Narrator X: The Stagecoach rests quietly in the center of a dark, still, necropolitan plaza, a tiny point of light within a vast realm of night, a solitary firefly in an empty black box theater. 

Narrator S: The crew is now all geared up and outside the Stagecoach, taking stock of their creepy surroundings. 

Narrator M: They are un-telescoping bocular hosses, de-collapsing them from the compact suitcase-like shape they compress down into for storage. 

S: It’s quite fun if you’ve never seen it before. You take the dense metal carrying case, give it a shake whilst depressing the activation trigger, and four spindly legs shoot out, followed up by the headlamped head, sort of like those collapsible bike cases.

[Mechanical clanking and squealing.]

X: Everett and Micky are loading up Ol’ Smoker with saddlebags, putting in some rations, bocnoculars, some twine, some rope – you never know when you’re gonna need to lasso a runaway hoss – first-aid kit, etcetera. 

S: The sun shines eerily, dimly, in the black night above, positioned always at high noon, dead-center in the midnight sky.

M: The blobs of fold orbiting the sun occasionally create brief spooky eclipses, strange semi-translucent shadows briefly passing over the crew of explorers. 

X: The tiny distant chevron shard of the Ship can also be seen up there in the blob belt, orbiting slowly. Micky is peering at it with the aforementioned bocnoculars, before returning them to Ol’ Smoker’s saddlebag.

S: And then the party canters forth astride their hosses, two pardners to a hoss. They’re finding it challenging to pick their way, especially in this uncanny low gravity. The hosses are kind of struggling to acclimate to it. Lots of bouncing.

[Hoss hooves clip-clopping continuously.]

X: Everett and Micky and Hambing take the lead astride Ol’ Smoker, Hambing riding on Micky’s shoulder. Ol’ Smoker’s headlamped head is turning this way and that, peering into the darkness, illuminating stark, shadowy, city-like forms. (Everett) “A city, huh?” Everett is murmuring, quiet, under her breath. “Is there a place we could get a bite to eat around here? Maybe a cafe someplace?” 

S: (Micky) “We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Micky says. 

M: They pass squat rectangular buildings that abut towering walls, and walls of towers.

X: The Biological Man is gripping his saddle carefully while Merlin does his best to jockey their hoss. 

M: (Biological Man) “Merlin, I think you’re doing it wrong.”

(Merlin) “Oh, everyone’s a critic. I took a class.” 

S: Freaky-looking architecture continues to loom out of the dark city, illuminated by the hoss’ headlamps. Vast shadowy stairs, narrow causeways, snaking and intertwining. Streets begin and end with minimal civic design. Pathways emit from the sides of buildings and just as quickly terminate in dead-end alleyways. 

X: Cleo and the Granddaughter ride another hoss. Dot had to give Tzila her glasses back, of course, but Dot is continuing to stare around at their surroundings with an expression of vaguely-suspicious wonder. They know now that there is STUFF out there, details and sights just beyond their perception. And Cleo is right behind them, sitting in the saddle, and, uh, well, that is something else entirely. 

S: (Cleo) “So… Thoughts! Feelings! You… have them. That’s cool.” 

X: Dot shrinks down a little, focusing even more intently at the strange scene that the hoss’s headlamp illuminates. (Dot) “Cleo, I’m… I’m just… I’m so embarrassed.” 

S: (Cleo) “Oh, you really don’t have to be embarrassed. Not around me. I get it, though. Nobody seemed to care that much about MY terrible secret, but I still feel like I want to hide under a blanket about it. It was, um, neat to hear you laugh. Maybe I’ll get to hear it again sometime.” 

X: Dot is trying to play it cool, but everyone knows they’re not cool anymore. What do we do? Hmm. (Dot) “Perhaps, Cleo. Maybe.” 

M: Nothing in this city is scaled quite right. Whatever user experience the builders may have intended, they did not have the crew of the Ship of the podcast in mind. 

S: Felix and Tzila have also buddied up on a horse together. Hoss. 

M: Tzila has been scribbling away frantically in her sketchbook. 

X: (Tzila) “Ugh. Architecture was never my strong suit.” 

S: (Felix) “Are you saying you want a creature to appear so you can feel good at drawing?” 

X: (Tzila) “No! I will pass on that.” Steve is walking along beside them all – bounding, really. He, of course, being quite large, does not fit easily on one of these, whatever these contraption thingamajigs are, and of course, his powerful froggy legs are serving him just fine, especially in this low, strange gravity. 

(Steve) “This is absolutely astonishing!” he says, his liquidy eyeball-thingy zipping around, taking it all in. “I’m having so much fun!” 

S: This city – and it DOES seem to be a city, but it is so weird. Nothing makes sense. It is disconnected perspective-bending Escher nonsense. It is laid out and designed for inscrutable purposes, and perhaps also for inscrutable anatomy, or maybe no anatomy at all. (Cleo) “Uh, where IS everything?”

