EPISODE 1: Fern Frenzy: Reporter Rob’s Terrifying Encounter

Welcome to the Crack- the wound between worlds, the rift amongst the stars, the only news network that brings you every story from every reality. You're watching, the CBW Channel.

Mito: Welcome back to the Crack. My name is Mito'ca'hondria, Powerhoose of Cellaria, lead reporter, and resident expert on prophesized heroes.

Dolly: Mito, dear, you don't have to include your full title every time our show starts.

Mito: I'm sorry, Dolly, junior reporter and resident expert on nothing. I can't hear you over the sound of my shiny new promotion.

Dolly: Many of our longtime viewers may be searching for Dr. Ravenwood, the previous lead reporter. Unfortunately, he never made it out of that nanite blizzard we investigated last week. Even more unfortunately, our very own Mito has stepped up to fill his shoes, entirely bypassing the older, wiser, more practical option.

Mito: I've been reporting longer than you've been trapped in this pocket dimension. And older? You have no idea how long people from my universe live. I certainly don't. Time works strangely in the rift between worlds. I might be a hundred. Are you older than a hundred?

Dolly: My gossip has felled kingdoms. Do not underestimate me.

Mito: In search of something to look at other than the malevolent gleam in Dolly's eyes, I gaze around the studio. For a news network located in the crack between worlds, there isn't much to look at. We sit at a simple glass table on three-legged stools. They are not comfortable stools. More uncomfortable is the way light seems to bend around Dolly. There isn't much light, as there is no sky in the rift between universes, but the harsh, fluorescent lights curve around Dolly's gnarled fingers and wispy hair. It creates the peculiar effect of shrouding her in darkness, even when no darkness should be possible. As I look in vain for a change of subject, I realize my words might've been hasty. Mr. Stanton gave me a raise along with my sparkly lead reporter hat. Wanna help me spend some of it on new baking pans for the station kitchen?

Dolly: Ooh! I love a good pie dish. Pop that shiny top hat back on. My goodness, don't you look finer than frog hair!

Mito: Before we introduce the newest addition to our staff, all viewers should make sure their psychic transmitters are tuned into this broadcast. You do not want to miss this. For those poor, under-evolved species without psychic capabilities, I'll do my best to describe these… stunning visuals.

Dolly: Oh my. You could cut glass on those cheekbones.

Mito: You could indeed. Joining us now is Rob Skythrust. For my psychically-challenged viewers, before me stands our newest hire, a six-foot, blue-eyed man at the pinnacle of human attractiveness. Beneath his artistically layered leather clothing, my discerning eyes note the black ink vines twirling around his muscular biceps. His most notable feature, windswept raven-black hair, frames his rugged face and adds an element of innocence to his brooding, cerulean eyes.

Dolly: And the abs. Heavens to Betsy, I could wash my clothes on those abs.

Mito: For viewers unfamiliar with my partner's twisted mind, Dolly is referring to Rob Skythrust's washboard abs. While usually this phrase is an exaggeration, the muscle definition on our new hire's torso makes the colloquialism an understatement. We aren't yet certain if Rob is human or merely humanoid, but his impossibly perfect abdomen is certainly tipping the scales. Generally, the more detail on a person's body, the less interesting their personality. Stay tuned as we figure out if Rob's personality is as interesting as his face is nice to look at.

Rob: Um, hello? I… I don't really know what I'm doing here. I was just about to help my girlfriend save the world, when I tripped through a mirror and landed in this strange, gray place. It's really weird, especially because my girlfriend is usually the clumsy one. While I was trying to find the mirror, I was stopped by a tiny, pink dragon with spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He hurled me in front of you ladies and told me payday was on the new moon. [frantic] I can't help but notice there is no sky, and I never interviewed for this job, and I really, really need to get back before the Darkness kills my girlfriend. Could one of you maybe talk to the dragon?

Mito: That's just Mr. Stanton. He's a little brusque sometimes. Don't take it personally.

