I hung there, drifting in In-Between, holding a compass in one hand and a souvenir teaspoon in the other and staring at a rusty anchor, which, it seemed had been waiting patiently for my not entirely inevitable return.

My thoughts were not calm. Nor were they serene. For want of a better description, I was frazzled.

“Right. What now?”

Well obviously, ‘what now’ on this occasion turned out to be him, the Collector. Out of nowhere, suddenly there. Punchably smug . He just materialised in front of me, all dark robes, glinting eyes, and an air of patronising mystery. ‘Bloody smart Alec,’ I thought.

“Ah, Finn,” he said, his voice smooth as olive oil and just as slippery. “I see you’ve retrieved the next item.”

I waved the Holy Teaspoon of Rhyl at him, half expecting it to, I don’t know, glow or something. It didn’t. Just stayed a teaspoon.

“You care to explain this?” I asked.

The Collector smiled. He always smiled in that way that suggested he knew a million things I didn’t. Which, let’s be fair, was probably true, but it didn’t make me like him any more. In fact, I still wanted to punch him.

“The Shard, Finn,” he said, with exaggerated patience, “is part of the greater whole. A constituent part of a more complex mechanism. You’ll need it to . . . ”

“Yeah, yeah, reset the watch, save reality, blah blah,” I interrupted. “I get it. But a souvenir spoon? Couldn’t it be, I don’t know, something practical? Like a sword? Or a bag of money? Or an adjustable spanner?”

The Collector’s smile widened. “Finn, you’ve already seen that assumed practicality in your material existence is not really the point. The items you gather are existentially symbolic. Their power lies in their connections through the multiple physics of a multiverse far greater than your little corner of a measly little planet. It has not a thing to do with their perceived function.”

“Oh right,” I said, “that explains everything. Connections. Why didn’t you say so? Connections to what? The sugar bowl of destiny?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though the smug smirk remained. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

I gave him a flat look. “Not even a bit.”

He sighed, the kind of sigh that implied I was a particularly dim student. It annoyed me, naturally, but what else was new? The Collector was never one to offer straight answers. Well, let’s face it, he wasn’t straight about anything. I didn’t actually know if he was even human. Whatever, he revelled in the cryptic. He probably wrote haikus in his downtime.

“You are piecing together fragments of a broken reality, Finn. Each object represents a thread in the great tapestry of existence,” he explained, as if explaining to a three year old how to tie shoelaces. “The anchor, the Shard - they aren’t merely things. They are anchors in their own right. Objects that hold the fabric of realities together, each in it’s own tenuous connection to its relevant dimension.”

I blinked at him. “So I just need to gather them in then. Put them in a pile and ‘vavoom’. All done?”

His smile dimmed, just a touch. “In a way, yes. But the items themselves are just the beginning. They’re tools to help you navigate the collapsing dimensions, to find your way when the compass can’t guide you.”

I stared at the spoon again, trying to see it as something more than a glorified cutlery, but I couldn’t see it for the life of me. And I still hadn’t had a decent meal since… well, whenever.

“And you’re not telling me everything, are you?” I said, squinting at him. “I mean, this whole ‘resetting the watch to save the multiverse’ deal seems a bit… light on details. What aren’t you telling me?”

The Collector’s expression shifted slightly, his eyes growing distant. “There are… complications, yes. But you don’t need to worry about that just yet. Your task is to gather the items and, hopefully, stay alive long enough to use them.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Hopefully. Right. ‘Staying alive’ is just a casual side note then? ”

Before I could press him further, the air around us began to shift. The In-Between rippled, its usual swirls of nothingness darkening, like storm clouds gathering.

The Collector straightened, his gaze sharpening. “It’s time.”

“For what?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

“For the next step in your journey.Keep that spoon zipped in your pocket, Finn. You’ll need it.”

Before I could argue, the world around me dissolved. The swirling void of the In-Between bent and twisted as this unreality began to be wrung out, and I started to feel the familiar nauseating pull. The whole being sucked arse-first through a drinking straw business.

When the spinning finally stopped, I found myself face planted in sand.

Hot. Dry. Sand.

“Of course it’s a bloody desert.”

There was landscape stretching out endlessly in all directions. Barren, shimmering, rolling dunes of bright, eye-hurty sand. In the far blue distance, the occasional jagged rock formation, and a blazing sun that felt ready to melt my face off. No trees, no water, no people. Just… desert.

The heat hit me like a punch. My clothes, still damp from the medieval mud, began to dry instantly, leaving me itchy and uncomfortable.

I checked my pockets. The Spoon of Rhyl? Still there. Compass? Still vibrating weakly. Watch? Still dead as a doornail. And - amazingly, a large protein bar, and . . . . . a pouch of water. I ate. Like a hippo browsing on river roots. I was a bit more careful with the water. ’Sips,’ I thought, ‘just sips.’

“Well, this is just brilliant,” I muttered, shielding my eyes from the glaring sun. “Couldn’t have sent me to a nice beach resort, could you, Collector? Oh no, let’s drop Finn in the middle of a desert. Because *that’s* where all the best magical crap is.”

I stood there for a moment, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the compass to point this way or that, or for some sign. But nothing came. Just the endless sand and the suffocating heat.

“Well, at least there’s no poo smell this time,” I said, trying to be positive. It didn’t help.

The compass eventually gave a faint buzz, and the needle quivered, pointing off towards the horizon. Great. More walking. I squinted in the direction it was pointing. Dunes.

“Fine,” I shouted at the top of my voice. “Absolutely bloody fine!” Nobody was listening and it didn’t make me feel any better.

I walked. The sun beat down mercilessly, it was like a film of the French Foreign Legion, I walked some more, but the desert stretched on, endless and unforgiving, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.