X: Cleo calls out to the rest of the group, her voice echoing off of dark, strange buildings. 

S: Micky answers, 

M: (Micky) “I guess this IS everything?” 

X: Huh. It maybe really is everything. The city is one hundred percent devoid of… stuff. 

M: And by “stuff” we mean artifacts, ornamentation, trash, furnishings, objects, 

S: anything that might give them more information about the type of civilization that lived here, if it even really is a city. Maybe it’s just something that resembles the crew’s conception of a city. 

M: Micky continues, (Micky) “This is confusing as shit. We better keep on top of this.” 

X: Micky pulls out another blank chart, getting into cartographer mode. 

S: She keeps bocnocular-ing things and taking notes in a notebook.

M: And this substance – 

S: The substance that the city is made of – carved out of? though it doesn’t appear to be carved – it feels like something they’re not supposed to be walking on. 

M: There is something fundamentally fucked up about this city’s material.

X: It is not, however, fundamentally evil-feeling, just to be clear. It feels like something they simply should not be touching. 

S: Just like bones aren’t evil, but if you’re in direct contact with one – 

M: particularly a living one – 

S: it’s a pretty good indicator that something is not normal. It’s very discomfiting. 

M: As the bocular hosses canter across it, the ground has the sensation of a bit of… give. 

S: They aren’t leaving hoofprints in it, but it almost feels as if they should be. 

M: It’s tacky, sort of like a epoxied surface, or a languidly, extraordinarily slow-moving quicksand. It has the soft slip of graphite, though it leaves no residue on anything that touches it. No physical residue, at least. 

S: An eerie psychological residue does linger. 

M: Being in it and on it the way they are, it almost has that feeling of the socket after having your wisdom teeth taken out.

S: It’s also like holding a part of your own head in your hand. 

M: The tenderness of a wound. 

X: The city seems molded, formed, or simply induced to be this way. It does not appear to have been built or assembled together by any conventional means of additive construction familiar to you or to our human explorers. It is a very alien place. 

M: (Merlin) “I suppose it would be very human-centric to assume that this place was ever occupied. IS it a city, or is this just some sort of geological formation of natural stone that sort of became city-like in its natural geological matrix?” 

X: An interesting question, Merlin – perhaps like how pyrite or bismuth form geometric shapes and organized cubes. Could this be like that? (Hambing) “It seems awfully weirdly city-like to just be a geological coincidence, but if it IS a city, or ever was, I’m not seeing any signs that there were ever people here.” Hambing is peering into the dark, following the beam of Ol’ Smoker’s headlamp. “Where did everyone go? Dead, departed? And if they died or departed, WHEN did they do so?”

S: Steve performs another one of his slow-motion moon bounces, leaping from nearly the back of the group to land near the front of the group. (Steve) “If they were ever here and if they ever left, it was probably a long time ago. This place, this entire cosmos, feels ancient.”

M: Merlin is looking around. (Merlin) “I wish Rawfield were here. With her knowledge of hidden peoples and concealed settlements in the Delta, I, well…”

S: His bellows heave in a sigh. 

X: The group is quiet for a moment, examining the eerie, tomblike, quiet city. 

S: Steve observes everything in gleeful wonder. This is his first time getting away from the blob belt in the entire time he’s been in this cosmos.

X: (Steve) “I’ve been stuck in the middle, surrounded by all of this, unable to perceive it. This is just incredible! This substance – why, it perfectly supports my greater unified theory of the megacosmos!” 

M: (Merlin) “Oh?”

S: Merlin’s head ratchets towards him. 

M: (Merlin) “And what, pray tell, is that?” 

X: Steve bounds along merrily, matching speed with Merlin’s hoss. 

S: (Steve) “I have long suspected that the megacosmos – that is, everything, every cosmos – is enclosed in a kind of substrate, a solid form of Fold. In other words: reality’s base state is solid matter, punctuated with bubbles of various sub-realities. All a cosmos is, is a gap, a pocket of negative space. As cosmic explorers, we are wandering within a measureless warren, a network through which more typical fold – the fluidic or gaseous kind that is more commonly encountered – flows like a river, many rivers, splitting and merging. As fold flows from one cosmos to another, it carries with it a multitude of impressions, ideas, possibilities. Some become more dominant than others, dominant enough to establish the base rules of reality within newly-formed cosmoses. Hence, different cosmoses can end up with wildly different layouts, laws of physics, life forms, and even Fold behavior.”

M: Merlin frowns internally, picturing something like the cross-section of an ant farm – chaotic, random, without symmetry. It does not please him. 

