Narrator 1:Concord has everything he needs.

Narrator 2:The stage is set.

Narrator 3:Everything is in position.

Narrator 1:He walks straight into the Black Candle Cabaret and doesn’t even stop at the bar.

Narrator 2:Okay, maybe he stops at the bar for just, like, a second.

Narrator 3:But immediately after that, he heads straight for the stairs, heading up to the balcony overlooking the stage.

Narrator 2:Usually we try to do more of a dramatic setup than this, but there’s no time:Concord’s blackmailing the Cabaret! Right now! Here we go!

[Theme music]

Narrator 2:Concord emerges onto the VIP balcony. But there at the table where he was expecting to find Mr. Weepe, there is no one at the moment. Hmm. Must be in his office?

Narrator 1:His office is down the corridor to the left, isn’t it? It must be. There’s really nowhere else it could be. Concord strides that way.

Narrator 2:Mustn’t let his energy flag!

Narrator 1:A binder of papers is under one arm. His suit is looking sharp. He straightens his tie. He goes straight down the corridor past some showgirls. It’s a busy night at the cabaret tonight. Lots of people here. Down below, a show is about to begin. He circles past the girls, going into a dark, narrow corridor. And yes, there, sure enough, is Moc Weepe’s office—obvious because Moc Weepe is emerging from it.

Narrator 2:Fold has already occurred, and the Black Candle Cabaret is immersed in the dim, romantic fog.

Narrator 1:Concord strides straight up to Mr. Weepe, presenting himself.

Narrator 3:(as Concord) “Mr. Weepe, I’d like to have a word with you!”

Narrator 2:Mr. Weepe has just shut the door to his office and is jangling some keys around, locking it.

Narrator 1:He glances over his shoulder at Concord there. “I’m afraid you caught me at a wrong time, there, buddy. I’m about to go down and do a bit of talkin’ in front of all these people. Why don’cha come back tomorrow, okay?”

Narrator 2:Concord opens his mouth to give a stern, confident reply… but Moc Weepe has already whisked himself away down the hallway. Well! Just have to… walk himself down to the theater and… maybe have another drink… and watch a performance. And then! THEN blackmail will occur!

Narrator 1:Weepe—putting his keys away, sorting himself out, wringing his hands just a little bit—heads off across the balcony, Concord already forgotten. Who knows what that was about! He’ll come back tomorrow if he really wants to talk. He seems like he really wants to talk about SOMETHING! Who cares! Weepe, moving across the balcony, circling through people assembling at tables… goes down to the stairs, winds down to the bar, circles around that (waving to Sherman there at the bar)… and goes forth into the theater space.

Narrator 2:Saskia is already there on the stage making some gracious small-talk with the audience, standing in a pool of spotlight.

Narrator 1:Killing a little bit of time. He was supposed to have been here five minutes ago, but he was busy doing the books and got distracted.

Narrator 2:She sees him approaching and gives a little nod.

Narrator 1:Heads turn in the crowd in the theater.

Narrator 2:She holds a hand out to him, inviting him up on the stage.[as Saskia, voice amplified by a stage microphone:] “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great enthusiasm that tonight we celebrate the ninth anniversary of the Black Candle Cabaret! And also it is the fourth year since Mr. Weepe joined me as co-owner. The Black Candle would not have become what it is without his partnership.”

[Applause.]

Narrator 3:Polite applause scatters across the auditorium.

Narrator 2:Mr. Weepe is a familiar sight around the Black Candle, but he’s not really as familiar a PERSONALITY as Saskia is. People don’t really know what he’s like, so the applause is polite. That’s the right word for it.

Narrator 1:He—climbing onto the stage—takes the second mic beside Saskia. [As Weepe, also on mic:] “Hey, everybody! Thanks for comin’ out tonight. Yeah, it’s, uh, quite exciting that we have, uh, this many years to our name! Um… It’s been a real pleasure to be working with Ms. Del Norma here for as long as I have. I am really excited to see how the place has shaped up. But you don’t wanna hear the talking! You’re here to drink and you’re here to hear some music. So! Alright, I know! Enough of you have already been talking. Saskia finally pulled my leg enough and I’m gonna do this damn thing, so, yeah.”

Narrator 2:(Saskia, on mic) “See, I told you! I promised I was gonna work on him.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe, on mic) “Yeah, we’re gonna do a fancy cover of that damn moon-mining song you’ve all been asking us for, alright? Let’s get this shit over with!”

