“I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND— “ Caine is saying, through about five layers of twisted-over fabric, “—JUST WHY WOULD KINGER DO SUCH A THING, RAGATHA?! IT'S BONKERS! ABSURD! CUCOO! LOONY! IRRATIO —“

 

“Caine, please, I can’t find the knots if you move.”

 

“AH, YES, MY DEAREST — OOF — APOLOGIES!”

 

Ragatha sighs quietly, sat cross-legged and focus-faced on the rubberchecker floor. Her woolen tongue pokes from the side of her mouth as she works, thick yarn braids falling around her face as Ragatha hunches over the tangled-up cloak. She’s no clue how threadless velvet such as this can get so firmly stuck, but stuck Caine is — and as always, our stoic little ragdolly is left to untangle him. 

Some weary part of her mind will sigh at that, for it really is unfair on her, but if anything Ragatha is secretly glad for some normality. Caine may play the all-knowing ringmaster most of the time, but at heart he’s as clueless as the rest of them, and Ragatha is just as willing to motherhen him as anyone else. He is also, apparently, just as willing to be motherhenned. 

Caine sits there quietly as she fiddles with all the many tangles. He fidgets with his hands in his lap, his top hat set carefully behind him, only slightly crumpled from when Ragatha yanked it out. It’s cathartic, really — working the knots, carefully undoing the folds. Ragatha takes to such tasks like a duck to water, something about the rhythm of it never fails to calm her nerves. Maybe she did something like this for a job, back in a world she fit into. Ragatha can’t remember, and she refuses to try — why should she? There’s little point, and if you spend too long out of the spotlight, abstraction always comes. That’s always how you know; when someone begins to hole up, retreat into the shadows, soon the shadows start to seep out the cracks, and…

Ragatha winces as her hands slip from a knot, and closes her eye for a moment. Deep breath, Rags. You’ll be alright. She tells herself, smoothing her skirt. She resists the urge to ball the fabric in her hands, and with a deep breath, speaks up. 

 

“…You know, it really isn’t irrational, Caine.” 

 

Ragatha says after a moment, breaking the silence. Caine twitches under the fabric, his disattached jaws tilting a little.

 

“ NOT IRRATIONAL? RAGATHA, I'VE NEVER SEEN KINGER ACT LIKE THAT!!”

 

He cries, halfway through throwing his arms out dramatically before Ragatha stops one, seconds before it would’ve smacked her in the face.

 

“Well, Kingers never really been how he is now, either.”

 

Ragatha explains patiently, pushing the arm away from her and tugging on a particularly persistent knot. 

 

“WELL - I - WELL NO , BUT WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?”

 

Ragatha draws a breath, pausing to a moment to knead her forehead. The fabric gives against her hands, the stuffing beneath shifting in a way she’s long used to. For a moment she imagines feeling bone beneath, solid and real, hands smoothing over some shade of skin instead of coarse fabric. The familiar shudder of discomfort goes up her spineless shoulders, and they slump as she breathes out in a long sigh.

 

“It has to do with everything , Caine. I don’t know how to explain it to you in terms you’ll understand, but…”

 

Ragatha trails off, putting a hand on her chin. Caine only really understands computer terms, like transfer, abstraction and — possibly his favorite word — digital. Digital circus, digital hallucinations, digital digital digital… Sometimes Ragatha doubts he can think any other way.

 

“…Caine, imagine for me.” 

 

Ragatha begins, resting her hands in her lap.

 

 “Imagine you’re trying to run a program that’s very, very complex. The hardware is very slow, and a lot of the data is corrupted, so much so it’s difficult to avoid crashing.”

 

Caine nods under the fabric, following along. Ragatha takes a deep breath for strength.

 

“….And then , imagine suddenly, you’re running much better. You’ve changed hardware — and yes, the program is still hard to run, still corrupted, but it’s much easier . Because the hardware is better suited to it, you see? Like trying to do addition on a microwave clock, then getting given a calculator.”

 

Ragatha purses her lips, frowning as she trails off. She really hopes she’s explaining this properly… So much hinges on Caine, and he’s so wham-bang half the time it’s hard to get a word in edgewise. In fact, this might be the first time she’s sat down and talked with him in what feels like forever. The eccentric AI has been a constant presence since she arrived, with his overzealous attempts at entertainment and his hearty laughter, and even if it does go a bit sideways at times, he isn’t unpleasant in the slightest. Only…Odd. But odd and there , and trying to help, at least. 

