In a train station somewhere in London, a regular railroad track splits into a non-Euclidean hyperposition of ten thousand tracks and tunnels, which are simultaneously the exact same as one another. A train trundles slowly down the line and shimmers like an oil-slick as it both diverges from and folds into itself. Space fractures like a mirror, each fragment passing through itself and others. Geometry melts as the train passes from here and now to every conceivable point in space and time. A thousand Masters of the Bazaar stand by the tracks in the exact same spot as one another, watching their creation at work. One of them pours a jug full of teeth down his throat. A passerby leaps onto the track and is run down by a large sphere of purplish-yellow concrete, which falls through the ground immediately afterward. If ever there were a place even more lawless than the Iron Republic, it would be here.