Narrator 2:(Saskia, on mic) “Let’s see if we still sing together as well as we work together! It’s been a little while.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe, on mic) “Yeah, alright. This is gonna be a real shitshow! Let’s do it!”

Narrator 2:(Saskia) [laughs]

Narrator 1:And the two of them… Saskia standing confidently at her mic in the light, effortlessly and easily. Mr. Weepe flapping his arms and wandering around the back of the stage before returning to his microphone and winding himself up with a few deep breaths. In the back, the small backing band counts them in. And they, together, perform a small number. Concord watches from the back of the room…

Narrator 3:…chain-smoking.

[A lilting acoustic ditty commences onstage. Saskia warms up with some smooth, dulcet croons.]

Narrator 1:(Weepe, on mic) “Oh, listen to that! I’m really screwed! Huehuehue!”

[Weepe and the audience both laugh.]

Narrator 1:(Weepe, on mic) “Saskia Del Norma, everybody!”

Narrator 2:(Saskia, singing melodiously) “I’ll watch from here… as the islets spin and sway.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe, grumbling musically) “What is there to fear… in the undying light of day?”

Narrator 2:(Saskia, singing) “Let me fall… Let me rise….”

Narrator 1:(Weepe, grumbling) “There’s no light too bright for MY eyes.”

Narrator 2:(Saskia, singing) “Just out of Current’s pull…”

Narrator 1:(Weepe, grumbling) “Moon’s empty… wallet’s FULL!”

[Laughter. Clapping.]

Narrator 1:Saskia is smiling across the stage at Weepe, who gives her a jaunty grin back, laughing a little. This IS kinda fun for him. He doesn’t get to do this very often. And for just a moment it almost makes him want to reconsider his plan. (Almost.)

Narrator 2:(Saskia, cont’d, singing) “Mind how you go; light cuts right through you here. Pay what you owe; debts don’t just disappear.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe, grumbling) “Hollow her out; make of her an empty shell.”

Narrator 1:(Saskia, singing) “But let there be no doubt:she’s treated us so well.”

[Music fades.]

Narrator 1:Now, there IS more to this song. But in the interest of time and pacing, we’re going to skip ahead and tell you what happens as they wrap it up.

[Laughter, applause.]

Narrator 2:As the song comes to a close, Saskia can’t help but notice that his hands are shaking just slightly.

Narrator 1:(Weepe’s hands.)

Narrator 2:Not badly enough that anyone off of the stage could notice. But she notices.

Narrator 1:Externally, it doesn’t seem that bad. Internally, it feels like hell. Weepe’s entire both is beginning to ache, his hands are beginning to go numb, and his vision is beginning to tunnel—and not due to any stage fright. No, there’s something else going on here and he shoots Saskia a glance loaded with meaning. He winds his way through the crowd, making no eye contact, talking to no one… only grunting (politely) to those who congratulate him. He gets a pat on the back from Mr. Stex there.

[Weepe’s theme, a mysterious waltz, begins to play.]

Narrator 2:He picks up the pace, storming up the stairs to the hallway to his office. His palms are sweating. Ooh, today is a BAD day.

Narrator 1:He opens the door, going in, now, to the darkness of his office.

Narrator 2:He shoves it shut behind him. Collapses into his chair.

Narrator 1:The room is thick with the fog of Fold. Dark. He clicks on his desk lamp. He pulls out a drawer. Withdraws the small CASE.

Narrator 2:Clicks open the latches.

Narrator 1:And from within, takes out the syringe. Removes an empty small glass vial. His tourniquet.

Narrator 2:He swabs the inside of his arm with some topical anesthetic. His hands are trembling very badly now. For a moment he worries about making the puncture into his arm… but old habit and practice allow him to do it without incident.

Narrator 1:And he begins to extract SQUIRMING BLACK FLUID from his veins. Already there is a sense of slow relief. The pain is still intense. He shuts his eyes, gritting his teeth, the syringe filling slowly.

Narrator 3:With his punctured arm, he reaches up and—on the surface of his desk—retrieves the small nutcracker gifted to him by a one Mr. Atticus Concord… and slowly depresses it. Squeezing it. Working it.

Narrator 2:… encouraging the flow of ichor from his veins. And also giving him something else to focus on other than the achingly familiar pain.