Caine is silent for a while, Ragatha still dutifully yanking at the snarling fabric. It’s oddly peaceful, even as they sit amidst a technicolor nightmare. Though for Caine, it must be all he’s ever known.

 

“POMNI…SAID A SIMILAR THING.”

 

He pipes up after a moment, and Ragatha notices him lacing his hands together, squeezing them uncomfortably. Oh, I knew letting him in would be a bad idea. She frowns at the velvet, listening silently as Caine continues.

 

“SHE SAID IT FELT LIKE BEING ‘STATIC’. LIKE NOTHING WORKS PROPERLY.”

 

Ragatha looks away. Her hands fumble slightly at the knot, the familiar starch-fabric fog filling her mind — don’t think about it.

 

“…HAS…DO ALL OF YOU FEEL LIKE THAT? ALL THE TIME?”

 

Ragatha pauses for a long moment. She draws a breath, holds it. No lungs, nothing, just stuffing . She releases it slowly, shoulders tense. Forget. There’s more important things to do.

 

“W-Well, I can’t speak for everyone else…but from how Kinger reacted, I’d say he did.”

 

She explains carefully, leaving the unspoken “ I do ” comfortably unspoken. Cain huffs under the fabric, folding his arms as his mood abruptly shifts. His jaw bobs out of her hands as he does so, it’s shape shifting like malleable rubber beneath the thick velvet.

 

“BUT THAT'S JUST IT!! KINGER REACTED IN A NOT GOOD WAY! HE WAS SHAKING LIKE A CONCUSSED LEMON!! A LEMON , RAGATHA!!!”  He cries, waving a hand around vaguely,  “THAT'S WHY IT'S SO STRANGE THAT —“

 

“Caine, you gave him his old body back. That’s going to take some adjustment at first.”

 

Ragatha butts in firmly, tugging Cain's jaw back around so she can pull at a particularly nasty fold. He quickly deflates with a sigh, relenting to Ragathas (so far unsuccessful) attempts at freeing him. In all honesty, Ragatha highly doubts she'll be able to get him out before the hours up — in fact, it might’ve already been an hour, who knows. There’s no clocks here, and if there are, it’s usually only eyes where numbers should be.

 

“I…SUPPOSE YOU ARE RIGHT, IT'S JUST — IT’S ALL VERY CONFUSING! YES, I'LL ADMIT IT, YOU PEOPLE UTTERLY BEFUDDLE ME!!”

 

Caine cries, waving his hands around in apparent exasperation. He sighs, wilting slightly, and Ragatha tuts, giving his shoulder a quick pat. 

 

“Uck, Caine — don't sound so sad, you’re…well, you’re doing your best!”

 

Ragatha tries, hoping it’s true. Caine just mumbles something vague and slightly dejected, Ragatha yanking on the cloak and nearly falling back entirely as part of it finally gives. A bit of Caines jaws pokes out, one of his eyes blinking at her in surprise from between the teeth, and Ragatha gives it a reassuring (if slightly strained) smile. 

 

“See? We’re already making progress! I’ll have you out in no time, then we can…um,” — literally anything but look for Kinger — “have an adventure!”

 

Ragatha suggests, wincing as the words leave her mouth. Ah. She didn’t think that one through, did she.

 

“WAIT, REALLY!? AND YOU’LL ACTUALLY PARTICIPATE  THIS TIME!?”

 

Caine cries, straightening up. He sounds absolutely elated, stars sparkling in his cobalt-blue eye. Ragatha cringes, squirming — come on Ragatha, do it for Kinger… she tells herself, closing her eye for a moment. If Caine is running an adventure, he won’t be looking for Kinger. If he doesn’t look for him, he won’t find him, and he won’t turn him back. Ragatha opens her eye with a sigh, letting her shoulders slump as she gives Caine a dim smile. 

 

“Y…yes. I promise.”

 

Caines eyes — or the one she can see — light up like a Christmas tree, the checkered floor shifting into bubbly polka dots along with his mood. 

