ABOUT THE STATION
The SubverCity Station is underground. Way underground. Way…way…underground. There are a multitude of train tracks and ports and hubs and glass enclosures and elevated platforms and landing strips in the station. There are interdimensional portals for crossing into separate universes and classified high security wormholes for visits to change the past. There’s a dock for dinghies, rafts, cruise ships and anything that floats. The ceiling is highly lofted in some wings, where hot air balloons and zeppelins can be tethered. Tunnels lead out in all directions; some small enough for the nearly microscopic buses used by even smaller passengers, and some big enough for the gargantuan luxury liners used by the terrestrial elite.
And also spaceships.
Thousands a minute can be found moving on their ways in the central station hub; some popping in and out of existence, some moving through walls, people and beings of all sorts. The travelers come in all shapes and most sizes, and some are geometrically opposed to specifying their mass. The common denominator is their societal outcast status, and their mutual desire to move on, out, up or into places of belonging.
ABOUT OUR NARRATOR
In a glass windowed studio, so she can see all, sits the voice of the subterranean transportation hub, Alex Madison Onymous. She’s the giggling you hear at night, echoing from the steam vents in the city above. A.M.Onymous, the descendant of Alice (of Wonderland fame) and her maddest of hatters, is a both a brunette beauty and a fan of brunette beauties. She’s pale, of course, like many of the underworldy denizens who make the station their home away from home. She wears special (tortoise shell cat eye) glasses for reading in the low light and misty air, and her tendency to adorn herself in various collections of long and loose fabrics has earned her style the moniker “Victorian Hippie Chic.” Her physical traits include her often ponytailed waist-length tresses, the inexplicable freckles across the bridge of her nose, deep dimples, the double thumbs on both her hands, a tattoo of the visual voicewave of her great grandfather saying, “Oh, all the mad are HERE!” up the inside of her right forearm, a pair of downright SEXY legs, and a second set of eyelids.
Her studio walls are decorated with charcoal and pencil sketches of her admirees from all walks (and slithers) of the station’s outposts, and a locked desk drawer keeps the over-read letters of a missing lost love. In front of her is a large desk-sized monitor that provides her with a bird’s eye view of the station, security camera angles, thought recording closed captioning, arrival and departure information and the quick contact links for all of the other station employees. She draws connections with a magic marker, directly dials into today’s menus and keeps tabs on all the headline news from the inbound and outbound stations. But her favorite, favorite thing to do is to take the psychological weights off her weary travelers by reading and finding stories from all of the lands her station services.
A.M. is the curator of fantastic tales that let her audience in on the secret she knows well – everyone is transmient.