Rob: All of this is personal! I want to go home! The one day I bother to check that my effortlessly tousled hair is perfectly disheveled, I fall into a damn mirror.

Mito: Was the mirror circular or rectangular?

Rob: Oval-y?

Dolly: That's how they get you.

Rob: What difference does the shape make? Can you help me or not? Everyone I know is counting on me. Do you know how much they've sacrificed for the rebellion? How much I've sacrificed? My mother-

Mito: I'm going to stop you right there. Everyone has a tragic backstory. You aren't special because your planet blew up or your family was massacred, or whatever sob story you have. We can't bring you back to your world. I can use this shiny, silver lead reporter hat to transport us across the multiverse and through the time stream, but I need coordinates. You have two options. Either quit whining or give up and mope until the boss sends you to the accounting department. Put in the work, and there's a chance we'll one day chase a story onto your home world.

Rob: Multiverse? Time stream? What the hell does that mean? I just want to go home. How do I get home?

Mito: You can't. You fell into the Crack Between Worlds. The universe- all universes are bleeding, and you slipped out of your home world with the blood.

Rob: That makes no sense. I can't tell if we're speaking the same language. Has anyone returned home?

Dolly: Not while I've been around. There are a hundred billion worlds scattered across millions of universes. Add time into the equation, and the odds become infinitesimal. Lighten up, Beefcake. Those cheekbones pair best with a rakish grin.

Mito: Mournful eyes just don't have the same effect.

Dolly: We now move on to the story of the hour.

Mito: I'm the lead reporter. We now move on to the story of the hour.

Mito: As I wave my hand vaguely in the direction of where the sky should exist, a new world forms around us. Thick, purple tree trunks arc above our heads. The fading sunbeams filter through the flat, hand-shaped leaves, casting my flawless complexion in a sickly glow. Dolly's wrinkles look the same as ever.

Dolly: hmmph

Mito: We look to Rob Skythrust, eager to see if the eerie light has diminished his attractiveness. It has not.

Rob: Err, thanks? How did we get here? We were in a strange room, and now the trees are purple. How are the trees purple? Did we fall into a new world? I didn't see a mirror. What's going on?

Dolly: Never mind all that. Mito, dear, I think we're sinking.

Mito: I glance down to see my calves engulfed in black mud. I fear the trees aren't as gigantic as I claimed. Though they appear to leer over us, perhaps the forest is no more than a jumble of purple toothpicks sticking out of a child's diorama. We are shrinking. Shrinking into-

Dolly: Oh, bless your heart. We're standing in quicksand, dear. No shrinking involved. Grab one of them purple branches, Rob.

Rob: Ugh! It's sticky.

Dolly: You didn't expect it to feel like your trees back home, did you? This is the multiverse. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, and all that rot. Sometimes, the trees are purple. Sometimes when you reach for a branch, the branch reaches right back. If this is enough to blow your mind, I don't know how long you're going to last in this career. We haven't even reached the story of the hour.

Rob: If I wash out, will that pink dragon send me home?

Dolly: No.

Mito: As I idly listen to the mindless chatter of my companions, this reporter wonders where the story will take us. Will we stumble upon a hiker fleeing cannibalistic witches? Run into a band of cavorting necromancers? Interview the latest batch of scientists attempting to terraform a hostile planet? Who can say? Certainly not me. Usually, the late Dr. Ravenwood handed out a briefing before we left the news station in the crack between worlds. Unfortunately, I am still getting used to the duties and responsibilities of being Mito'ca'hondria, lead reporter and Powerhoose of Cellaria.

Dolly: Princess Mitochondria, pay attention to your surroundings. The mud is nearly up to your chin. Grab the branch and let Rob pull you out.

Mito: As previously stated by Rookie Reporter Rob, the stick is, in fact, sticky. At this time, Dr. Ravenwood usually delves into a scientific explanation. Dolly and myself look to his replacement, Rob. As if sensing our disappointment in him not being Dr. Ravenwood, he looks down at the ferns nibbling on his ankle. Now that I am on solid ground, I turn to orient myself. I don't know what use there is in knowing which way is north. Dr. Ravenwood might.

