[Episode 5] Halloween Special: Local Celebrity Meets One True Love

Interesting Fact: Of all the locations in the multiverse, Ireland varies most from reality to reality. While countries like England and China tend to have commonalities with their counterparts, the Emerald Isle tends to be drastically different. Mainstays like accent, technological advancement, and culture rarely have any similarities to other Irelands. This phenomenon is also seen in Wales, Basque, and Venice.

After Mito, Dolly, and Rob land in the verdant hills of what can only be described as Vaguely Ireland, they find a charming village where nothing ever seems to happen. Sure, it might be Halloween, but love is in the air.

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.

Dolly: Welcome back to the Crack. I'm Dolly, ace reporter and connoisseur of all things magical. This luscious hunk of man meat is Rob Skythrust.

Rob: You can just call me Rob. Seriously, I don't need a long introduction. You can just call me Rookie Reporter Rob.

Dolly: Whatever you say, my delicious studmuffin.

Mito: I'm here, I'm here. What did- aww. You started without me?

Dolly: Our out of breath friend is Mito.

Rob: What took you so long?

Mito: Nothing. Just, um, lead reporter things. You wouldn't understand.

Rob: Is that another dig at my intelligence?

Mito: I see no need to delay our story. I adjust my shiny, silver lead reporter top hat, readying myself to transport us across time and space.

Dolly: Hold your horses, Mito. Why aren't you all gussied up?

Rob: I know the universal translators are working, but none of those words make sense together.

Dolly: The shoes. Where are Mito's sparkly navigational shoes?

Mito: Ummmm…

Rob: They nearly killed her last time. Why would she wear them again?

Dolly: Mr. Stanton demanded it. That little flying lizard thinks it'll improve ratings. Apparently, a lot of people tuned in to watch Mito be dragged across a muddy graveyard, so now the shiny silver high heels are a mandatory piece of work equipment. We'll all have our pay docked if Mito doesn't take them with us to our newest story. Didn't you read the memo?

Rob: My homeworld didn't exactly have a lot of books.

Mito: Rob is illiterate.

Rob: I am not! I can sign my own name.

Mito: Completely illiterate. I was reading chapter books by the age of three.

Rob: You don't have to be so mean. Dolly is right. Where are your shoes?

Mito: I'm wearing them. Obviously.

Rob: Those look like leather hunting boots to me.

Mito: It's called camouflage, or is your world too primitive for that concept?

Dolly: I narrow my eyes at dear Mitochondria. Dr. Ravenwood was a prolific inventor and created several handy pieces of technology. My favorite was the perception deflector, a small patch that could be sewn into clothing. We use them to blend in with the locals when we visit a new world. No news network has the budget to create new clothes for every episode. Unfortunately, Dr. Ravenwood was never able to make the perception deflector work on shoes. Something about the vibrations of footsteps jiggling the delicate machinery.

Mito: I would never willfully disobey Mr. Stanton. I mean, look at his face. His beady little eyes are glaring a hole into my head. Anyone who thinks tiny fuchsia dragons are cute has clearly never worked for one.

Dolly: Prove it. Do a twirl.

Mito: I, Mito'ca'hondria, powerhoose of Cellaria, do not twirl. Twirling is for five-year-olds. I will do an elegant spin, but only so all our viewers can see how magnificent I look today. Piercing, crystalline eyes roll as I humor Dolly. Cascading ebony-

Rob: Brown. Mito is a brunette.

Mito: Rob probably never learned his colors. Cascading, ebony curls tumble down my back. My black jumpsuit hugs my thin, curvaceous frame. Svelte deerskin hunting boots hug my calves and-

Rob: Ha! They are hunting boots. You're a lying liar who lies. Where are the sparkly navigation heels?

Mito: I adjust my shiny silver lead reporter top hat and brace for de-materialization. We arrive in Universe 39. It's a very green land. Honestly, if you don't have your psychic receptors tuned into our broadcast, I'm not sure my narration can do it justice. It's green and damp and kind of chilly. The hills look very quaint, but I can tell we're going to get a cardio workout today.

Dolly: Oof. Warn a woman before you toss her across time and space.

Mito: Sorry, Dolly.

Rob: Mito, I can't believe you would break the rules right in front of Mr. Stanton. A thousand times, you've told me to keep my head down and do my job.

Mito: This is why you're a rookie reporter and I'm the lead reporter. I didn't break the rules. I just… bent them.

Mito: I flip over my top hat and reveal the shiny, silver high heels stuffed inside. With a flourish, I reveal the ingenious solution I've devised to keep them from dragging me to my death.

Dolly: Dear, I know my eyes ain't what they used to be. Did you tie a leash to your shoes?

Mito: Yes.