 

“HAH! HAHA! OH RAGATHA, I HAVE THE PERFECT THING — “

 

Caine cries, back to full boisterousness once again. He claps happily, top hat bobbing a little on the floor beside him as if infected with his excitement. At least he looks happy…Oh, who am I kidding, I'm going to regret this. Ragatha works hard to keep her face neutral, busying herself with the tangled purple fabric. Ragatha just nods along, wearily tuning out of Caines long-winded rambling. His words blur together as she closes her eye with a heavy sigh, hands still working at the coarse fabric. 

 

Kinger had better make the most of this. Ragatha sighs, pulling at a knot.

 

No…knowing him, he’ll probably just go make daisy chains in a field somewhere.

[(o)]

Kinger did intend to stop running once he hit the digital forest, but unfortunately for him, the Tent is on a hill. He sort of forgot about that, and his own momentum got a bit…out of hand, one could say, as a result.

 

This is why he’s currently flat on his face in a bush.

 

Kinger has about five leaves in his mouth, and they taste like plastic. The bush itself is rather soft though, at least that’s a plus, even if the reason for it is because it’s a fake bush. He does understand why it’s so big, though, it’s right in a nice patch of sunlight, and for a minute he just lies there photosynthesising. It’s always important to take a moment of calm sometimes. He probably would’ve fallen asleep there, but thankfully Kinger remembers — right, this is a game of cat-and-mouse now, and he's the mouse. Mice don’t have time to sleep in bushes, they have to find somewhere quiet and out of the way to hide from the eccentric ringmaster trying to turn them back into bottle caps. 

He abruptly sits up, shaking his head free of leaves and grinning. He didn’t actually expect that to work — Bit of a Monty-Python way to solve a problem, but hey, he’s not arguing! I still have to hide, though. Kinger reminds himself, crossing his legs, No supplies for a fortress, but Caine doesn’t like the outskirts, does he? Kinger nods, spitting a leaf or two out of his mouth (never had that problem before) and humming thoughtfully. Yes, Caine doesn’t like the void! He’ll check the edges last, that’ll be safe.

 

Safe.

 

Kinger frowns. He’s not really in danger , is he? He certainly doesn’t think of Caine as an enemy. In fact, Kinger rather likes him! He’s cheerful, and one of the few people that bother to catch him up on things when he gets distracted. Kinger would usually try to reason with him, but…not this time. He couldn’t risk it, this time. What if I hadn’t been fast enough? What if he’d done it? A wave of spider-leg prickles runs up his back, Kinger recoiling from the thought like spoilt milk. His hands instinctively clench, and he watches them shake, staring at his crossed legs, at the grass stains now streaking over his knees. His mind flickers back to a long-ago day when he’d fallen into this world, with only a dim sense of what was missing — but, if he lost it now, he’d know. He’d know and he’d remember.  

His thoughts quieten, and he opens and shuts his hands for a long moment. Blue eyes glass over, feeling the tendons pull, feeling the pulse under his wrists. Feeling the fact he’s actually human, instead of plastic and foam. Compared to the rest of this cartoon world, he is a blot of reality, off-theme and illogical, strikingly not. He is alive, and that is horribly out of place here. Yes, he does feel slightly weird, but Kinger just doesn’t care at this point! How could he? It’s a small price to pay, really. He’s spent so many years here, quietly fitting this theme, and now that he finally has something real…well, Kinger may have forgotten what real felt like a long time ago, but he’s having a damn good time remembering. 

 

So, Caine will just have to get used to it!

 

Kinger realizes he’s been sitting here a while now, and blinks, shaking the tension out of his hands. Whoof, he got distracted again! Right, back on task — stay focused! Kinger knows his way around the grounds by now, so he has…a vague idea of where he needs to be. That should be good enough, right? Yeah! all he has to do is get up and go. He hums as he hops up, dusting himself off to the tune of “ Carnival .” He likes that song, it’s a shame he hasn’t heard it in so long…it is pretty fitting, now that he thinks of it.

 

Resting his hands on his hips, Kinger grins as a ladybird flitters past his nose, absently tracking it as the tiny beetle weaves through the digital trees. This forest is a familiar place to him, as he’s been here many times — bug hunting, usually, or just in search of some peace and quiet. The humming of wings has always been calming, even if the insects here are all fake.

