[Strange croaking, bird calls, a symphony of nature.]

Narrator M: Somewhere between the depths and the Mediun, a tiny uncharted islet shimmers with soft bioluminescence in the dark of the Fold, wreathed in a haze of silky mist. 

Narrator S: No human settlements here, but richly inhabited by natural life. 

M: The soil is a deep, rich, cobalt blue clay that glows with a soft, naturally fold-safe light.

S: Giant anemones undulate their glowing tentacles in the air, collecting motes of drifting pollen and translucent waftworms. 

M: Odd little frog-legged tarsier-type critters brachiate between the canopies of knobbly dark blue trees, peering with huge reflective eyes at –

Narrator X: the Stagecoach, landing now in a clearing in the woods.

S: The dark shard of the Ship looms in the dark fog above, rewinding. There’s still a ways to go before they get back up to the Mediun, but the Ship has been overtaxed by their top-speed retreat from the depths, and they have to stop and rest. The Ship and the people, both.

X: The Stagecoach doors hiss open and a squad of folks disembark, peering around themselves into the dark blue dimly bioluminescent woods.

S: Everett seems to be the one taking charge. She’s normal. She’s so normal. She’s almost aggressively normal. 

X: Incredibly fine. Suggesting to folks, maybe they go locate a little firewood. There seems to be a nice spot over here to set up camp. This seems like an ideal place for a little bit of leisurely forest recreational relaxation. Not everybody here has done camping ever, though. Cleophee seems pretty new to it, and is pretty excited to set up a tent for apparently the first time in her entire life. 

S: (Cleo) “It always just would sort of BE set up by the time I got there, before,”

X: she is telling Dot as the group ventures into a wooded clearing, finding a spot to start their campfire. (Everett) “All right, grilled bread time.” Everett has got a cast iron skillet in hand, a satchel full of bread loaves baked earlier in the Ship’s kitchen, now ready to be sliced and grilled over the coals. Tasty. 

S: The naturalist is helping her prepare. 

X: (Everett) “I got something special for you,” Everett says to the naturalist. “Canned bread. I know how you love it.” 

S: (Naturalist) “Oh, hell no! I’ve had enough of that shit for one lifetime, thank you very much.”

X: (Everett) “All righty, what’ve we got, who we got? Who’s, uh, who’s doin’ bread? Where’s Merlin?” 

S: (Naturalist) “Uh, which one?”

X: (Everett) “I mean, come on, we can’t– the REAL one, obviously. We can’t go calling that other one ‘Merlin’ just ‘cause it’s walking around in his body.”

M: Merlin and the Bocular Man are here as part of the camping party as well. 

S: Merlin has been tinkering with his self, modifying his speaking situation, adapting his new chassis. 

M: He’s even gone so far as to install a set of bellows – not for any particularly practical purpose, other than to give himself the animated appearance of breath and life while sitting idle.

S: He’s sitting here next to Dr. Ripley Rawfield on a small picnic blanket on the ground, chest flipped open, hands buried in his metal ribcage. 

M: He seems to be half-continuing to tinker with himself, and half-watching the Bocular Man amble around the campsite. 

S: Inside of Merlin’s body. 

M: Wow, this is extremely strange.

X: Shug Ruggles is holding Mer– Boc– Merl– Boc– Mer…? Hmm. Bo– How do we say this? Ber– Mer–? Wow. Challenging! Mer-Bocu-lin’s arm, 

S: helping to steady him while navigating some uneven terrain, some exposed blueish roots. 

X: Just to be clear again, this is the human body of what– who USED to be Merlin, that Shug is helping. We’re, we’re gonna get through this.

S: Yeah, keep up.

X: This has gotten complex, we understand. 

M: (Bocular Man?) “Thank…thank… thank you, Shug,”

X: the biological human body formerly controlled by Merlin says. 

S: (Shug) “You’re welcome, Boc– uhhh, well, what SHOULD we call you? I suppose you ought to have a say in it.”

M: (Bocular Man?) “I am the Bocular Man.” 

S: (Shug) “Y-yes, but your circumstances have changed radically. I mean, you’re not even a little bit bocular anymore.” 

M: (Bocular Man?) “Hmmm?” 