Rob: Were you dropped on your head as a baby? I won't tell anyone if you were. It'll be just between the three of and the millions of viewers watching right now.

Mito: Why don't you stand back and look pretty, since that's all you're capable of doing.

Dolly: Mito untangles the rope attached to her shoes. Leash firmly in hand, she clicks the heels together. As they come to life, she tosses them to the ground. The sparkly shoes flip themselves right-sided and wiggle until they stand a handwidth apart. One of the soles tap thoughtfully. In a sudden burst of movement, they set off at a brisk pace.

Rob: As we hurry after the leashed shoes, I think fondly of my homeworld. Life made sense there. Dragons hoarded gold instead of reporters. Headwear, no matter how sparkly, never transported people across time and space. Shoes were pretty near useless without feet inside them. It was a nice time, a simpler time. I miss the days when all I had to worry about was the evil empire squashing the rebellion.

Mito: Don't be so dramatic. Your homeworld didn't even have books.

Rob: It didn't need books, because everything made sense.

Dolly: As Mito opens her mouth to respond, the leash nearly jerks out of her hand. She loops the rope around her wrist and refocuses. Now that we've reached the apex of a steep, green hill, the terrain is more treacherous. From this height, we can see a small, vaguely medieval village in the distance. I'd bet my bottom dollar that's where we're going.

Mito: Nobody ever reads my briefing. We are in Universe 39, 18th century Ireland.

Dolly: As Mito cranes her neck to get a better glimpse of the village, the shoes pull her down the grassy knoll. It is only the timely intervention of Rob's thick, muscely arms that keep Mito from sliding down the hill on her face. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have my face pressed against all that muscle. Do the ink vines twining around his biceps provide texture, or is it all just smooth, warm skin?

Rob: Please stop.

Dolly: Mito yanks on the leash in an attempt to slow down the navigation heels. Like a pair of trained scent hounds, the sparkly shoes accept no deviation from the route.

Mito: I'm the lead reporter. I should narrate.

Dolly: Sure. Have fun, dear.

Mito: As we- oof. As we hurry down- agh! As we reach the lane- ouch. I hate these stupid shoes! Can't they, can't they walk in a straight line? Or at least a steady pace?

Rob: Dolly takes her time meandering down the lane. I see no need to keep up with Mito, but I try to keep her in sight. The shoes bound towards a small cottage at the edge of town, forcing Mito into a run. As they reach the door, the sparkly navigational heels fall to the ground, apparently lifeless.

Mito: Dolly, don't let Rob narrate! It undermines our seniority!

Rob: Dolly waves her hand in acknowledgment, but does not yell back. As she catches up-

Mito: No. I'm the lead reporter. I'm the one who has to deal with these stupid heels. I'm the one who narrates.

Mito: The village is small and rather ordinary. There's nothing to suggest anything unusual, but my keen reporter instincts are tingling. The more boring a village, the crazier the story. Normally, I would start looking for clues, but the sparkly navigation shoes brought us here for a reason. I knock on the door. A woman my age, which is to say, in the peak of youthful beauty, answers the door.

Mrs. Dawson: Howya?

Mito: I'm Mito. That's Rob Skythrust, and Dolly is the one who paused to catch her breath on your fencepost. We're reporters.

Mrs. Dawson: I am Mrs. Dawson. Pleased to meet you. You're from the Gazette?

Mito: Sure. Has anything strange happened recently?

Mrs. Dawson: None that comes to mind. Tonight is All Hallow's Eve, so it would not surprise me if there was some sort of mischief knocking about.

Rob: Hallow's Eve? I'm not sure I've heard of that.

Mito: If you read my 19th Century Earth-1 handbook, you'd probably recognize it as Halloween. Of course, no one seems to be in the habit of reading briefings. Honestly, I don't know why I bother.

Rob: Please ignore her. She's insane.

Mrs. Dawson: I assumed as much… Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Are you married, Mr. Skythrust?

Rob: I don't want to answer that. We better, uh leave. You're clearly busy preparing for All Hallow's Eve.

Mrs. Dawson: Nonsense. You stay as long as you like. We were after starting the carving party. Girls!

Mito: Before Rob can run, an improbably large gaggle of giggling teenage girls surge out of the cottage. They surround him and push him deeper into the village, where there are tables covered with root vegetables and carving knives. Rob shoots a look, perhaps asking for pity. It is hilarious.

Dolly: As the girls fight over who will sit next to Rob, Mito and I inspect the root vegetables. I approach the nearest lesbian to find some answers.

Mito: Dolly! You can't just assume she's a lesbian because she's sitting alone and wearing flannel.

Dolly: Context clues, dear. She hasn't given Rob a second glance.

Dolly: Hello, sugar. I'm Dolly. What's your name?