When he first got here they were incredibly inaccurate, and it was…annoying. He’d rambled to Caine for hours and hours on entomology and the like, the anatomy of exoskeletons and antenne, explaining and scribbling little pictures. Caine had rambled back in great earnest about code and a lot of complicated things Kinger never really understood, but was happy to listen to. Queenie always seemed to understand It much better…Her mind was always so much sharper than his, much better with math and numbers, and reading facial expressions — that’s one of the things he loves so much about her. Or, loved.

Kinger shakes his head clear before his thoughts get too dark. 

 

“R-Right, right yes — avoiding Caine,” Kinger says aloud, speaking over his own thoughts with an affirmative nod, “I should definitely get on that.”

 

Nodding a few more times to really hammer it in there, Kinger — With no better inclination of where to go — begins following the ladybird. It weaves through the trees ahead of him, and the bright red shell makes it very easy to spot. 

I definitely know where I’m going! He assures himself internally, cheerfully plunging into the underbrush. He definitely does not, h owever, Kinger being a good sight more ‘optimistic’ than ‘realistic’ — rather ironically, since he’s now the only realistic person here — he keeps his eyes locked on the bright spot of crimson. He raises his eyebrows at the speed with which it weaves around branches and leaves, watching as the little beetle flickers left and right at lightning speed. It is very fast, isn’t it? That’s a bit odd. Kinger shrugs, still humming as he clambers over a fallen log. Ah, clamber, such a nice word… he hops down with a thud, tripping after the little red beetle with some residual clumsiness, shaking a vine off his foot as he dissapears into the underbrush, completely and utterly confident he knows just where he’s going.

 

…Turns out, Kinger doesn’t actually know where he’s going.

Well, It’s not like he could go off the paths before, not without legs, so…Needless to say, he’s lost. Very, very lost. 

Around half an hour later, the ladybird he’d been following has promptly disappeared, and Kinger finds himself standing at the bush-roughened edge of an open clearing. He has no clue how he got here, honestly — Leaves snarl in his hair, digital dirt smeared over most of him, a souvenir of when he’d tripped headfirst over a log. Kinger is pretty used to falling face-flat, but hey, this time he had arms to catch himself with! He prefers to look on the bright side of things, really. Pessimism never helped anybody do anything, and if nothing happens what’s the point? Bit of a convoluted motto, but, eh, he doesn’t mind…

But where is that ladybeetle? Kinger wonders, making a good effort to keep himself at least relatively on-track. The digital wind blows through his hair, which he picks a twig out of as his eyes rake the clearing, stepping out into its center. He hums a few bars of “Dear Wormwood,” and as he looks around, the one and only thing Kinger notices is that there’s nothing to notice. Every blade of grass is the same slightly-resized model, waving back and forth in a perfectly synchronized motion, the tree leaves neatly following suit. They’re all the same type of tree, their trunks warped and stretched, yet now he looks, he sees the texture is the same each time. Each knot has seven swirls, each one perfectly mathematical. Each branch has the same three prongs…

 

“Ah, there you are! Caught you!”

 

Kinger grins, spotting a bright dot of postbox red on one trunk. He crosses the clearing in two long strides, leaning over a bush to peer at the small beetle. It’s so small the grooves must be trenches to it, and as Kinger holds out a hand, it crawls onto his wrist. Kinger smiles as he draws back, holding it up into the light of the sun and watching the light shimmer over its crimson shell.

 

“You got away from me there — that was very fast flying for such a little beetle,” 

 

Kinger continues absently, counting each little dot over its shell. … 2, 3, 4… He feels relatively safe here for the moment, as this clearing is quite out-of-the-way — and anyway, he can always afford a moment or two to make a new bug friend! 

 

“I wonder what your name is?”

 

It’s only a half-thought question, which Kinger barely notices himself saying, but his mind twitches — a specific part of his mind flinching and replying; Coccinellidae (/ˌkɒksɪˈnɛlɪdiː/) is a widespread family of small beetles. Kinger blinks. Coccinellidae? Since when did he know Latin? Wait — Why does he know what Latin is? He doesn’t remember the names of any other languages, apart from English, and only then because Caine mentioned it. 

 

“…why do I…” He mutters, quickly reaching after the thought. 