Narrator 1:The syringe full, he pokes it into his empty vial, squirting the fluid into the container. It fills about the bottom quarter of the vial. The fluid squirms and crawls against the glass. He continues syringing himself, withdrawing a second batch. The door to his office swings open. Atticus Concord walks straight in.

Narrator 2:Mr. Weepe gives him a weary glare.

Narrator 1:And Concord actually looks at him with a little bit of surprise. He maybe wasn’t expecting THIS when he barged in:Weepe sprawled in his desk chair, a syringe in his arm, vials…

Narrator 3:As if out of some strange modicum of politeness, Mr. Concord shuts the office door behind him.

Narrator 1:(Weepe) “Hey there, Concord,” Weepe says weakly, nodding to him. “Looks like you found me in a bit of a… state. Sure this is still the best time for ya? Couldn’t come back tomorrow? Like I SAID to you?”

Narrator 3:(Concord) “Oh, no, I think we’re gonna talk right NOW.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe) “Well, if you don’t mind, my good ol’ pal, I’m gonna continue to self-medicate here while I’m doing this. This is for my own health and well-being, as you can see.” And, actually, Concord DOES see:he’s not injecting something INTO himself. He’s pulling… blood? Or… wait…

Narrator 2:Under other circumstances, he would ask a great many questions about what’s going on here. It’s all very intriguing, but that’s not what he came here to do.

Narrator 1:Who KNOWS what this is!? He has absolutely no IDEA what the hell this is! But anyway, he—uh—decides he can’t bother to care at the moment. And he slaps his folder of papers down on the desk. Plants his hands. He doesn’t sit. Puts one hand down, then the other, leaning upon the desk, staring down at Weepe sprawled in his chair.

Narrator 2:Looming.

Narrator 3:(Concord) “Mr. Weepe, I have been watching your operation and it is clear to me that you have been trafficking escapees from the Trust through this establishment.”

Narrator 1:Weepe, hearing this, shows no emotion. Continues to siphon himself, listening.

Narrator 2:Exercising his hand with the nutcracker.

Narrator 3:(Concord) “You are aiding and abetting the Breach, helping citizens break contract to the Trust when they still have significant debts and incurring a fugitive status in the eyes of the Trust. Your bartender is a fugitive. His daughter, a fugitive. The maitre d’. Several of the entertainers. I have personally seen an entire shipment of newcomers brought in—under the radar—here… and concealing them is an illegal activity.”

Narrator 2:Mr. Weepe watches him with his blank, alabaster eyes, his expression particularly unreadable.

Narrator 1:(Weepe) “You practice that there, Mr. Consector…?”

Narrator 2:Concord gives a short bark of a laugh. [Concord:] “Oh, it’s hardly appropriate to call me a Consector. If I were a Consector, this conversation would be over by this point. I’d already be bringing you in, trying to enforce some kind of justice on you, but… that’s not what I’m here to do.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe) “Oh, I see, you just kinda do this sorta thing for fun on your own time.”

Narrator 3:(Concord) “As you’ll recall, Mr. Weepe, when I first came and met with you, I told you I wanted to be a partner. And I meant it. And frankly, at this point, it’s in your best interests to keep me happy. Wouldn’t you say?”

Narrator 1:Concord looks pointedly at the large binder of papers on the desk in front of him… and then back up at Mr. Weepe.

Narrator 2:Concord moves one hand possessively on top of the papers:the stack of evidence that he’s painstakingly been assembling. [Concord:] “I have everything I need right here to run this place into the ground. But I don’t want that. And naturally YOU don’t want that, so… I just want to have a conversation about what we can do to avoid that outcome.”

Narrator 1:(Weepe) “Sure, I don’t mind if you, uh, wanna talk. Why don’cha have a seat there. I’d be happy to talk about this blackmail which you got goin’ on.”

Narrator 2:(Concord) “There’s not really very much to talk about. Just make me an offer. I’ll see if I like it.”

Narrator 1:Weepe—still disaffectedly tending to himself—doesn’t even look at Concord as he says “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, there, chum, that, uh… you’ve wasted a bit of your time cuz this isn’t even my operation. All this Breach business? This is Saskia’s doing. She’s the one you wanna talk to. You wanna wrangle up a good price for all this shit you got? Why don’cha go chat with her? She’ll be free in a few minutes. Why don’cha leave me to my business here? I gotta take care of this, otherwise I’m gonna get real sick and puke, okay? And you wouldn’t want that to be on your conscience, now, would’ya?”

