M: Merlin enters the bathroom, bringing the Biological Man a fresh towel straight out of the bocular dryer, 

S: which is just like a regular dryer, but bocular. 

X: The bathrooms aboard the Ship are communal affairs, angular crystal rooms like every other deck on the Ship, with dark mica stalls for toilets, and showers in this case.

S: The mirror above the sink counter makes the room look double the size, though it’s really quite narrow. 

X: Merlin walks over to the shower stall that has his clothes hanging outside of it, and hands a towel through the curtain to the patiently waiting Man within.

M: (Merlin) “Did you wash my, um – your hair?”

(Biological Man) “Yes, Merlin.”

(Merlin) “And rinsed everything thoroughly?”

(Biological Man) “Yes, Merlin.”

(Merlin) “Okay, dry off. And be careful of the wet floor. It can be slippery.”

(Biological Man) “Merlin, why is it necessary to douse the body in water? You have requested this process over ten times since our encasement exchange. If this pattern continues, a significant amount of cumulative time will be spent in the shower.” 

S: Merlin’s chest bellows wheeze in a mechanical approximation of a huff of laughter.

M: (Merlin) “Biological Man, I have asked you to shower a perfectly ordinary number of times. This is just part of being in a human body. You’re going to have to get used to it. Maybe, as I did, you will find the shower to be a…ruminative environment.” 

X: The Biological Man has started to ask more of these “Why? But why, Merlin?”-type of questions lately.

S: He never argues, or really expresses an opinion, but he’s displaying more and more curiosity, much like a child would, 

M: particularly when it comes to physiological matters of the body. 

S: It has occurred to Merlin whether he ought to ask the Man if there’s anything he, 

M: Merlin, 

S: should know about this bocular body. All these things he’s been trying to figure out through laborious trial and error and self-modification–

M: How can he improve his speech, his senses, his balance, his range of motion? Could he just…ask? That was never an option before. The Man might have some insights. 

X: Merlin comes out of his reverie as he suddenly realizes that another shower stall is in use.

S: From the hook hangs a long black robe and a horned headdress. 

M: Steam rises from behind the opaque curtain. 

X: Merlin turns away with enormous intentionality, shepherding the Biological Man decisively along with him. 

M: (Merlin) “Come along, Biological Man.”

S: They door into the elevator and elevator down to the atrium. Tzila looks up from her sketchbook, seated on an armchair extruded up by the window – a front-row seat to the untold miasma of nightmare garbage going on outside. 

X: (Tzila) “Hey, Biological Man.” 

M: (Biological Man) “Hello, Tzila. Do you still want an extra pair of hands?” 

X: (Tzila) “Yeah, I’d love some help mixing these, uh, paint colors, if you feel like you’re up to the task. We are trying to match some of that–”

S: She gestures out the window, and at a wide tray of little paint pots. 

X: (Tzila) “–with, uh, some of this.”

M: The Biological Man nods. (Biological Man) “Yes, Tzila. Would you like a small volume of each tone to start?”

X: (Tzila) “Yeah, maybe just one or two, to start. From what I’ve been seeing, it looks like, uh, it’s gonna be hue-shifting as we go along though, so let’s keep our options open. Be flexible.” 

M: Merlin blinks his bocular eyes on and off. (Merlin) “You seem to be all set here. If either of you need me, I’ll be in Control.” 

S: Tzila gives a thumbs-up. A beat later, the Biological Man also gives a thumbs-up, copying the gesture. 

M: Merlin re-enters the elevator and depresses the button to proceed to Control, digitigrade legs tap-tapping into the crystal cell before it doors shut and starts to descend.

Inside of his bocular self, he is having some bocular thoughts. Or just, thoughts, really. At least, that’s how he’s thinking of them. Even the ability to be metacognitively aware of idle thoughts drifting through his mind seems uninhibited and fine, he muses. The only hangups he’s been aware of really having about the whole body-swap are these occasional surges of jealousy – for greater nuance of facial expression, or the easy access of a practiced gesture deep in muscle memory – but those surges are decreasingly frequent. He manipulates the polished brass and wooden fingers of his hand into a thumbs-up gesture. Is this somehow indicative of a diminishing emotional capacity? he thinks. Aren’t biological people also maybe a little bit bocular, when it comes down to it – following logic and need and want to inform their decision making? Hmm.

The door doors into Control, and Merlin shoots his fresh thumbs-up to Felix. (Merlin) “It’s another beautiful day to test the limits of reality, wouldn’t you agree?”

