"Not all bullshit. Self-serving, though." Saturday doesn't relax until the crate is sealed again. "The skinny is that a while back, this place blew itself to kingdom come with some kind of magic bomb that unmade reality - it worked sort of like radiation does on human DNA? Scrambled up all the things that tell reality what it's supposed to be. Reality doesn't like not knowing what it is, so the Stuff - the melted reality bits - latches on to the nearest mind and uses that mind as its instruction set, becoming what it fears or hates or wants or has a passing thought about."

She eyes the crate like its a venemous snake,

"Just what's in there is probably enough to give us a real bad time," she continues. "We should let the others know, ASAP. If they're all full of the Stuff... that's a real potential hazard."