S: (Steve) “Take your cosmos, for instance. From what I’ve gleaned, your prevailing belief was that ‘Un’ and Fold comprised some overarching cosmic dichotomy. But I’ve never heard of ‘Un’ or – m-mica? Mica – before meeting you. Your cosmos is full of things that may not exist anywhere else, as is mine, as is this one. These things are just whims, notions, that the Fold happened to come up with, one time out of a billion. The Fold is not half of reality, as it may have appeared to you. The Fold is 99.9% of reality. There are inconsistencies here and there, but those are anomalies, mutations, not equal opposing forces.” 

M: (Merlin) “So you’re saying that it’s all random nonsense?” 

S: (Steve) “No, not at all! Despite the variation it can give rise to, I believe the Fold does have a few universal constants. It’s impressionable, it responds to light, and it is in constant movement between cosmoses by way of unidirectional apertures.”

X: This is a very lofty conversation to be having amongst such ominous and deathly environs. The hosses move quietly in the eerie night. 

S: (Steve) “There are many different kinds of light, of course, down to and including the very flicker of consciousness.” 

X: He points demonstratively to his own head with a froggy appendage.

S: (Steve) “And likewise, there are many different kinds of movement, like the current of your cosmos, or the Nadiral Basin of mine.”

M: (Merlin) “The what??”

 S: (Steve) “And the… Well, you know, I’m not really sure yet how fold moves in and out of this cosmos. It clearly does come in from somewhere, and it must exit somewhere, too. Now that we can explore, surely we’ll find answers!”

M: (Merlin) “I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you.” Merlin tilts his head quizzically. “Exploration leads to questions just as easily as answers. But if the fabric of reality is solid matter, what would be outside of it?” 

S: Steve’s swirly fold-pupil points in Merlin’s direction. (Steve) “Why must anything be outside? Perhaps the matter is infinite. Is that any harder to believe than infinite emptiness?” 

X: (Hambing) “Can we go back to something you said a while ago?” Hambing chimes in from Ol’ Smoker’s head, where he is perched. “You think this solid matter, the stuff this city is made of… is Fold?”

S: (Steve) “A form of Fold. I never thought it would be possible to actually access it directly. For it to be exposed like this, the civilization that dwelt here must have stripped away every other material layer from this cosmos until the very marrow of reality was revealed, the foundation, or bedrock, if you will.”

X: Hambing’s little head snaps around. (Hambing) “Wait, ‘bedrock?’ Is this bedrock? We use that term in our cosmos. It’s meant to describe, like, a theoretical solid layer that lies underneath everything else – the absolute bottom of the cosmos.”

S: (Steve) “Yes, exactly! But what if it’s not just the bottom? What if it’s every extremity? It’s the entire enclosing structure.” 

M: (Merlin) “So, if – IF – we had kept going up through the Firmament, you’re saying that we would have eventually found bedrock there, too?” 

S: (Steve) “Uh, what’s the Firmament? Remind me.”

M: (Merlin) “Oh, uh, it’s the, the theoretical top of our cosmos. The upper limit. Through the Un.” 

S: (Steve) “‘Top’… Gravity sounds really strange where you guys come from.” 

M: Merlin would roll his eyes if he still could. Okay, Mr. Alien with a fold-filled sack for a head. 

X: Everett, astride Ol’ Smoker at the front of the group, holds up a hand suddenly, and the hoss procession comes to a stop. (Everett) “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.”

[Hoss hoofbeats cease.]

S: The city parts before them, widening out, as ahead there yawns… a colossal pit.

[Mysterious music.]

M: Like an open mouth, perhaps a mile across, a black circular chasm from which there emanates a low airy exhalation. 

X: It looks and feels ancient, primal, deeply unsettling and awe-inspiring to behold. 

S: Dark inky fold is flowing steadily out of it, rising up into the sky like a slow smoke signal or a column of lava lamp bubbles, drifting toward the distant blob belt which orbits the sun above. (Steve) “Holy shit!”

X: hollers Steve.

S: (Steve) “Yes! This, this all confirms my theories! It’s like I was just saying: fold has ways in and out of all cosmoses! It flows between all of them, linking them together. Here before us is an entry point by which fold enters this reality!” 

X: Everett is gazing warily at the vast chasm. (Everett) “So, this is… kinda like our Fount, then? Could this fold be coming from our cosmos? Could this be the way we got here?” She turns and looks at everyone. “Did our Ship fly out of this? Is there any way for us to know?” 

(Hambing) “Excuse me, tearrorologist comin’ through!”

S: Hambing sproings off of Micky’s shoulder.

X: (Hambing) “Good thing I have my tools. I’ve, uh, got a sample kit in here. I could take a sample of this fold, and maybe we can test it to determine its origins, to figure out if it’s from our home.”

S: Steve’s head-pendulum bobbles side to side somberly. (Steve) “Even if it IS how you got in – or how I got in, for that matter – it could never work as a way to leave. You cannot travel against the Fold’s flow. Maybe within a cosmos, but not when traveling between them.”