S: Felix snorts. (Ferlix) “Calling it beautiful’s kind of a stretch.” He looks out the windows, critically. 

X: As the days have passed, the Fold beneath the Ship has continued to thicken, becoming more and more like terrain and less and less like fog or even like ocean. 

S: Chunks of garbage, of ship, of islet, lay stacked and tumbled and twisted together, jutting acutely out of the surface of the Mediun, awash with the murky, thick, glistening fold that turgidly runs over it all. 

M: Ponderous, pouchy, malformed, willow-esque trees the color and texture of raw chicken struggle out of the swamp. They look deeply unhealthy, and barely even tree-like. 

S: Their drooping branches trace thick ripples in the viscous liquid below. Things that definitely should not be growing on trees sprout from their, uh, skin.

X: Into this gruesome mix there rains steadily pieces of mica from the sky above, a near-constant glittering shower of the stuff, drifting slowly, or spinning wildly in some cases, ping-ponging around before scything down through the undulating curtains of those chicken willows, 

S: or piercing clotted fold bubbles that quiver on the Mediun, 

X: causing them to erupt into flailing ribbons of ground meat, or into bilgy custardy concrete terraces, like a randomized assembly line for brutalist landscaping.

S: Meanwhile, the sky has continued to grow uncomfortably brighter in a way reminiscent of the Upper Unfold, though continuously in one direction: dead ahead. 

M: The similarity to a sunset is becoming more and more extreme. A growing concentration, this focal point of luminance ahead, 

S: and a growing comparative darkness behind.

X: Of course, there are no sunsets in a cosmos such as this, which has no sun, so our heroes cannot make this particular comparison. 

M: It’s just for you, dear listener. 

S: It is an eerie sight for them. Fundamentally uncanny. 

X: In a way that’s really starting to fuck with the brain’s senses of perspective, the luminous Un above is bending, very much as though it is getting closer, lower, tighter, somehow, as if it is wrenching itself down out of the heavens to smother them.

M: Here in the extremities of the Delta, the Fold and the Un are reaching for each other, and it is not a harmonious meeting. 

S: Bergs of mica pierce down from the heights, cosmic stalactites, jagged glowing teeth closing in on toxic black saliva. 

X: The Fold boils like lava. Gloopy. Sloppy. Sploopy! Splattering against the increasingly tight and claustrophobic, horrible, awful ceiling of the Un.

S: Everything that should be intangible is horribly, awfully tangible. It’s fuckin’ weird out there, folks.

M: The small crew has taken to spending much of their time together, in Control, or in the atrium, or even packed like sardines into the cozy Stagecoach. There’s something disquieting about being totally scattered across the far-flung corners of the Ship, which feels weirdly huge now that there are so few of them, while the cosmos thrashes with something like death throes just beyond their walls.

S: Cleo spends barely any time in her fancy private stateroom anymore – not that she ever particularly did, other than to tend her plants. They’re still alive, if not exactly flourishing. Most importantly, her prized coral cutting from Granny Elodea’s garden is still hanging on. Sometimes she’ll carry it around the Ship with her just to keep a closer eye on it.

X: Omelet really does seem to want to eat it, though, when he’s not bouncing off the walls. The Delta’s put him into a wacky mood. 

S: She collects the plant now, and brings it with her down to Control. 

M: Hambing has just arrived back himself from the ventral sloop, where he had been making some close-up observations of the fold slop beneath.

X: (Hambing) “Yeah, I’m not getting near that stuff,” he says. “After seeing the Deep Fold, I gotta say the Delta seems to have a lot of similarities – increased viscosity, slower-moving, extremely potent tearror systems. I hope it’s not as, ehhh…hungry? As the fold lower down was?” 

M: He sproings up onto the navigation console with a powerful flea leap.

X: (Hambing) “It’s not exactly starved for light here, like it was down there, though.”

S: Dr. Rawfield is eyeing the warped, choked Mediun with suspicion. (Rawfield) “No, I would hope it has plenty to occupy it other than us. Given what we experienced in the depths, I don’t care what kind of fascinating tearrors we see down there – we are not touching that.”

X: (Hambing) “Don’t worry, Doc. I may be a bit of a daredevil when it comes to everyday tearrors, but you and I are on the same page about this, for sure. It is, I would agree, a little too similar to what we saw in the depths.” 

M: Cleo is squinting into the intensifying light ahead, at the increasing density of the mica-strewn sky above.

