Now, we come to another area of the multiverse, or manyverse as some are want to call it. This particular little happening was situated on a relatively unknown plane known as Warp.

Unlike many of the shattered realms of existence, Warp very much dwelled apart from the rest in an isolated and comfortable pocket of reality found only in the most unique of circumstances. Warp was often--but not always--accessed by bending the folds of the sixth, tenth, and Peabody dimensions and tying them together using a Multiverse Vice. Sometimes folks would employ the Omniclamp, while others would facilitate the help of the Great Curling Iron Of The Alpha, Omega, and Lackluster Daniel--which usually led to amazing angles and distinct burning. The plane was as picturesque as it was calming--with scenery that would make even the most beleaguered and consternated curmudgeon laugh with childlike glee and wonder. Warp was ushered in by the smell of fresh linen sheets, warm, crackling firesides, delicious food, and the melodious dithering of birds. It was commonly called “the closest thing to heaven” to all who’d experienced it.

Most importantly, the people who lived in Warp observed fantastically average lives full of little surprise, suspense, or adventure, where very little happened that might otherwise upset their apple carts.

That was why, on this day, it was so odd for something consequently unheavenly to come crashing through the sky and land in a smoking heap in the properly-maintained grass of the garden belonging to a man named Edvardo Floom.

A burning sphere of chaotic energy collided with the ground, spitting up dirt that had gone undisturbed for nearly thirty-eight terayottaseconds. This is a much greater order of magnitude than the commonly confused for “terracotta second,” primarily used by six children (all named Jiminy) from rural Sorrento, Italy. They devised the unit to indicate the time it takes a clay shingle to fall from a roof and strike an unsuspecting passerby on the crown of their head.

Now, unearthing sections of walkable land was considered by one-hundred-percent of the residents of this particular neighborhood to be “quite untidy, and a little bit rude,” and because these same denizens are nosy rubber-neckers, they all emerged from their homes to give the flaming monstrosity a piece of their minds while peering through the hedges that lined Edvardo’s lawn. Dozens of forms gathered in various stages of disarray (it had been just before breakfast, after all) and gaped blandly at the now smoldering flames of a device none of them had ever bared witness to.

It was roughly the size of a coconut and made of a transparent material one might be tempted to call “plastic” if it wasn’t so lustrous. It was a sphere, and there seemed to be a twinkling majesty contained within that several residents turned their noses up at. Whatever it might be, this was a blemish to their community and friendly, rustic exterior and just would not do.

At that moment, Edvard Floom came rushing out of his house in his pajamas and morning robe and wielding a feather duster. He raced across his garden until he was within a few paces of the foreign object and began swiping at the air.

“Shoo! Shoo, you unsightly beast!” Edvard admonished, brandishing his cleaning instrument like something slightly more intimidating.

“Oy, Floom!” Called a resident from the bushes. “You planning to pick up this mess?”

Edvard shot a scowl to his shrubbery.

“I know that’s you in there, Douglas! Mind your own property! I’m sorting this!”

“Better not be contagious!” Called another resident, a squat woman called Brenda. “Can’t have meteors tumbling into all of our yards, now!”

Edvard raised his fist at his hedges.

“Leave it be. I said it’s sorted!” He cried though he was very unsure as to whether or not it actually would be handled. At the very least, it would take him through breakfast to manage it, and he’d been so excited to have his favorite morning meal of fried bread. Granted, it was the food he had every morning, but why shouldn’t he have his favorite breakfast every day?

There were many indignant scoffs and throat clearings. Still, Edvard waved them off until the neighbors huddling behind the hedge returned to their own homes. However, their window slats did look suspiciously more open. After he’d made sure he had no hangers about, Edvard reached into his robe and removed a long-stemmed pipe. He lit it and popped it between his lips, and began setting out to uncover what all this fuss was about.

The object of special regard in the center of his azaleas was an eyesore, to be sure, and had the vague, menacing quality of a strange dog or a brown spot on an otherwise perfectly edible tangerine. In short--Edvard did not like the look of it at all. This was a fact he emphasized by swishing his feather duster at it while tutting a great deal.

When that yielded no consequence, he braved to peer closer. Bending down, he puffed on his pipe and examined the item that was no longer burning but definitely emitting enough smoke to qualify as a chimney. Things had been strange around the neighborhood ever since the arrival of that stranger on Buttermilk Lane. Edvard had rarely seen anything even remotely peculiar in all his life as he did in the last few months since The Old House became occupied, with its strange, loud lights at all hours of the day and night.

“I don’t like you,” he said to the object, scowling more and more with each passing moment he gazed at it. “You’re ugly, and you need to be gone from my garden.”

He was not expecting the object to talk back.

“Well, that’s sort of rude, don’t you think?”

Edvard fell onto his backside with a cry, ruining the bottoms of his pajamas and several more botanical features in the process.

“What manner of creature are you!?” Edvard demanded from his elegant position on his rump. “A creature most foul, most like! You’re not one of those door-to-door salesmen, are you? I’ve had about enough of your ilk to last ten lifetimes!”

There was silence from the object, and Edvard suddenly felt foolish. Things didn’t crash into your flowerbed from the air and start talking. That was just silly. He glanced over at Douglas’ house and saw the window slats slam closed. He waited a moment and then slowly lifted himself up and dusted himself off.

“Must be losing my marbles,” he said.

“I can help you find them!”

Edvard leaped into the air, now absolutely sure his faculties were failing him. Either that or the unthinkable had happened: something strange and new had arrived.

“You can talk?” Edvard said, once he’d stopped himself from shaking, his breakfast bread almost entirely forgotten.