Narrator 2:Concord is a bit taken aback.

Narrator 1:Weepe does really care about this—and, in fact, looks up at Concord with a surprisingly open, casual, and completely unconcerned expression. Of course he always kind of looks like that because he’s a bit unreadable because he has no color to speak of and his facial features are incredibly weird! But this guy… doesn’t give a SHIT.

Narrator 2:Well, this isn’t going the way that Concord had played it out in his mind, but he’s used to situations like this. Things rarely go by the script. If he doesn’t care about the Breach operation being exposed, well… there’s always something else.

Narrator 1:Concord decides to twist the knife.

Narrator 3:(Concord) “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending over at that Mission talking to… what is it… Goldfinch? That new Notary? Having a lot of intimate conversations about business and good deeds and that sort of a thing. You’ve been planning to flip the Black Candle Cabaret over YOURSELF.”

Narrator 2:(Concord, cont’d) “… But your colleagues here? Saskia? What would THEY think about it… if they were to FIND OUT?”

Narrator 1:This is, of course, an educated guess. An educated guess, as it turns out, that happens to CORRECT. Mr. Weepe responds by reaching up with his nutcracker and cracking the bulb of his lamp.

[A shattering BANG. Instant tearror sounds as the fog of the Fold hisses and snarls in the air, ravenous and activated by the exploding lamp.]

Narrator 2:There is an instantaneous, blinding flash. For a moment, Concord can’t see a thing.

Narrator 1:And then the air is crawling on him. The fog in the room is gnawing the walls. Most of the objects on the desk have gone sideways.

Narrator 2:He feels a warm, liquid sensation in his lap and discovers that his tie has melted into a strange viscous substance.

Narrator 1:And the lightbulb, shattered, is shorting—sparking—and in the strobing light, Concord—reeling back from the desk, recoiling from the TEARROR spawing in the air around him—sees Weepe, out of his chair, jumping the desk. And before he can even move or react or even fight, Weepe is ON him, needle in Concord’s neck…

[Muffled cries of pain. Ravenous fog. The scuffle of desperate combat.]

Narrator 1:(continued) …and a hot, acid sensation spreads through the side of his face. Weepe is on top of him, driving him into the ground. Concord’s left eye goes blind. Then his right. He goes deaf in his left ear. His tongue starts crawling on its own accord out of his mouth. His teeth migrate backwards into his skull. The muscles in his jaw start bubbling and boiling. His throat splits open.

[Warped gagging, gurgles, and cries of pain. The sizzling of melting flesh. The snarl and hiss of a room full of squirming Fold tearror.]

Narrator 2:Concord makes a noise of pain, as you might expect.

[Concord’s barely-human scream, muffled by Weepe’s hand.]

Narrator 2:(continued) His brain is turning to guacamole and trickling down his insides and it’s excruciating.

[Ribs splitting. Flesh boiling apart. Concord sputtering and gagging.]

Narrator 1:Weepe is ON Concord in the dark—the room sparking and flashing, the air twisting around them, Weepe holding Concord’s head to the ground… empty syringe being withdrawn, tossed across the room. Weepe has a knee in Concord’s chest… going slack—empty—like a rotting pumpkin. He is dead within seconds, his body crawling apart inside of his suit, black ichor spreading ravenously through what’s left of his flesh.

[Concord is silent. Dead. The fog continues to squirm and bubble, though more quietly now.]

Narrator 1:Mr. Weepe gets to his feet. His hands (dripping with black slime) a little bit painful, but nothing that he can’t clean up.

Narrator 2:Swiftly he replaces the lightbulb in his lamp and soon his office is once again filled with that safe, reassuring, pulsating light. And the tearror dissipates.

Narrator 1:He tidies up his needles. Sweeps up the broken lightbulb. Puts his medical case away. He glances at the paperwork on the desk. Opens the binder, reviewing with satisfaction the extremely detailed, well-itemized evidence against the Black Candle Cabaret inside.

Narrator 2:The Trust just LOVES their paperwork. They’re gonna eat this up!

Narrator 1:He puts it away in his desk. Regards the twitching, inky puddle in the suit.

Narrator 3:The patent leather shoes would probably be fine after a short polish.

Narrator 1:Weepe, going to his door, cracks it open… and whistles for Saskia’s dogs.

[a brief, simple whistle]