S: She seems a bit more focused on what’s above than what’s below at the moment. (Cleo) “Yeah, but does it remind anybody else of the high Un, too, just a little bit?” 

X: She rubs her arms, subtly checking for any sign of strange dark evaporations from her skin. 

S: There’s nothing, but the searing, aching quality of that light is a little too familiar for comfort. It seems less pure here, though. Not a 360-degree whiteout to total Unnish brilliance, but more of an eyewatering low-sun angle beaming through a garish kaleidoscope. 

M: Merlin catches her eye and tilts his mechanical head inquiringly. He knows what she’s thinking about because, well, he’s thinking about it too.

S: She shakes her head at him. It’s reminiscent, but it’s not quite the same. (Cleo) “Hey, um, has anybody seen Mother Artifice recently?” 

M: (Merlin) “Yes, he was, um.” 

X: Hmm. Merlin does not exactly feel ready to articulate the implications of what he recently saw in the bathroom. 

S: But luckily, at that very moment, Artifice ceilings down into Control through the ceiling, smelling of steam and soap, fully dressed in his robes, as always… 

X: He drops down beside the spare Foldlight and begins tending to it, running his gloved hands over the glass enclosure. 

S: Well, not the spare Foldlight. THE Foldlight. There’s no spare anymore. 

X: Hmm! Well, Cleo was hoping to catch Artifice alone, but she has spent the last several hours hyping herself up and she isn’t about to back down now just ’cause there’s some other people around. The main thing is that Dot is not here. 

S: (Cleo) “Hello, Mother Artifice. How are you?” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “QUITE SPLENDID, CLEO, THANKS TO THE VETIVER AND BUNCHSPONGE SALVE YOU KINDLY SHARED IN THE BATHING FACILITIES. NOW I WILL CONTINUE ATTEMPTING TO REINTEGRATE ALL OF THE NEW FOLDLIGHT’S PROCESSES.”

S: (Cleo) “Isn’t it just the same as the old Foldlight, though?”

X: (Mother Artifice) “NO, NOT EXACTLY, MUCH AS IF WE WERE TO HIRE A NEW BOATSWAIN, THEY WOULD NOT BE THE SAME AS SHANAMARIAN. THEY CAN PERFORM THE SAME ROLE, BUT THEY ARE NOT THE SAME ENTITY.”

S: (Cleo) “Oh, that makes sense.”

M: There’s a solemn pause throughout the deck.

X: (Mother Artifice) “WHAT IS IT, CLEOPHEE? YOU SEEM AS THOUGH YOU WISH TO SPEAK WITH ME ABOUT SOMETHING SPECIFIC.”

S: (Cleo) “Yes, yes I do.” 

M: Cleo stands up a little straighter, clutching her plant pot for courage, jutting her chin up at the veiled specter. 

S: (Cleo) “I guess I just wanted to let you know that, um, I’m not going to stop being friends with Dot. Because…I don’t want to! And I don’t know how.” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “I SEE. I CANNOT FORBID YOU FROM PURSUING A FRIENDSHIP, I WAS MERELY INFORMING YOU OF THE LIKELY OUTCOME.”

M: Merlin ratchets his head over a few degrees. Rawfield hunches her shoulders uncomfortably, doing her best to ignore the conversation. Felix glances up over his glasses incredulously. 

X: Hambing watches unabashedly, and would be eating popcorn if he had any.

M: And if popcorn existed. 

S: And if popcorn could fit in his head. (Cleo) “Okay, well, even if we can’t stay friends after Dot becomes a Mother, I’ve decided I don’t care. I’d rather get to know them now, while I can, than avoid getting to know them at all. Anyway, it’s kind of too late for that. They’re already my friend, and they’re a kind of friend I don’t think I’ve ever had before. So, I’m just letting you know, and maybe apologizing, in case I’m doing something that’s bad for them as far as becoming a Mother is concerned. But if they don’t want to be friends with me, they can tell me themself! And they’ve been nothing but kind to me. Okay, that’s all, byeee!” 

M: And Cleo scurries away, bristling with adrenaline, before she has to face another onslaught of psyche-blasting insight from Mother Artifice.

S: She nearly collides with Merlin in her escape. 

M: After Cleo elevators away, Merlin approaches Artifice and the Foldlight, flexing his hands in and out of thumbs-ing-up-ing. (Merlin) “Well, how is our friend, the Foldlight?” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “IT IS DOING ITS BEST, MERLIN. HOW ARE YOU?” 