Dolly: North is as good a direction as any. I say we walk for a bit, interview the vaguely sentient ferns, then return to the station. We can call it that newfangled ecological tourism.

Rob: Is this how news reporting usually works? You talk to plants?

Dolly: Normally, we know the facts before we enter the new world, and we fill up the rest of the time with interviews. I think we're all still a little shaken up by the death of Dr. Ravenwood.

Mito: Death doesn't phase me. I've seen empires burn. Usually Dr. Ravenwood had an interesting fact for our viewers around this time. Dolly and I look at Rob. He looks away, ashamed by his incompetence.

Rob: I'm not ashamed by- Why am I arguing with a crazy person? Mito, pinecones can be male or female. There. That's your interesting fact.

Mito: An explosion in the distance saved this enterprising reporter from telling Rob that the sexuality of pinecones isn't an acceptable topic for our multiversal audience. All our viewers should be glad for the audio filters. If our surgically implanted microphones transmitted that boom, most of our audience would be deaf. Worse, there would be a new stack of lawsuits for our interns to ignore.

Dolly: We three reporters stagger to our feet. The rich, black mud has soaked into our clothes, but the delicious Dolly has successfully avoided a broken hip for the 74^th time.

Mito: Dolly, I'm doing the narrating.

Dolly: Then focus on the important things, dear. Some sort of sonic boom just knocked us off our feet. That is far more important than referring to that pinecone swingers cruise the network told us to never mention again. You, Eye Candy. You got lead in your shoes? Pick up the pace.

Rob: Towards the danger? What the flippety?

Mito: What other way is there?

Dolly: Take it from someone who's been around the galaxy a few times. It's much smarter to run towards the danger. Sugar, bend down a smidge. Uh. Uh. Otherwise it just sneaks up behind you when your back is turned. Onward, my beautiful pack mule.

Mito: For those unfortunate viewers with under-developed psychic transmitters, I should mention that Dolly is currently clinging to Rob's broad shoulders as he carries her through the forest. Osteoporosis, you know? Even the mightiest oaks get a little brittle after enough years.

Rob: How… are you still… talking? Please… stop massaging… my pecs, Dolly.

Mito: Try doing some cardio with all that weightlifting. If you prioritize form over function, those muscles won't be good for anything other than making grannies drool.

Dolly: Don't mind Mito. That girl could pick an argument in an empty house.

Dolly: The wreckage of a fallen starship lurches into view. The tailfin, twisted and bent at a 45-degree angle, reveals the ship's Glundarkian origin. Pah. It seems like we spend every other newscast in Universe 11. At least the construction tells us we're in the first Glundark Imperium. That's a lucky break. The second Imperium had far too many star munchers and planet crunchers for my tastes. Charred almost beyond recognition, these keen, youthful eyes can make out part of a serial number as we jog closer.

Mito: Dolly!

Dolly: Someone has to stay focused. Is it Rob? I don't know how he lost his shirt while we were running away, but I don't blame you for getting distracted.

Mito: I'm not staring at Rob's biceps!

Rob: My shirt ripped apart when I flexed. It happens more than you'd think. So, uh, starship? Like, a ship that sails the stars?

Dolly: This really isn't the place to get into astro-mechanics. From how you're dressed, I'm guessing your world hasn't invented the steam engine yet. It would take me hours to explain space travel, so go ahead and assume it's all magic. When we get back to the station, I'll lend you a few books.

Mito: Those books belong to Dr. Ravenwood

Dolly: As we follow the screams, the other half of the starship, clings to the trees for dear life. Wedged between two massive purple trunks, wires and rope ladders spill out of the starship like entrails. Not the kind of entrails used in divination, either. No fortunetelling is needed to determine the fate of these poor souls. Perhaps they were deep space miners, terraforming colonists, explorers, or simply unlucky, but now they are food for the natives.