“Of course I can talk!” The object said with a laugh. “I could do a lot more if you’d help me get out of here.”

Edvard gaped.

“Help you out of where? The ground? I’m not touching you! You were just on fire and likely to get me burned!”

“No, silly,” the sphere responded. “Not out of the ground… well, I suppose that would be a start. But no, out of this container.”

Edvard narrowed his eyes at the small item, touching the end of his feather duster to its surface, and it was met with a sizzle.

“No, I don’t think so, sir or madam,” Edvard said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“I promise it’s not a prank,” the sphere said. “I’m trapped in here, and if you open this up, I’ll be very grateful.”

“I haven’t the need for gratitude from sky rubbish!” Edvard said, his scowl even deeper than before. “I’ll ask you to clear yourself out, thank you very much. You’re unseemly, and you’re ruining the pleasant motif of my property. I’ll already have to replant all of these flowers and…”

He glanced with shock at the precise location of the point of impact.

“My rutabaga patch! Oh, drat, this just won’t do! I demand you evacuate this instant, or you’ll feel the force of the entire weight of the Neighborhood Conduct Association!”

The sphere said nothing, and so, satisfied but still a little scared, Edvard turned and began making his way back to his house while extolling the woes of his need to rework his entire planting strategy.

“You put rutabagas next to Rhododendrons? That seems like a lack of foresight!”

Edvard stopped dead in his tracks and cautiously turned around. However, the only thing more potent than his good sense to leave well-enough alone was his unabashed pride in his green thumb.

“Yes, I did! You have a problem with it?”

“Kinda,” the voice said with a laugh. “You won’t get a good specimen of either plant that way. They are incongruent!”

Edvard stomped back over to the sphere, pointing at it angrily with the duster.

“Oh, and I suppose you’re some expert, are you?”

“Yes… er, well, sort of,” the sphere said. “You should plant something like peas next to rutabagas, or maybe carrots. Do you have those here?”

Edvard wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t like it at all. Not only was he infested with catapulted know-it-all sky rocks, but now he was being insulted.

“I most certainly would not plant carrots or peas there. They don’t look good together, and they are harder to plan around because of their varying growth times! Even Douglas knows that!” He shot a look back to the neighboring house where the magically open slats slammed closed again.

“That, uh, a fair point,” said the sphere and paused in contemplation. “What about potatoes?”

Edvard thought for a moment.

“Potatoes would work, but they are expensive right now. There’s a shortage--but I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about that.”

“Oh, well, I’m a bit out of the loop on specifics, but you could also try onions!”

Edvard didn’t say anything; he just puffed on his pipe thoughtfully. Then he removed it and placed it in his robe again.

“Aye, onions could work. My cousin has some that he keeps trying to unload on me; maybe I’ll take him up on that.”

Edvard wasn’t sure, but he was starting to think that this was not just normal sky rubbish.

“Well, whatever works, really,” said the sphere with another chuckle. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in that. It’s the least you could do after ruining my grass.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that,” said the sphere. “It wasn’t really my choice. I got snatched up and had no control over where this thing was taking me. Would you mind helping me out now? I promise I can do a lot more than offer gardening tips!”

Edvard considered this. He looked over his garden and decided that the damage wasn’t as terrible as he initially thought. Perhaps, he rationalized, he could even rearrange some plots with this sphere’s help and make something even better than before. He nodded.

“Okay, it’s decided, I’ll help you out of there--er, how small are you, exactly?” He couldn’t believe a creature with the conversational abilities being displayed could come in a package so tiny.

“Oh, I’m a lot bigger than this thing--I’m not sure how it works, but it seems to be able to condense--you know what, let’s just call it magic?”

“That’ll work, for now, I suppose,” Edvard said. “I’m Flooms. Edvard Flooms--number one gardener in the neighborhood and proud homeowner.”

“It really is a lovely property,” the sphere said, and Edvard swelled with pride. “I’m Grotto, by the way.”

“Well, Grotto,” Edvard said, "let’s get you out of there. Sorry for flying off the handle, I just--”

A dark shadow fell over Edvard and the sphere. A cold chill entered the gardener’s body as he looked up to stare at the inordinately tall form of his newest neighbor, the stranger on Buttermilk Lane.

“Oh, Mr. Atu,” Edvard said quietly. “Good morning to you.”

The specter unnerved him in a way an irritating crash landing never could. There was something extremely unwholesome about the stranger’s manner, and Edvard wasn’t alone in this feeling. All of the neighbors agreed he was spookier than seemed reasonable. It didn’t help that he ignored the NCA’s ordinances. Flouted them, even.

“That object is my property, Goodman Floom,” the stranger hissed in a dangerous tone. Edvard felt the hair on his neck stand up.

“I hope it did not cause you undue stress,” Mr. Atu continued. “I’ll happily pay for any damages this may have caused.”

“N-no, that’s alright, Mr. Atu,” Edvard stuttered. “Never worry about that. All is well! I was just having a nice chat, is all and--”

“That is all,” Mr. Atu said, leaning down and picking up the piping hot object with a sizzle. Edvard gulped.

“No! Edvard! Don’t let him take me anywhere! He’s not--”

But the stranger on Buttermilk Lane was suddenly striding away, like a dark scarecrow, back toward The Old House where he lived. Edvard shivered. He looked back down where the object had been resting and saw something curious. A small, yellow stone lay in the dirt. He was confident that it did not belong to him but to the peculiar talking sphere. He quickly plucked it from the ground and placed it in his pocket, casting a nervous glance down at the receding form of Mr. Atu.

He sighed.

“I suppose I better clean this up, then,” he said sullenly.