I’m struck by the persistent smell of fresh pencil shavings, and I look down to see there’s sawdust in my hair, which has grown to be waist length. There’s no breeze, and no soft woodland noises – just a very legato, pianissimo recording of Judy Garland singing “Over the Rainbow” playing in the background, with the crackly old sound quality of a wind-up phonograph. It’s a little creepy.

Just as I’m starting to think I’ve stumbled into a Twin Peaks episode, I turn around again and there’s a man in his 20s hunched over a lathe, with a concerned look on his face. (I haven’t actually *met* Caellum, but I got the impression this was supposed to be him?). He’s dressed in a fashion that can only be called Slavic Peasant, with a dark wool waistcoat missing buttons, crumpled white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and old borscht stains under the collar. He looks up from the lathe and shakes his head. He looks sad.

“Broken jig,” he says.

From behind me come two other scientists, wearing lab coats and wire-rimmed circular spectacles. One looks like an all-white Matrix-twins version of Mark Twain, and the other looks like Lord John Marbury from the West Wing (But he sounded like Petar, and was maybe supposed to *be* Petar?). I stood still like a statue between them and concealed my face with my long hair to avoid being noticed. They came bearing bad news.