S: (Shug) “Sounding a little hoarse there, buddy.”

X: (Rawfield) “You know, if he wants to be addressed as the Bocular Man, I think we could respect that,” Rawfield calls over. She is over here on the picnic blanket still, seated near to where Everett is setting up the campfire, continuing to chat with, uh, Bocular Robot Man Merlin.

S: Merlin. His name is still Merlin. 

X: Rawfield goes on, (Rawfield) “His autonomic functions, at least as far as I can tell, seem to be fine. He’s obviously breathing on his own and he does have a heartbeat, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing very much. And it doesn’t look like he’s eaten his own tongue yet, which is good.”

M: Merlin takes a look, watching with the politely curious face of the Bocular Man, 

S: the one facial expression available to him, 

M: before folding his chest chassis closed. (Merlin) “Check, check, check. One, two. One, two. Yes, I agree. I’m grateful for that. Marvelous thing, the body.” 

X: (Rawfield) “It is a remarkable thing. How are you doing in this one?”

M: (Merlin) “Overall, fine?” Merlin says, patting his chest, his thighs,

X: his mechanical self.

M: (Merlin) “I feel like I have a sense of myself. I’m able to maintain a train of thought. I feel aware of myself and my surroundings. I can actually speak now. It’s really just more strange than anything to not be in… him.” 

S: He points with a brushed metallic arm, his sanded wooden skin moving smoothly under the canvas sleeves of the Bocular Man’s tunic as his fingers indicate the, uh, real Bocular Man, stepping over a knobbly root with unsteady balance, 

X: inside his human body. 

M: (Merlin) “But what I AM struggling to understand is how what I’m experiencing is even possible, let alone how it happened.”

X: (Rawfield) “Well, now that you can talk more normally, maybe we can work with Mother Artifice to figure it out. I’m mostly interested in keeping your body functional. Both of you. Well, not your mechani– I don’t know, I’m not a mechanic, I’m a surgeon. But Mother Artifice is gonna want to get into all the weirder stuff with you.”

M: (Merlin) “You’re right. And I would like that, Ripley. Thank you. I would like to understand, really, anything, at this point. Or enjoy some alterbud.”

S: His bellows expand and contract almost like breath, almost like the little shake of a chuckle, his shoulders rising and falling with a simulated sigh. But it’s only the appearance of one, a psychological comfort. 

M: (Merlin) “I wonder what it will feel like to change my bocs when I need it?”

X: (Rawfield) “Let me know when it’s time, I want to take some notes. Overall, you seem to be handling it all pretty well. So far. At least compared to some of the bodily tearrors I’ve seen people exposed to in the Delta.”

S: Rawfield pauses, getting kind of a thousand-yard stare for just a moment. 

M: (Merlin) “I’ll thank you to not go into it right now.” 

S: She gives him a wry smile. 

X: (Rawfield) “No, of course. We’ll be in the Delta before long, though. You’ll, uh, you’ll see for yourself.”

M: They watch Shug continue to escort the…Man…around, now carrying some loose sticks that Shug’s been collecting for him,

S:  to contribute to the campfire, 

X: which is now crackling merrily here in the bioluminescent forest. 

S: The Man pauses for a moment, head tilting to the side quizzically. 

M: (Biological Man) “I…am…the Biological Man.” 

X: There we go, revolutionary!

S: Woah.

X: What a distinction! 

S: Shug, Rawfield, and Merlin all turn at this unexpected innovation, watching him intently.

X: This handy, desperately-needed new nomenclature.

M: (Biological Man) “I can do things…a Merlin can,” 

X: says the Biological Man.

M: “Well, that settles it.” Merlin claps his hands together.

S: That is, the Bocular Man’s hands. 

M: (Merlin) “For the record, I would like to continue to be myself. I am Merlin.” 

S: Merlin turns his immobile face to Rawfield, wearing the same politely-curious expression.

M: (Merlin) “I can do things a bocular person can.” 

S: Rawfield stares back at him uncertainly. 

M: (Merlin) “I can’t wink, though. Imagine I’m winking.” 

S: The grilled bread is grilling. 

X: Oh, it smells so good. Crusty loaves sawed into thick slices, being turned one at a time in this cast iron skillet over the coals, rubbed down with a little olive oil, a little salt, a little pepper. Tasty. 