Mary: Mary. I heard what you said, and I'm not a lesbian. I just spend a lot of time telling my best friend she's gorgeous.

Dolly: Why are people stabbing root vegetables, Mary?

Mary: They're turnips. Haven't you seen a turnip before? We're carving them into lanterns.

Dolly: Oh, bless your heart. Of course you are, sugar.

Mito: Why lanterns?

Mary: For Hallow's Eve, of course. Maybe some of the older folks use turnip lanterns in the winter, but this is the only day we're giving them scary faces.

Dolly: Are they like early Jack-o'-lanterns?

Mary: Do you mean Jack like Stingy Jack?

Dolly: I quickly take a seat next to Mary, the local expert. I'm sure all our viewers are excited to learn about Stingy Jack. Is he a rakish highwayman?

Mary: I can't believe you don't know about Stingy Jack. I thought everyone knew about him.

Dolly: We'd love to hear more. Is he a pirate?

Mary: Nothing so romantic. He's a blacksmith, or he was once upon a dreary night. Stingy Jack was a selfish arsehole- don't tell me mum I said that. He kicked beggars, stole from the charity box, and overcharged every fool he could find. Word of that drunkard's scheming traveled far and wide until it reached the devil's ears.

Dolly: Never someone you want to take an interest.

Mary: On an evening just like this, Stingy Jack was walking home when he came across the devil. He saw those flaming eyes and knew his time was up. Stingy Jack fell to his knees, and begged to be allowed one last request. The devil agreed, and Stingy Jack asked for one last drink. They went to the nearest tavern and drank it dry. When it was time to settle up, Stingy Jack didn't have enough to cover the tab. He suggested the devil turn himself into a silver coin, and the devil saw the sense in that idea. The moment the coin plopped in his hand, Stingy Jack shoved it into his pocket with a crucifix, and trapped the devil.

Dolly: Oh, my.

Mary: The devil ranted and raved, but he couldn't escape. Eventually, they struck a bargain. Stingy Jack would let him go, and the devil would never take him to Hell. The trouble is, Stingy Jack was still a dead man. Heaven refused to take an unrepentant sinner, and the doors to Hell were locked shut. With no where else to go, Stingy Jack has roamed Ireland for centuries with naught but a turnip lamp to light his way.

Dolly: But why turnips?

Mary: Cheaper than a candle-holder, I suppose.

Dolly: Interesting. Thank you for that illuminating story.

Mito: That was a bust. I mean, the legend was interesting, but this village is boring. Everyone is too busy watching Rob to cause trouble. I hate to cut it short, but this isn't the right day to linger.

Dolly: Don't tell me you're superstitious, Mito.

Mito: It's not superstition. It's survival instincts, but that's not what I'm worried about. All Hallow's Eve is a religious holiday, which means church. I don't mind listening to a purgatory allegory, but we don't have time to sit through a church service.

Dolly: I reckon you're right. What story do you think we were supposed to be investigating?

Mito: Maybe there was supposed to be a meet-cute and Rob's presence interrupted it? Mr. Stanton doesn't usually send us to investigate puff pieces, but he's a sucker for a romance. Especially the ones that end in murder suicide.

Dolly: That would explain the historical anachronisms.

Rob: After finally pulling myself out of the grasp of my adoring fans, I hurry over to Mito and Dolly.

Rob: Are we leaving? Please tell me we're leaving.

Mito: We're killing time until we can end our show. Hey, Rob, have you heard about Notta Perfume?

Dolly: Are you a spunky heroine with a heart of gold? Do you spend your days fighting dragons, dueling pirates, and flirting with the anthropomorphic representation of death? All that exercise is bound to work up a sweat. That's why you need Notta Perfume.

Mito: You aren't like other girls, so you don't need to douse yourself in overpowering, expensive perfumes. With a single spritz, you can go from dragon-slayer to ballroom ready. It's not a perfume. It comes in a black bottle.

Dolly: Ahem. Mito. That's your cue.

Mito: I did it last time.

Dolly: We're targeting this at naive young people with low self esteem. Older gals like myself couldn't care less if someone thinks I'm wearing perfume.

Mito: Ugh. I reluctantly hold out my hand and let Dolly spritz me. Yay. It's Notta Perfume.

Rob: Do you two smell something weird? It's sort of earthy? Maybe musty is the right word? I have an awful feeling about this.

Mito: Are you sure that isn't the perfume you're smelling? I get headaches just thinking about that overpriced garbage.

Rob: I don't think so.

Mito: Hey, Dolly. I don't think we were sent to see a meet-cute.

Rob: What is that?

Mito: A mountain of squirming, undulating black jelly tumbles down the nearest green hill. It looks like some kind of bog octopus. The villagers appear frozen to the carving table.

Rob: That's a lot of tentacles.

