, and a new rule that no invisible entity may alter stage equipment without completing Form 11-B.

Mox has already filled out Form 11-B. In glitter ink. The handwriting is better than mine.