S: Everett’s new opalescent scarring, splashed over her neck and face, 

X: over her arms and hands, 

S: gleams beautifully in the firelight. She’s got the campfire going pretty good now, 

X: a cascade of sparks rising into the dark Fold-shrouded night. The Fold swirls and quivers slightly in response to this light. The crew watch with a tense wariness, somewhat ill at ease after having just come from depths where the Fold responded to ANY light, even when allegedly fold-safe. 

S: Mother Artifice is there, looming almost invisibly at the darkness at the edge of the ring of firelight.  

X: (Everett) “I think we got this going pretty well, Artie, what do you think? Is this, uh, fire fold-safe?”

M: (Mother Artifice) “FIRE IS NATURALLY FOLD-SAFE. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT AS A, UH – OH. OH, I SEE. YOU ARE BEING SARCASTIC. A REFERENCE, PERHAPS, TO MY ASSESSMENT OF THE FOLDLIGHT’S SAFETY MOMENTS BEFORE THE SHIP WAS BREACHED.”

X: Everett just kinda looks at him wryly, flipping a slab of grilled bread.

S: She was just joking. She’s not mad. 

M: (Mother Artifice) “A JAB WELL-TAKEN. I MADE AN ASSUMPTION BASED ON THE INFORMATION AVAILABLE TO ME AT THE TIME. LET THAT BE A LESSON TO US ALL: ONE IS ALWAYS FALLIBLE, AND TO RECOGNIZE OUR LIMITATIONS IS A PRIME AXIOM OF THE MOTHERS MERCIFUL.”

X: Everett shrugs. (Everett) “Nah, it’s okay. I get it. And, um…you did also save my life.”

S: Artifice inclines his veiled head in acknowledgement. 

X: (Everett) “And, uh. Artifice?”

M: (Mother Artifice) “YES, EVIE?” 

X: (Everett) “That’s two I owe ya.”

S: Ah, camping. A much-needed change of scenery after feeling horrifically cooped up inside the dark mica Ship during… you know, all the things that happened. 

X: It’s nice to have a little change of scenery, a little grilled bread. Quino Del Belsaban and his kitchen staff here are once again enjoying a little reprieve from all the cooking they normally do. Yet again, it is Everett who is cooking for them – not Stationary-style dogs this time, but, uh, grilled bread is hard to beat. 

S: Not everyone is here on this little camping expedition. Many members of the crew opted to stay aboard the Ship, safely sealed inside. They’ve had perhaps enough Fold exposure for the foreseeable future. 

X: Case in point, Felix Hustleworth leaning on the railing of the Ship’s bow high above, gazing down. A few of those camping here, spotting him, waving up. He does not wave in return. That’s not really a thing Felix does. Felix doesn’t really wave. 

S: Not a waving guy, Felix. Down here in the campsite, people are having various levels of success getting their tents set up. 

X: Everett and Micky are handy with this sort of thing and have been giving folks, uh, some assistance here and there where required.

S: Cleo. Cleo’s the one who needs assistance. She’s giggling helplessly, trying to explain how (Cleo) “I never really had to do it myself before. I’ve never been proper camping, only glamping.” 

X: (Everett) “Glamping?” Everett asks, raising an eyebrow. 

S: (Cleo) “Have you– wait a, wait a minute. Have you never been glamping?” 

X: (Everett) “What is glamping?” 

S: (Cleo) “Do you not know what that is?”

X: Everett looks at Micky. Micky knows what glamping is. Micky doesn’t say anything. Micky, Micky, Micky gives, 

S: (Cleo) [laughing] “Micky knows!”

X: Micky gives, uh, Cleo a little wink. 

S: (Cleo) “It’s glamorous camping.” 

X: (Everett) “Oh. Ha, ha.”

S: (Cleo) “It’s like camping, but with all the comforts of…not camping!” 

X: (Everett) “Oh, I see, so it isn’t camping.” 

S: (Cleo) “Welll… I mean, [stammering]… It’s outside!” 

X: (Everett) “Do you have, like– You bring a chef with you and everything?”

S: (Cleo) “You might have a chef or two, and a bed, um…” 

X: (Everett) “Delivered to your campsite via a litter, perhaps?” 

