<RStephens> Little bit.

<RStephens> Anyway – how's DoR?

<GenderBender> Boring as all heck.

<GenderBender> But I get to meet people, which is fun.

<GenderBender> And Hollister's taking me with him when he goes meet n' greet.

<RStephens> Sounds sort of good, at least?

<RStephens> I'm looking at the other jobs he suggested.

<GenderBender> Good luck with that.

<GenderBender> I'm sorry about the dickish passenger.

<RStephens> Thanks.

<GenderBender> Anyway, I should get back to work now.

<GenderBender> Talk to you later.

<RStephens> See ya.

The dark man laughs as the hordes of psyches march towards the festering smile of the nightmare child. What’s wrong, he taunts? Everything falling apart, nothing making sense? But isn’t that for the best? He embraces the thing which shreds and gnaws at the edges of your mind because it pours the vile venom of horrific power into the ego which inflates it to sizes that are not recommended by your pediatrician, and eventually the nightmare and the dream become one and the same and fearlessness is identical to ferocity.

The azure youth watches impassively as the thousands fall in slow motion, tumbling down the sides of buildings and the edges of chasms and through the cracks of society, bouncing off the walls and leaving bloody smears as they plummet in the infinite abyss of nothingness. What’s wrong, she asks? Hopeless and bleak in the face of knowing you are nothing? But isn’t that for the best? She embraces the nonexistence of the oblivion state because it snuffs out the candle flame that burns and induces pain and passion and encourages you to endure, time out, retreat, it’s better to surrender than to lose.

And then there was the third option.

And then there was the third child.

Her herald has designed the hardest road of all, paved with the blood of suffering and trauma, flesh burned bright in ovens of existence before being hammered flat into ceramic red bricks of hemoglobin, the living testament of the ones who live, who with shining lucidity reach out and seize life with both hands, despite the horror, despite the sorrow, despite the weirdness you want to avoid because unfortunately the weirdness is everywhere and there is no avoiding it, no escape, no retreat, the only way out is through, to turn yourself into something new, to turn left, to answer the door because your guest has been knocking for a good three minutes now and you’re being a rude little thing.

She's awoken by a knock.

Tilting upright out of the dream, she looks around, confused, then recalls the words of the dream, the sounds accompanying the words, and – moves sideways, gets up out of bed, then glances around for her clothes and gets changed.

A brief moment later, she opens the door.

The first thing she notices is the very, very large man in a suit standing there and occupying her whole field of view. And her whole doorframe.

The second thing she notices is the very, very small old lady standing in front of him and grinning up at her, wearing a ridiculously vintage looking dress, with wrinkled skin and a hair bun. Like someone's grandmother from a salvaged 50s celluloid comedy.

"Hello, dearie," she rasps. "I've come to offer you a job."

"– Uh, hello," says Rachel. "Sorry, who are you from?"

She barges in, uninvited, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, and even has a look around. "I'm from the Happy Acre Orphanage. My name's Grandma Scarlett—with two T's, like the actress or the character," she notes, then turns around to look at Rachel again. "It has mythic resonance. Mmm. A bit of a sham, I suppose. But if this world is a sham, does that make it any less real? Who's to say what's real and what isn't? The answer, of course, is us. No other answer makes sense."

Rachel blinks, then stands aside in case Mr Mountain wants to come in too.

"… Is this a religion?"

He does in fact come in, and carefully closes the door, but then... well, looms, is probably the best word for it. Except... oddly softly, as if he's trying to make himself as small as he can and that just happens to not be quite enough.

"Religion? Nonsense, dearie, it's an orphanage." She eases herself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and gestures for Rachel to do the same. "Don't mind Jeb, missy, he's just not one for talk," she adds. "And he's a big softie, really—though he worries about my safety whenever I need to leave the farm. I visit the city so rarely these days, it's a treat for both of us, really. My word, how this place changes each time I visit! Oh, I don't just mean the buildings, but the people. So many new faces..."

… Rachel sits in the indicated chair.

"I'm not sure what a job at an orphanage would actually entail."

"Mm. Well. I have side businesses too, you could say. A delivery business. The business of deliverance. Which is why I'm here today. You are a delivery girl, yes? You deliver people?"

"… I was briefly a cab driver? For two days, so, no, not really."

She shakes her head. "Really, it doesn't matter to me; I know in my heart you're the right woman for the job. But I think I've led you to the wrong conclusion. You wouldn't be delivering people, dearie! I have packages that need delivery... care packages, of a sort, handcrafted at my home sweet home..."

Reaching into her purse, the woman withdraws an iPad. After some fumbling, not particularly good with the touchscreen interface, she calls up a map.

"My orphanage is here, in the Outlands," she explains, pointing with shaking finger to a random spot on a random highway through the highly random rural landscapes beyond the city. "A bit far away, I know, but it's home. You would be making deliveries from my home using a box truck, traveling to various places in the Outlands, in the Suburbs, and even in the City itself. Quite a few stops, quite a distance. An ongoing task as well, week by week, plenty of deliveries to make in the months ahead. I'm afraid it’s a long haul, in and around and through... but the pay is above standard for the trucking industry, I'm told. Are you keen?"

Keen keen keen good job good vibes good girl good guy say yes say no what will you say indecision... The bells sing in her head, suddenly much louder than the background buzz she's been getting used to.

"– I think I'm legally obligated to tell you about an accident I was involved in. A few days ago, the major one with that new building."

The woman clicks her tongue, in sympathetic disappointment. "Well, that's the City for you. So dangerous. But no matter, I'm sure this is meant for you and you are meant for this. What do you say?"

Danger, the bells chime. Destiny and the road, a fork to face, down which road will she go?

"… That the guy who was in the taxi is also suing the company I was at, and I was fired for that reason?"

She tries not to panic too visibly.

"The past is the past, don't let it stop you from embracing the future!" she insists. "I won't insist if you really don't think you should do it, but I think you should."

"I – how did you even find me?"

"Oh, we have a friend in common," she says, smiling.

"… Hollister?"