M: (Merlin) “I… I am. And for that, I am grateful.” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “YOU AM? YOU AM WHAT?” 

M: (Merlin) “I am, from my perception, alive. And glad of it.”

S: Artifice examines him. 

X: (Mother Artifice) “YES, THERE IS VALUE IN GRATITUDE, MERLIN. IT IS IMPORTANT TO APPRECIATE THE LITTLE MOMENTS, FOR IT IS THE LITTLE MOMENTS THAT BECOME THE LITTLE DAYS AND LITTLE TRAVERSALS OF OUR LIVES. FELIX WOULD OF COURSE KNOW THE EXACT BREAKDOWN. DO YOU CONTINUE TO ENJOY A COMFORTABLE LEVEL OF AM-NESS?”

M: Merlin nods. (Merlin) “I do. I was just reflecting on the logics one follows as a being of flesh and blood, and how it’s truly not so different from the logics the Bocular Man had prior to our – how did he phrase it – our encasement exchange. The template I used for him was certainly based on how we think of models of thought.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “DO YOU EVER STOP THINKING ABOUT THINKING?” 

M: (Merlin) “Only barely, at moments of rest. Unless – do you suppose, that maybe, I’m overthinking it?”

X: It is unclear if Mother Artifice understands or gets the joke, or even if he cares. (Mother Artifice) “THAT IS A QUESTION THAT ONLY YOU CAN ANSWER FOR YOURSELF, MERLIN. UNCONSCIOUSLY, WE TAKE OURSELVES AND OUR EXPERIENCE OF REALITY TO BE DEFINED BY DEEPLY-HELD INVISIBLE THOUGHTS AND CONCEPTS THAT WE HARBOR. CONSCIOUSNESS AND PERCEPTION ARE INEXTRICABLY TIED TO THE STORIES, BOTH TRUE AND FALSE, WHICH WE TELL OURSELVES. AND THE STORIES WE BRING TO THE FOLD INFLUENCE HOW THE FOLD EXPERIENCES, CREATES, OR AFFECTS REALITY AS WELL – AS YOU AND YOUR NEW PREDICAMENT, MERLIN, EXEMPLIFY QUITE WELL. TELL ME: WHAT MAKES YOU SO SURE THAT YOU ‘ARE?’”

M: (Merlin) “Hmm. Good question. I am experiencing awareness of myself and my surroundings. That awareness feels like how it felt before, and, as I fiddle with and modify myself, I am aware of being able to adapt and to change, improving my senses.”

S: Merlin looks down at his hands.

M: (Merlin) “In the same way I would have said ‘I am’ before the journey, I know that ‘I am’ now, as well.”

X: (Mother Artifice) “IS THERE A SPACE, A CONSCIOUSNESS, THAT FEELS LIKE ‘YOU’ RIGHT NOW?” 

M: (Merlin) “Yes. I feel that in my core. I don’t sense any interruption in my me-ness. I don’t think I could point to where it resides, but, can anyone?” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “AN INTERESTING PERSPECTIVE, BUT ULTIMATELY A STORY THAT YOU HAVE CONTRIVED FOR YOURSELF, MERLIN. CONSCIOUSNESS AND PERCEPTION ARE INEXTRICABLY TIED TO THE NARRATIVES WE CREATE AND ACCEPT. WHAT YOU BELIEVE BECOMES TRUE.” 

S: Merlin blinks his bocular eyes off and on again. 

M: (Merlin) “Perhaps, but I prefer to discover the truth through rigorous scientific inquiry rather than believe it into existence via force of will.” 

X: (Mother Artifice) “AS A CONSCIOUSNESS WITHIN A MECHANICAL BODY, MERLIN, YOU HAVE A CERTAIN CONTEMPORARY ABOARD THE SHIP. THE FOLDLIGHT, TOO, ENGAGES WITH AND RESPONDS TO REALITY AND TO OUR COMMANDS BASED ON THE STORIES PROVIDED TO IT BY ITS SENSORS AND INSTRUMENTS, WHICH PURPORT TO BE OBJECTIVE AND FACTUALLY ACCURATE. BUT THE FOLDLIGHT… UH, THE FOLDLIGHT ALSO RESPONDS TO THE STORIES WHICH WE PROVIDE IT BY PUNCH CARD, OR BY WAY OF MY OWN DIRECT COMMUNIONS, WHICH INDUCE ITS BEHAVIORS. THESE ARE STORIES WHICH ARE TRUE AND FALSE, WHICH COMPEL IT…TO THE, UH, TO THE OUTCOMES WHICH WE DESIRE. UM…” 

S: Rawfield turns from the window. (Rawfield) “Something’s not right here.”