S: (Cleo) “Listen, only sometimes. And there’s usually, like, a rug spread out so you don’t have to walk all over the rocks and sticks on the ground–”

X: (Everett) “Are you gonna be good? Are you gonna survive the night?”

S: (Cleo) “–sometimes a bathtub. [laughs] Listen. I’m tough! After what we’ve been through…I think I can handle a little real camping.”

X: (Everett) “She’s tough. She’s tough, isn’t she?” Everett looks at Micky. 

S: Micky nods. (Micky) “She’s tough.” 

M: The Biological Man and Merlin are now enjoying a piece of grilled bread.

S: The Biological Man is clearly hungry, his stomach is grumbling at least, but he hasn’t quite figured out what to do with that sensation, what it means for him. 

M: (Merlin) “Now be careful as you chew.”

(Biological Man) [speaking with mouth full] “Yes, Merlin.” 

(Merlin) “The tongue is used TO chew, but don’t actually chew on the tongue.”

(Biological Man) “Yes, Merlin.”

S:  Drewrey Hambing abandons his tiny tent and tiny corner of grilled bread to suddenly pursue one of the nearby frog-tarsiers, which he attempts to ride.

X: Hambing doin’ his Hambing thing. 

S: (Naturalist) “Hey! I was trying to sketch that guy,”

X: the naturalist says. The botanist beside her is taking notes on the anemone’s feeding behaviors. 

M: (Botanist) “Keep it away from these trees, though. I think they eat those little critters?”

X: Everett and Micky are unloading their camping gear from the Stagecoach, just out of sight and earshot of the firepit. 

S: (Micky) “Mmm. So much for our little getaway idea. This is way more people than I was expecting to come ashore.” 

X: Everett shrugs. (Everett) “Ah, it’s all right, this’ll all be over soon and then we can disappear and camp for a month. Just you and me.” 

S: (Micky) “Two months. Camping in the dunes.”

X: (Everett) “Yeah.”

S: (Micky) “Let’s make a road trip of it. Take Ol’ Smoker there from Stationary Hill.” 

X: (Everett) “Soon as we’re home.” 

M: For a moment, Micky looks happy. Then sad. Then briefly, something she rarely looks: scared. 

[Emotional music.]

S: (Micky) “You really think we’re gonna make it home? You think any of us are coming back from the Delta?”

M: Everett is quiet. A fold-safe camping lantern on the Stagecoach cargo ramp glimmers eerily in the opalescent scars spattering her face, neck, arms, and hands. 

S: (Micky) “I think we should quit at Brocheroug. I think we should all quit. Some of the crew have been talking…”

X: (Everett) “Micky.” 

S: (Micky) “Everett, you nearly–”

X: (Everett) “Micky.”  

S: (Micky) “Even with Artifice, you almost…”

X: Everett steps in close, taking Micky’s hand, entwining their fingers – Everett’s patchily lightless, Micky’s dark with campfire charcoal – and pulls her into a hug. 

S: One single convulsion of one single silent sob jolts through Micky. (Micky) “Do I still smell like Midst?” 

X: (Everett) “No. But after two months rolling around in the dunes with me, you will.” 

S: (Micky) [snorts]

M: They’re still holding the hug.

S: (Micky) [sighs] “We can’t quit, can we.”

M: It’s not even really a question.

X: Everett slowly shakes her head against Micky’s shoulder. (Everett) “I think we both know we can’t. They need a lifeboat and they need us to fly it. The Stagecoach is going all the way. And I’m from Midst, Micky. I’m not gonna leave people facing danger without a way out.”

M: She looks up at Micky, fear masked as determination plainly visible on her opalescently spackled face,

X: as Micky slowly releases the hug. 

S: (Micky) “Hey, Dot, what’s up?”

M: The Granddaughter is approaching out of the dark.

X: (Everett) “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

S: Everett turns, her fear instantly morphing into anger. 

X: (Everett) “What do YOU want?” 

(Dot) “Everett, may I assist you with that?”

(Everett) “Uh, no. I can set up a tent with my eyes closed.”

(Dot) “No, I mean assist you with that.”

M: The Granddaughter indicates Everett’s opalescent scarring. 

S: Everett goes rigid. 