Dolly: Four humanoids- correction- Three humanoids clad in gray jumpsuits fend off the attacking trees. Are they trees? They look like stick bugs to me. Twenty-foot tall, carnivorous stick bugs. While their scales mimic the purple bark of the nearby trees, their eyes can only be described as the shade of mulberry jam. The tallest humanoid, a hunka-hunka with a buzzcut and a square jawline, blinds the nearest stick bug with fire suppression foam. He grabs his smaller, less attractive companion and pulls him to safety. They scurry up the makeshift rope ladder and disappear into the starship remains.

Mito: Dr. Ravenwood knew more about technology. The civilization I came from was a utopia. We never saw any need to reach for the stars, not when we already had paradise in our palms. Still, I suppose my world at least had hydro engines, which is more than I can say for your primitive dimensions. That makes me best suited to interview our shrieking new friends.

Dolly: While the stick bugs fight over the screaming torso of the third humanoid, Mito scampers up the rope ladder and into the remains of the starship.

Mito: Whoo! Mom, if you're out there somewhere, I was totally right in choosing parkour over tapdance. Sure, the Mandatory Marriage Matchmakers didn't like it much, but I definitely chose the best extracurricular.

Humanoid 1: Oy! Who the hell are you?

Mito: Oh, goody. Our universal translators are working. They've taken a lot of abuse over the years, so it's really quite impressive. For our viewers watching at home, I can now officially proclaim our time and place. Given the rustic interior design, primitive weaponry, and the language, we are currently standing in Universe 11 during the first Glundark Imperium. Known for its expansive colonies and anti-matter weapons, the first Glundark Imperium is the perfect place for a honeymoon. Of course, even with its thousands of natural wonders, Universe 11 can't hold a candle to Dracula's Resort and Spa.

Bill: What?

Mito: Dracula's Resort and Spa. Are you in desperate need of relaxation? Take a dip in the mineral springs, snooze in a hand-chiseled mausoleum, and let a professional slather you in artisanal mud straight from the Dead Sea. Book a couple's coffin craftsmanship class. Stroll across the misty moor or free climb the gothic spires. You deserve it!

Humanoid 1: What is going on? Who are you talking to?

Mito: Some restrictions apply. Not intended for those who possess a pulse or identify as 'living.' Book a weekend now, and you'll receive a complimentary cocktail in our Van Helsing lounge. Dracula's Resort and Spa, where relaxation meets undead luxury.

Bill: Are your people nearby? Can they help us?

Mito: Hello… oh you have a nametag. How quaint. Hello, Be'lavu. Be'lava? I did not say that right. Can I call you Bill? I'm going to call you Bill. What brings you to this planet, Bill?

Bill: Prison? I, um, stole a psion generator.

Humanoid 1: Who cares about our rap sheet? Listen, missy. A solar storm blew our shuttle off course. Our transportation officer died in the crash, most of the other inmates were eaten by ferns, and we're stranded on a planet that wants us dead. Can you help us or not?

Mito: As a reporter, I'm expected to give fair, neutral coverage. I can't take sides, but know that everyone at the CBW channel is wishing you the best of luck. Now, do you have a plan?

Bill: Explosives?

Mito: Do you have explosives?

Mito: Viewers will note, the former inmates are exchanging uncomfortable glances. Clearly, neither of these humanoids are the main character. If I were a gambling princess, I'd put my money on the corpse in the corner. I can only see half a body and a few splashes of blood. As we all know, only children and angelic maternal figures make a pretty cadaver.

Humanoid 1: Look here, crazy eyes. You're stuck on this planet, too. Stop talking to the air and tell us where your minders are.

Mito: The stick bug creatures appear to possess mastery over the lever, as they are currently attempting to pry the starship out of the trees. This seems like a good time to interview the opposing party.

Bill: Wait! Don't leave us!

Mito: As I clamber over the starship's seating, I reach for the knotted seatbelts. Bill attempts to push the makeshift ladder out of reach so that I am forced to live and die with the inmates, but this reporter is made of sterner stuff than the average Glundarkian. As my hands close around the rough, synthetic material, I give the inmates the only comfort I can.