Dolly: As Mrs. Dawson finds her voice, panic ignites. The turnip carvers scatter. They sprint into their homes and bar the doors.

Mrs. Dawson: The bog monster wasn't supposed to come until midnight! We aren't ready!

Mary: The sacrifice is right soused. He isn't fit to stand. What are we to do?

Rob: Why are the villagers talking about sacrifices? That is not a good sign!

Mito: What do you know? You can't even read signs.

Rob: I know that most people would rather sacrifice a stranger than a neighbor. Let's run while we can.

Mito: We have a job to do.

Dolly: As my fellow reporters hide behind a mound of uncarved turnips, I approach the bog monster. Hopefully my universal translator works on tentacle creatures.

Dolly: Hello, sugar. What brings you to this fine village today?

Dolly: I didn't quite catch that. Can you say it again?

Dolly: This cute little blob doesn't seem very talkative. I'm going to give him his space.

Rob: Dolly runs from the bog monster with surprising speed, narrowly avoiding a flailing tentacle. She ducks behind the turnip pile. The bog monsters sightless, shapeless head scans the village for movement. It hops closer to the carving table to investigate. A villager bolts from his hiding place and sprints for the safety of a nearby cottage. The monster snatches him from the lane. He stabs at it with a carving knife, but the gelatinous creature doesn't seem to notice. I would give a lot to have my sword with me.

Mito: It probably wouldn't help.

Rob: It would make me feel better.

Dolly: Mito, where is your shiny, silver lead reporter hat?

Mito: It's on my head. Wait. Oh, shit! Where did I leave it?

Rob: I think I see it on the carving table.

Mito: If the bog monster eats it, we'll be trapped in this world forever. How fast do you think that creature is?

Dolly: Too fast. We need a distraction.

Mito: Dolly and I look at Rob.

Rob: No.

Mito: Dolly is too slow, and I'm the only one that knows how to bring us back to the Crack. Besides, rookies always play the distraction. I did it when I first started on this news channel. You have to earn the right to not be canon fodder.

Rob: This world seems perfectly nice. I wouldn't mind being stuck here for the rest of my life. It's definitely much nicer than the Crack Between Worlds.

Dolly: Don't be like that, Rob. Don't you want to see your girlfriend again? I don't know where your homeworld is, but it's almost certainly not located in Universe 39.

Rob: No, Dolly. Come up with a new plan.

Mito: I look at Dolly. She looks at me. I give Rob Skythrust a sharp shove. He topples over, falling out of the protection of the turnip pile. He shoots me a betrayed look half a second before a tentacle snatches him from the ground.

Dolly: That was mean. Did you see that look he gave you? I've seen less betrayal in the eyes of a kicked dog.

Mito: My shoulder slump, but I don't let that stop me. The bog monster hasn't eaten Rob yet. There's still time to bring everyone home. I dart to the carving table and shove the hat onto my head. If I can just get Rob and Dolly within range, we can all travel away from this awful universe.

Rob: As the bog monster dangles me above its mouth, I fall back on the one skill I have.

Rob: Hey. How are you doing, beautiful?

Dolly: The bog monster blushes. I didn't know bog monsters could blush, but she is turning a nauseating shade of pink. Rob gives the creature a rakishly charming grin. The pinkish color spreads across the bog monster's body.

Rob: I hope I'm not being too forward, but you are so graceful. Are you a dancer? The way you work those tentacles is just so, um, beguiling.

Mito: I grab Dolly's hand and urge her to come closer to the bog monster. I'm almost close enough to de-materialize us, but Rob is too high in the air to register on the hat.

Dolly: The bog monster flips Rob upright, which is good because all that blood rushing to his head was making his seductive smile look kind of woozy. As Mito edges too close, the monster swings a tentacle at her.

Rob: Hey, hey. Don't mind Mito. She's just an irritation. I am all yours right now. It is just me and you, beautiful.

Dolly: The bog monster appears to be fluttering her eyelashes. Unfortunately, the effect leaves something to be desired because she lacks eyelashes. And eyes.

Rob: Do you think you could set me down for a second? With the sun setting behind you, I want to see you illuminated by that pink glow.

Dolly: The monster obliges. She sets Rob down with more gentleness than is typical for a creature of her size.

Rob: You are magnificent. Utterly-

Dolly: We arrive in the crack between worlds. We de-materialized so quickly, all three of us take a moment to rein in the nausea.

Mito: So, um, good job out there? You were a great distraction.

Rob: Go to hell, Mito.

Dolly: You could cut the tension with a knife. While these two work out their differences, stay tuned for Diced, the only cooking show where contestants use ingredients from around the multiverse. Tonight, they're making calamari! Blech. Are they really? That feels a little on the nose. Ta-ta for now, my lovelies.