M: (Merlin) “So. If we wish to leave, we must find this cosmos’s Delta, not its Fount.” 

S: (Steve) “Exactly. And if this cosmos happens to have more than one of each… Well, that will complicate things a bit further.” 

X: Hambing’s head is practically spinning on his neck. He finds this gripping. (Hambing) “Well, it’s still worth investigating!” 

S: (Steve) “Merlin, does this mean you believe my theory now? That there are truly multiple cosmoses?”

X: Merlin is eyeing the slow-moving geyser of fold. 

M: (Merlin) “I’m… considering it.” 

X: The small posse hop down from their hosses and cautiously approach the vast yawning pit and its slow-moving cosmic geyser of dark fold.

S: The encircling city “buildings,” if you can call them that, all seem oriented in a symmetrical, purposeful way around this pit, perhaps indicating a kind of ceremonial or cultural importance? Who knows. This whole place is so nauseatingly confusing that they’ll grasp at any semblance of purpose. 

X: (Hambing) “Okay, let ME take a look at this, you guys.” 

S: (Micky) “Not on your own, you aren’t,”

X: Micky interjects immediately, 

S: hopping down from Ol’ Smoker. (Micky) “I know you’re a daredevil, but… C’mere.” 

X: Micky ties a little loop of twine to Hambing, a little lasso around his waist.

S: (Micky) “Take it slow.” 

M: And big strong Micky and itty-bitty Hambing approach the pit, Micky staying well back as Hambing goes out, the line unspooling between them.

S: Everyone else watches intently from a distance. 

X: This does not seem entirely safe. And indeed, it begins to seem maybe entirely even slightly less safe as Hambing approaches the pit, pulling out a tearrorology syringe, and parts of the slow fold geyser begin to wick toward him like the smoke of a campfire, suddenly gusting into his face.

S: But Hambing is no green recruit. He immediately backs away. 

X: (Hambing) “Uh, hey guys, this fold is actually looking a little spicy, pretty active and jumpy, not like that stuff circling around the sun up there. We’re looking at significant tearror potential here, I would say.”

S: This gets everyone’s attention. 

M: (Merlin) “Don’t take any risks, Hambing.” 

X: And Hambing continues backpedaling, but that waft of fold is still following him, drawn toward him magnetically, almost the way fold would react to a light source. 

S: Micky moves to reel him in, but not before the gust of billowing fold fog connects.

X: (Hambing) “Oh, shit!”

[Sharp popping noises.]

M: From that point of contact with the fold, countless chartreuse-green syringes manifest into existence one by one, like popcorn popping. They appear in a single column like the line of a kite, stretching up along the fold stream towards the sun.

X: In a split second, Hambing is engulfed in a spawning tearror, reacting to his presence. 

S: He’s warping, transmuting, his body swelling, expanding, seizuring. 

X: He strobes back and forth between many different sizes and shapes – tiny, huge, then totally normal-sized man, what the hell – 

S: the twine lasso stretching and morphing along with him 

M: as Micky attempts to reel him back from the pit with a desperate heave. 

S: (Micky) “Hambing!” Duplicate syringes clatter and drift as tearror sizzles along the twine like electricity racing along a wire, gushing across Micky’s hands now. “Ahh!”

X: Steve is screaming, (Steve) “It’s too late! Get away from him now!”

S: Everett is shouting. 

X: (Everett) “Micky, get a–!!”

[Abrupt silence.] 

M: Eye of Sauron.

[A menacing sound.]

S: Hot sunlight irises around them, and the giant Sentinel slams down onto the bedrock. 

X: Everett is diving for Micky as the towering fast-moving form grabs the tearror-stricken body of Hambing with lightning-fast limbs – 

S: grabs Micky, connected to him by tearror-laden lasso – 

X: holding them both helpless in the sunlight’s glare. 

M: And then, in a smoldering flash of scorching heat, amid screaming, in a fiery flash like lightning freeze-framing the scene, Hambing and Micky, the countless green syringes, and the entire encompassing section of tearroring fold stream are deleted before their very eyes.

S: Vaporized. 

X: And then, in a flare of horrifying heat, the dark nightmare form is gone as well.

S: With uncanny stillness, the sun de-irises back to normal. Stark, neutral sunlight paints the dark forms of buildings. The vast pit continues to flow with slow, lava-lamp-like languor. 

X: The sun shines dimly, tranquilly, on the dead, silent city.

M: The remaining crew stand motionless, barely breathing, afraid to move.

X: And then Everett’s knees buckle, 

S: and Dot and Tzila barely catch her in time.

X: Everett stares blindly, her vision swimming with the afterimage of Hambing’s and Micky’s silhouettes, 

S: and she does not hear the others when they call her name.