X: (Everett) “YOU want to help ME?”

M: The distant campfire light reflects eerily in the splattered opalescence across Everett’s neck and face. 

X: (Everett) “I don’t need your help. Artifice already neutralized it.”

(Dot) “Sometimes talking about the experience–”

(Everett) “You know what, you can get the fuck away from me is what you can do to help.”

S: (Micky) “Whoa.” Micky is stepping in closer. 

M: The Granddaughter blinks slowly. Everett glares. 

X: (Everett) “Fuck off.” 

M: Micky raises a hand. (Micky) “Everett–” 

X: Dot is placid, exhibiting no particular reaction other than seeming momentarily indecisive, when Everett suddenly lunges at them and Micky barely grabs her in time.

S: (Micky) “Everett!” 

M: Dot backs away, expression neutral. 

X: (Everett) “Fuck you. Talk to me again and I’ll punch your teeth down your fucking neck.” 

M: Dot regards Everett and Micky silently, blankly, and then departs the Stagecoach without another word. 

S: Micky is still holding onto Everett firmly. (Micky) “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Cool it. Holy shit. That was not necessary.”

M: Everett is shaking as Micky turns her around and pulls her into a firm hug. 

S: (Micky) “Hey, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. 

X: (Everett) [voice breaking] “No, I’m not.”

X: In the shadow of the Stagecoach, Everett buries her opalescently-scarred face into Micky’s shoulder, takes a long, shaky breath, and bursts into tears.

M: The Granddaughter quietly returns to the campfire.

X: Maybe there are some dishes they could do. No reason. 

S: Nope. No dishes. So they sit on a stone next to Cleo. Cleo is valiantly trying to lighten the mood of the gathering, 

M: which, let’s be honest – it’s been feeling distinctly off. 

S: She’s doing her best to make people feel better. And her best is pretty good, but what can one charming conversationalist do against the oppressive gloom of having lost three crewpeople to the depths? Of the rest of them barely escaping with their lives? Of encountering horrible new realities about the Fold that they’re all still struggling to process?

M: There’s been some discussion about how deep they actually made it in the overall scope of things. Were they anywhere close to that theoretical Bedrock, the bottom of the cosmos? Or were they just as far from it as they were from the Firmament all those weeks ago? If either of those things even actually exist. 

S: Who knows how long the Ship could have continued to slice down through the thickening Fold, like a spear through wet clay, if they hadn’t been forced to turn around when they did? For every question the expedition has managed to answer, it’s only led to a hundred much more concerning questions. 

M: That’s a net loss, as far as understanding the cosmos is concerned. 

X: Yeah, this is feeling less and less like a glorious expedition of discovery, and a little more and more like an endless gauntlet of bewildering traumas.

S: Or maybe that’s Cleo’s own fault. No good wallowing like this. That will only bring everybody down even more. There’s almost nothing a positive attitude can’t turn around. 

M: Cleo turns a slice of bread around with the tongs. 

S: (Cleo) “Here, Dot! Have you had a piece of bread yet? I don’t understand how just burning bread can make it taste so good, but here we are.”

X: (Dot) “Thank you, Cleo.” 

M: Cleo peers at them. They look absolutely tranquil, but Cleo sees a microscopic flicker in their eye. 

S: (Cleo) “Hey. Are you okay? You…you seem sort of freaked out.”

X: Dot does not move. (Dot) “That is not accurate. I am not disturbed.” They powerfully resist the urge to get up and walk away. What the fuck? Are they slipping? They gotta get a grip on themselves. Holy shit, this is not good. Whew. Total control, Dot. Do not waver, especially not around Cleo. She is way too observant. That’s really spooky.

S: (Cleo) “Oh, really? Okay. Um. Maybe it’s just me. I think most of us are kind of freaked out right now. And you know what? That is fine. We’ve all just gone through something…really intense.” 

X: She stirs some coals in the firepit. Hambing goes by on a tarsier. (Hambing) “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Nelly! Slow down!”

S: (Cleo) “All that scary stuff down there… What happened to Merlin… The way Shanamarian and Ephraim and Abel… The horrible way we lost them.”

M: She’s quiet for a moment, the firelight gleaming on her skin, 

X: her bioluminescence pulsing gently in the darkness. 