 

He snags it easily, turning it over in his mind and 3D rotating it, and once again something in the back of his head flinches. Commonly known as ladybugs in North America and ladybirds in the United Kingdom; "lady" refers to mother Mary. It obediently chirps, and Kingers eyes glaze over for a moment. He stares blankly into the sky, internally tracing the line of thought —  Many entomologists use the names ladybird beetles or lady beetles to avoid confusion with true bugs! It continues, and no matter how far back he traces it, Kinger can’t find a back end to it all. While he does know a lot about insects, his knowledge on them isn't usually so…neat and tidy.

The ladybird on his hand flutters its wings calmly, completely oblivious to the inner-rummaging Kinger is doing. There isn’t usually this much of it on just one bug, either, he knows that much — When would I have memorized this? I don’t have any books. Kinger wonders, brow furrowing thoughtfully. Coccinellidae, his brain helpfully informs him in return, have oval, dome-shaped bodies with six short legs. Depending on the species, they can have spots, stripes, or no markings at all. Kinger frowns, completely absorbed in his own inner world now. Remembering has never been something he’s really ever been good at, but it still unnerves him to find that just when he memorized all this seems to be not worth remembering, apparently. Not to mention why on earth he now has access to what feels like years and years worth of perfectly-categorized information, when he’s possibly the most scatterbrained person alive. 

 

“Gosh, Conni,” Kinger mutters aloud, naming the ladybug on the spot, (hehe — on the spot) “do you know why this is? You seem wise.”

 

The ladybug gives him a serene wing-flutter, its antenna rotating at a leisurely pace. 

 

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Kinger sighs, sitting down on the grass with a small thud, “you’re a ladybeetle, you can’t talk. Or read brains.”

 

Kinger stares into the sky for a moment, still frowning. He can’t remember ever memorizing anything, let alone all of this. It’s like dumping out a box of papers, and watching them neatly stack themselves — it doesn’t make any sense. At the smallest thought, he can… On average, the entire life cycle of a ladybug takes up to two years to complete. During the adult and final life stage, ladybeetles can live up to one year… do that, and yet he just can’t figure out where he learned it all. It feels so familiar, like if he only tried to recall the when and where of it all he could, but when he tries… Why can’t I ever remember anything important? He asks himself, only to receive; There are approximately 5,000 species of ladybugs, displaying a range of color patterns, in return. 

The strangest thing about all this, is that it’s never once bothered him before. He can’t recall learning anything of what he knows, and never has been able to recall learning it — why should it bother him so much now? 

Something lands on his arm, and Kinger blinks, snapping out of his trance. The ladybird still perches on his hand, and another — orange this time — has appeared beside it, crawling up onto his wrist. 

 

“Well hello there! I see you’ve brought a friend!”

 

Kinger says, smiling and disregarding his unreliable inner-organization for the moment.   If his brain wants to be uncooperative, well, that’s not exactly a new thing. Liddy, He names the new orange, grinning to himself— He’s always liked ladybirds, they’re so common, yet bright as a tropical plant! Their distinctive spots and conspicuous colours warn of their toxicity, making them unappealing to predators. The same little voice mutters, and Kinger shushes it internally. They’re pretty , Is what they are, toxin or no toxin, and he’s glad to be seeing more of them, so there.

 

“Did you know that just one of you can eat up to 5,000 insects in your lifetime? That’s 10,000 together!”

 

He informs the two ladybugs brightly, blinking as a third alights on his arm. It’s a sickly yellow shade, near green in colour. Kinger raises his eyebrows at the new arrival, before smiling wider. Three’s company! He decides, quickly thinking up a name. Co…no I’ve done Conni already. Cody? Cory? Or L…Led? Lenny? Lenny!

 

“Or with Lenny here, 15,000!”

 

Kinger corrects, rolling his wrist so the trio of ladybirds stay upright as they creep onto his palm. His eye catches on a flash of red as another ladybird flies by, two more suddenly landing on the cuff of his sleeve. He can’t even give an attempt at thinking up names for them before another one lands on his shoulder, Kinger blinking at it in downright bafflement. Wow, he might not be able to name this many! So very many new friends…

 

“Or, ah, 35,000?”

 

He tries, cringing. Math has never been his strongpoint, and it doesn’t help that seven more ladybirds are now clustered on a nearby branch. Kinger watches wide-eyed as a group of he can’t even count how many fly in a loop around him, their wings buzzing — goodness, there’s so many of them! The small cluster of ladybirds quickly settle on his knees, Kinger wincing as the garishly red colour begins hurting his eyes. More and more appear from the grass around him, slowly crawling over his shoes, packed in shell-to-shell as they form a rapidly-growing swarm.  