M: The crew in Control are sort of looking around at each other. 

S: (Micky) “What’s happening?” 

X: Micky asks. Felix looks up from his clocks.

M: (Hambing) “Uh-oh,” 

S: says Hambing. 

M: (Merlin) “Hmm,” says Merlin. 

S: Nope, not imagining things. Definitely not a narrative they’re telling themselves.

X: The Ship begins to tilt, weirdly, and furniture begins to slide toward one side of Control. 

M: Hambing takes a flying leap to secure himself. 

X: (Hambing) “Whoa!”

S: And Micky, at the navigation table, scrambles to grab rolling maps and pencils. 

M: Merlin’s bocular legs flex, automatically keeping his head level. 

S: Artifice places a gloved hand on the glass of the Foldlight.

X: (Mother Artifice) “DO NOT BE ALARMED. I CAN CORRECT THIS TILT.” 

S: The ferrofluid fold amalgam within the bulb swirls up to meet the Mother’s touch, forming a dark mirror of his gloved handprint, and the Ship, somewhat reluctantly it seems, levels out once again. 

M: All across Control, the instruments and paper printouts are providing confused readings: incorrect speed, wrong directional headings, temperatures that definitely don’t exist,

S: indications that they are simultaneously both too high and too low. 

X: Outside the black glass windows of Control, the horizon is twisting inexorably, increasingly, in a truly bizarre way. (Mother Artifice) “APROPOS,” 

S: Artifice proclaims, 

X: (Mother Artifice) “MUCH LIKE OURSELVES, THE FOLDLIGHT IS BEING MISLED BY INCREASINGLY SKEWED SENSES AND IS STRUGGLING TO ACCURATELY INTERPRET THESE UNCANNY ENVIRONS. WE SHOULD BEWARE.” 

S: Disrupted by the Ship’s volatile behavior, the rest of the crew soon show up in Control – Tzila, the Biological Man, the Granddaughter, and even Cleo again, bashfully slinking back to the comfort of companionship after her dramatic little exit.

M: The crew has tasted the limits of reality twice before. There is a strong unanimous urge to be together this time. 

X: There’s not so much ‘life’ per se out there anymore, except for bizarre tearror-born manifestations. 

S: The Fold is wracked by constant convulsions that never settle, and the Un shifts and groans like a neverending rockslide in an increasingly constricted cavern. 

M: More and more, dangers reminiscent of those encountered at the highest points of the Un and the deepest depths of the Fold seem to be coming into closer and more frequent contact with one another, here on the warping Mediun. 

X: Mica is crumbling down into the Fold, and the Fold is sluicing up and splashing onto the mica above at an alarming rate, 

S: a horrible confluence of chaotic possibility goo and glowing razor crystals, generating constant tearrors. It’s, well, it’s looking more and more like a fuckin’ dangerous natural wall, like the feathered edge of a storm, a two-directional waterfall lit from behind by a fierce singular glare of sunset-like light.

M: Last to arrive, Everett elevators up from the hangar. 

X: (Everett) “Yeah, you’re all seein’ this too? Just so you know, we’re getting real close to the maximum range of the Stagecoach, so if the shit hits the fan and we need to ride back to Brocheroug, we’re almost as far out as we can possibly go. Plus–” 

S: She comes over to Micky and gives her back a pat. 

X: (Everett) “–the Stagecoach is starting to pick up some pretty fucky readings. What do you think? Are we, um, we maybe calling it quits soon?” 

S: The crew gazes forth at the distant unknown, toward the clotted delirious constriction of the cosmos ahead, vomiting its contents into their direct path. 

M: Whatever lies beyond, whether vast distance or not, may be outside of their reach. 

X: Their safe, non-life-threatening reach, at least. 

S: The still-recent deaths of Shanamarian, Ephraim, and Abel weigh on their collective minds. They have all seen firsthand what the extremities of the heights and depths are capable of, and what lies before them now seems to be a raging confluence of both. 

X: Is it wisdom to stop now? Yeah. It probably is. By turns, they all seem to arrive at the same conclusion. Nods are slowly exchanged. 

M: (Merlin) “Let’s put it into park, Mother Artifice.” 

S: Artifice does so – or, more accurately, sets the reality of the Ship to hold in place,

X: by telling it a story about parking. 