S: People continue to arrive and sit down and set up their tents around the fire, munching bread. (Cleo) “I, um, I don’t know what the Mothers think about the idea of an afterlife, but in Ebonreef, at least, a lot of people believe that the current carries your soul to the end of the cosmos, and then, I guess, somewhere else, onto the next life. My grandma called it the Big Garden. I, um, believe in that, too. So, I hope the three of them make it there okay. And we might even see them again someday, who knows? Maybe when we get to whatever’s at the end of the Delta.” 

X: (Dot) “Are you going to come to the Delta? I thought you said you were leaving before then.”

S: (Cleo) “Oh, right. Yeah.” Cleo had managed to forget somehow. And now she’s sort of shell-shocked to remember that her stop is almost here.

X: Her stop, in fact, is next. 

S: Now that they’ve surveyed the highest heights of the Un and the deepest depths of the Fold, the downcurrent islet of Brocheroug, just above the Mediun, is their next stop. 

M: The last port of call before the Delta and the end of the cosmos. 

S: (Cleo) “Wow, I can’t believe it’s almost over. It seems like we just left Midst yesterday.”

X: She knows that there will be a foldmersible waiting at Brocheroug to take her home to Ebonreef, which lies relatively nearby to Brocheroug in the grand scheme of things. 

M: Further down in the Fold a fair distance, of course. 

S: The rest of the expedition, however, everyone except Cleo, is supposed to continue into the Delta. Same deal as before – go until they can’t, see what they can, then turn around and come back. Only Cleo is going to leave early. 

M: But some things have changed. They’re down a Foldlight. Three crew are dead. The cosmologist is in a bocular body– of his own craft, yes, but not his original.

X: And now that the subject of Cleo’s own somewhat imminent departure has been brought up around the campfire, here within earshot of a few other members of the crew… it, um, has led a few other people to discuss certain options. (Mikelord) “Yeah, so, um, about Brocheroug.” 

S: This is sous-chef Mikelord. 

X: (Mikelord) “I think, um… I’d like to… quit.”

S: (Voro) “Yeah, me too,” 

X: says Voro, pensive and thoughtful. This has clearly been on their minds. This expedition hasn’t really been going quite the way they’d hoped. They were anticipating unique, somewhat thrilling discoveries.

S: Something to put on their cooking resume. 

X: Not really, uh, insane, fundamentally batshit, lethal, uh, nightmares at every turn. This is not exactly what was on the tin. Even Quino Del Balsaban is nodding slowly. (Quino) “I must confess, as excited as I was at the outset to continue to cook for you fine folks throughout the Delta, um, I, uh, I don’t, I don’t… I don’t want to die.” 

S: There are murmurs, there are nods. Very few people seem inclined to argue with them, to talk them out of it. It’s fair. 

X: A small tarsier with Hambing on its back hops down onto a rock beside the fire. (Hambing) “Yeah, things have been a little bit more deadly, in general, than I guess I was even expecting. I signed a waiver. You take the risks, you understand the risks, but, I mean, by all accounts, the Delta is supposed to be…fuckin’ insane? And I say this as a tearrorologist. Based on everything I’ve ever read about the Delta, it’s not gonna be easier. It’s probably gonna be worse.” 

S: Dr. Rawfield is nodding grimly, embers reflecting in her eyes, as she remembers things she cannot describe. 

X: (Rawfield) “I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” she says. “The Delta’s gonna be rough.” 

S: Cleo clears her throat. (Cleo) “Gosh, I’m sorry everyone. I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. I’m sorry to be leaving, to be honest, but…everyone should do what feels right for them.”

M: Merlin pipes up, the Biological Man laying next to him inside of a sleeping bag, (Merlin) “Of course, everyone should make their own choice. But – let’s assess, let’s have a conversation about it, when we get to Brocheroug.” 

X: Mother Artifice is here outside the perimeter of the campfire, unpacking a hammock in the dim bioluminescence of the woods, assessing two likely trees.

S: A slight pink nimbus illuminates the fog as Cleo approaches. (Cleo) “Mother Artifice, do you have a sec?” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “YES, OF COURSE, CLEOPHEE, YOU DO HAVE MY ATTENTION, THOUGH BEAR WITH ME WHILE I AM SEARCHING FOR TWO TREES SITUATED AT THE IDEAL DISTANCE TO FACILITATE MY DESIRED HAMMOCK TENSION.” 