 

“Oh, I, uh…give me a minute…”

 

Kinger mutters, trying to do the math in his head and failing miserably. He can’t even count how many there are, now. A swarm can consist of hundreds of ladybeetles, that odd part of him pipes up, and Kinger watches open-mouthed as hundreds of thousand s mill over the grass, their numbers doubling — it must be thousands of thousands, a mass of red shells begins rising in front of him and nearly swallowing the trees. Yeah, it’s definitely hurting his eyes now. The red is so bright Kinger has to squint, the bright digital sun reflecting on their shells in a near-blinding glare. 

Their… realistic shells. Kinger blinks, suddenly seeing the perfect segments in each leg, the correct amount of segments, the perfect anatomical structure of every single bit of them. Caine would never be able to do that, Kinger would know, he’s seen him try.

 

“You’re… real? Now why would you be real? ”

 

Kinger asks, outstretching a hand towards the quickly-growing mass of ladybugs. They glitch and shudder as they crawl over and atop one another, buckets and buckets and buckets of them, heaps upon heaps. So many , too many, crawling over the grass now, those already on him staying perfectly still, clumping shell-to-shell on his sleeve. His palm stretches towards the glaring red, and immediately the swarm lurches forwards. His eyes widen as they surge over his hand like a singular mass, swallowing his hand, and beyond even that crawling up his arm —

Usually Kinger wouldn’t mind this. Usually, Kinger would probably be over the moon at a swarm of insects being this happy to see him. But nothing today has been normal so far, and that certainly isn’t changing now.

A bolt of fire suddenly shoots up his bones, cracking up from his wrist — a yelp forcing its way out his mouth, as just for a moment, Kingers hand flickers back into a cartoon glove. His arm goes numb, as if it weren’t there at all, and the fear that bolts through him is more tangible than anything he’s felt in a very long time. It’s a special kind of terror to be threatened with a torture you already know, and it’s special kind of glitch that sets his teeth on edge now. He rips his arm out of the swarm and clutches it tight to his chest as the flickers spasm up his fingers, gasping from the prickling of atoms fighting pixels tooth and nail — it hurts in a way that’s impossible to express, the momentary shackles of broken puppeteer strings suddenly cutting at his wrists. The threads loosen as he stumbles back, clutching his glitching arm with wide eyes and fear souring in his mouth, terror overwhelming curiosity as the tiny red and orange bodies mill and shift over the treetrunks, crawling ever closer through the grass. 

The swarm lunges out from the trees, software glitches shuddering in waves over the mass of red shells. He can’t let them get close, he can’t feel that again, he can’t lose that again. Kinger scrambles back so fast he slams into a tree, hands shaking where they curl close to his chest — he has to get out. Somewhere, just away from here and that horrible feeling.

It lurches ever closer as Kinger hurriedly scrabbles the remaining bugs from his hands, gritting his teeth and throwing himself in the first direction that comes to mind — up. The glitching mountain of red shells rises, pulling back like a wave as he hauls himself into the tree. The bark is smooth and plastic-sticky, but his hands find some hold even as the swarm still rises higher, humming in a deafening buzz of thrumming wings. Within seconds it plunges, crashing against the trunk just as he finally pulls his legs up, leaves flying everywhere as the boughs shake in rackets of plastic, clicking and clattering, Kinger scrambling madly in their midst — oh no. Is all he can think, as his head suddenly meets open air, the thinner branches bending dangerously beneath him as he clings to the top of the tree. 

 

Open sky is all that he sees. The night side yawns infinitely above him, crayon stars winking mockingly from their far-off perches. Below him, the swarm splits into clumps, glitching ruby shells parting for tiny, shimmering wings, the throb of all the billions of them beating filling the air. Kingers head whips left and right, searching for anywhere else to run — They’re closer, now. One is crawling up his leg, then two — He has to get out, but there is no more out, there’s nowhere to go!

 

His head tips up in desperation, the glitches climbing to his knees. Only the sky. The open, lapis-blue sky, tainted purple at its edges, with the Moon hanging palely in its — 

 

The Moon.

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