M: Merlin leans over Felix’s shoulder and starts rummaging around in the Timekeeper’s desk. 

S: (Felix) “Uh, excuse me, the hell do you think you’re doing?”

M: (Merlin) “Ah-ha!” Merlin holds aloft a bottle, one of the same stock used at launch, a little dusty from its time hidden underneath all of Felix’s junk, but still good. “Though I haven’t yet engineered a way to imbibe substances myself, I think it best to still mark the moment. What do you say, Felix? There might never be a better…time…than now.”

S: (Felix) “Ugh. Oh, fine, I guess,” 

X: Felix grunts in defeat, having been dealt the unblockable blow of time puns – nice one, Merlin. 

S: (Felix) “Not like any power in the cosmos can stop you from giving a speech.”

X: The Biological Man loads a punch disc, 

M: labeled in Merlin’s handwriting, ‘Toast and Speech Kit,’ 

X: extruding and passing out dark mica flute glassware, enameled edges glinting in the increasingly bizarre sideways light ahead of them.

S: Merlin follows behind, filling each one, 

X: pouring a beverage for all who remain:

S: Everett Shearwater. 

X: Micky Fluke. 

M: Ripley Rawfield. 

S: Felix Hustleworth. 

X: Drewrey Hambing. 

M: Tzila Guthrie. 

S: Cleophee Guilemoth. 

X: The Granddaughter.

M: And the Biological Man, to whom he administers a judiciously restrained portion. He even fills a glass for himself and for Mother Artifice, though neither of them will be drinking.

S: Omelet doesn’t get one, but you shouldn’t give alcohol to a cat. Plus, he’s currently having a great time knocking all of Tzila’s paint pots over, up in the atrium. 

X: Once everyone has their glass, they turn to Merlin expectantly. His bocular body is limned in the bewildering light of the Delta. 

M: (Merlin) “We don’t often take the time to stop and acknowledge the brave act of persisting together in this life. There are choices we make every day – to rise and make ready, to seek out challenges and to face them, to learn and to grow by whatever axes we define. But within each of these choices is still another, more fundamental yet: to choose to spend one’s time with the people that we do. When we are faced with those moments of choice and moments of challenge, choosing to stand with those who are our friends is a radical act. And I thank you, all of you, for choosing that act with me. We have faced our share of trials, but that you, all of you, choose to carry on with it, is a feat worth commending. So be ye metal, or glass, or flesh, or fold, I thank you for being my friend, and for being here.”

S: Cleo gives a wet sniff. 

X: A clink of glassware all around. 

M: (Merlin) “Take a look, my friends. This vantage, this view, looking back along our path – this is the furthest that ingenuity, the yearning for discovery, has carried anyone. This trail we’ve blazed is our own dotted line, reaching out toward the edge of the map, thin and tenuous though it may be. It is the course we charted together. And now we track back, to those we know, and those we love. To where all those who have ever been and all the histories they’ve ever spun lived, died, and are remembered. And with any luck, the Consortium will approve further ventures upon our return. This could be but the first half of an even greater cosmos-spanning voyage! After all, the mysteries of the Fount – the very origins of the Current and perhaps the Fold itself – are yet to be explored and understood. I believe this is not the end. This is only the beginning.”

X: (Everett) “Merlin, I have a question,” Everett asks. 

M: (Merlin) “Hmm?”

X: (Everett) “How do you do that? Was that like pre-recorded or did you just improvise that? “

M: (Merlin) “I… I just improvised it. I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while, but I tried to do it off the dome.” 

S: (Felix) “He can’t not do that,” Felix says. 

X: (Everett) “Incredible.” 

M: (Merlin) “I went to school for years to gain this skill!” 

X: Everett raises her glass. 

S: The Ship lingers for a moment longer, aimed towards the Delta’s strange downcurrent horizon, taking one last look at the limits of reality…

M: And then it turns away, accelerates, and proceeds homeward.

X: The Granddaughter lingers at the aft windows of Control, gazing through the spine of the Ship at the impossible sunset glare and converging vortex of impossible cosmic reality now retreating behind them. It is strange and wondrous indeed. Fearsome. Bewildering. Impossible. But it is still not Realization, and their journey is coming to an end. They are out of time. And as the Ship retreats from the superliminal spectacle at the end of the known universe, the Granddaughter is sure of nothing anymore, except for one thing: they have failed to meet their Realization, and will fail to become a Mother. But on the bright side, soon they will know the dire consequences for that failure, and then they won’t have to worry about anything ever again.