S: (Cleo) “Oh! Totally. Yeah, ideal hammock tension. It’s a very personal journey, for sure.” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “I AM PLEASED THAT YOU UNDERSTAND, CLEOPHEE. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?”

S: (Cleo) “So… I was basically just hoping we could talk for a moment? I feel like I haven’t really made the effort to get to know you like I have with the rest of the crew, and now I’ve just remembered I’m gonna be leaving soon, and I’m… I just want to correct that. I… I guess I’m just a little intimidated by the Mothers, and it’s taken me a while to get used to the idea of having one around all the time. I hope I haven’t offended you.” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “NO, OF COURSE NOT. YOUR PERCEPTION IS YOUR OWN BUSINESS, AND I AM NOT AFFECTED BY WHAT OTHERS THINK OF ME.” 

S: (Cleo) [laughs] “Wow! I wish I knew what that felt like. But, um… You know, I want you to know what I think of you anyway. Having you with us, it’s been amazing. You saved Everett’s life. Even your Mother-in-training, Dot, is amazing. But you knew that already, of course. You must be so proud. I don’t know if you knew this, but they were ready to protect me from that awful Fold goop, to shield me like you shielded Everett, even though I could tell they were scared.”

M: The horned head turns slowly to her.

X: (Mother Artifice) “SCARED?” 

S: (Cleo) “Only a little. I was terrified!” 

X: Artifice seems to examine her quietly for a moment. (Mother Artifice) “CLEOPHEE, YOU SEEM LATELY TO BE STRIVING TO FACILITATE A MODICUM OF FRIENDSHIP WITH THE GRANDDAUGHTER.”

S: (Cleo) “Yeah! They’re great. We’re about the same age, and they’re such a calming presence. I hope we can keep becoming friends.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “AN INADVISABLE PURSUIT. YOUR FRIENDSHIP WILL BE VERY SHORT-LIVED.” 

S: (Cleo) “Um… What… What are you talking about?” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “THE GRANDDAUGHTER IS ON THE CUSP OF BECOMING A MOTHER, CLEOPHEE. SHOULD THEY SUCCEED, YOU WILL NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN.”

S: Cleo’s smile is still on her face, though it’s slowly petrifying and melting.

X: Artifice moves over to another series of trees, examining them for their hammock potential. 

S: (Cleo) “Wait, what– What does that mean? It’s not like people vanish when they become Mothers. I can see YOU. I can talk to YOU. YOU have friends. Tell me what you mean!”

X: (Mother Artifice) “I AM TELLING, CLEOPHEE. YOU ARE NOT HEARING.”

S: (Cleo) “I’m hearing you fine! Okay, what if they don’t succeed, then? What if they don’t become a Mother?”

X: (Mother Artifice) “EITHER WAY, YOU WILL NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN.” 

S: (Cleo) “Why? What happens if they fail? …Artifice?!”

M: Artifice just looks at her, and shakes his head.

X: (Mother Artifice) “REFLECT ON WHETHER YOUR DESIRE FOR FRIENDSHIP COMES FROM GENUINE REGARD FOR THE GRANDDAUGHTER, OR FROM YOUR COMPULSION TO ENSURE YOUR OWN SAFETY BY MANIPULATING THE EMOTIONAL STATES OF THOSE AROUND YOU.”

S: (Cleo) “What?! I don’t– Excuse me for trying to be NICE! I don’t have a compul–” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “THAT WAS NOT A CRITICISM, MERELY AN OBSERVATION, CLEOPHEE, AND I SAY THIS WITH GENUINE REGARD FOR YOU. BE WARY OF FORMING AN ATTACHMENT TO THE GRANDDAUGHTER. PLEASE HEED MY ADVICE. NOW, CLEOPHEE, EXCUSE ME. I MUST CONTINUE MY SEARCH FOR THE IDEAL HAMMOCK SITE.”

M: Cleo gapes in speechless indignation, jaw hanging open, as Artifice strides away into the mist-shrouded darkness, his footsteps making no sound.