Mito: Don't worry! Even if you're all slaughtered by nightfall, your presence will live on. Perhaps in a few decades, one of your descendants will crash into this planet. Maybe your senseless deaths will spark a revolution in prison reform. All of this could just be an inciting incident in someone else's heroic journey. That dude in the corner is definitely not as dead as he's pretending, and the massacre of fellow prisoners seems like the kind of formative experience that changes a man's world view. Trust in the Author. Nothing ever truly dies in these worlds.

Humanoid 1: What the gleck is wrong with you!?

Dolly: Back on the ground, I see our lead reporter slide down the ladder of knotted seatbelts. Being the delightfully diligent Dolly that I am, I take this opportunity to begin my own interview. Waving my arms, I catch the attention of the stick bugs. Hello! Yes, you, darling. Can I get a comment for our viewers?

Dolly: Baffled by my charm, a stick bug leans in to examine me. Up close, I can confirm that his eyes are in fact the color of boysenberry jelly, not mulberry as previously stated.

Stick Bug: food?

Dolly: Mito uses the distraction to slide down the rest of the way. She lands in a clump of ferns. Before they can do more than nibble the sweat off her skin, she scrambles to her feet and darts away. The other stick bugs focus on their starship, utterly ignorant of their fleeing prey.

Stick Bug: trick!

Dolly: The stick bug's head jerks up as he tries to spot our dear Mito. I wave my hand, recapturing his attention. Come now, sugar. Tell me about yourself. What is your name?

Stick Bug: food!

Dolly: I see. And what are you hoping to accomplish today?

Stick Bug: food!

Dolly: Fascinating. I'm not sure if our universal translators are malfunctioning, or if our luscious purple friend is just in the possession of a one-track mind. Either way, it seems- Put Rob down!

Mito: Our rookie reporter is currently dangling from the grip of a stick bug. Should he perish, please remain patient as we deal with the resulting technical difficulties. When surgically implanted microphones enter a digestive system, the screeching feedback is agony on the ears of anyone listening.

Dolly: You heard me. Rob is not edible. Or rather, he is edible, but only in the carnal sense. Ah-ah! Put him down. You are not too big to go over my knee.

Mito: Fortunately, our best negotiator is on the job.

Dolly: I'm going to count to three. One. Two. Two and a half. Don't you make me keep counting. Two and three quarters…

Mito: The stick bug flung Rob away before Dolly reached the dreaded number three. After scrambling to his feet, Rob took off in a sprint. As he barrels through the underbrush, Dolly shakes her head sadly.

Dolly: The porch light is on, but no one is home.

Mito: Dr. Ravenwood never ran straight into a thicket of carnivorous ferns.

Dolly: Mito, I think we'd better cut our show short. If Rob Skythrust dies during his first newscast, who knows when we'll get a replacement.

Mito: Thank you all for watching. Feel free to send us a comment on the newest addition to the CBW Channel. Rob Skythrust is not a scientist, doctor, sorcerer, or star-breaker. His qualifications include brawling, attractiveness, and an eye movement I can only describe as a smolder. The Crack Between Worlds is eager to see this alleged smolder in practice. To those viewers still heartbroken by the death of Dr. Ravenwood, feel free to donate to the memorial fund. As we wrap up the show, the Ravenwood Funeral Fund will flash across your eyelids. To make a donation, simply tuck the coin beneath your tongue and think of mayonnaise. Every bit counts. We almost have enough for a commemorative coffee cup.

Dolly: I know Dr. Ravenwood will be sorely missed by all, but take comfort in the fact that he died as he lived: covering labor violations on a dystopian prison planet. Ta-ta for now, my lovelies. Stay tuned for Diced, the classic cooking competition focused on the preparation of food across the multiverse.

Mito: Do you think we should take back one of those ferns? You know Diced is always looking for specimens.

Dolly: Mmm, if we cook it in a heavy cream sauce with a little bacon grease, I bet they'd be delicious.