Narrator 1: Fuze is a man of routine, particularly where his morning ritual is concerned.

Narrator 2: Up early. Trims the beard. Brushes his suit. Out the door just after unrise.

Narrator 3: He likes to take a leisurely stroll down the hill to Patricia’s Cafe for breakfast, picking up a newspaper on the way.

Narrator 1: He always asks for the same table: the one by the window in the front. Always places the same order for the same breakfast.

Narrator 2: An egg. Beans. Sausage. And coffee. Always asks after Patricia’s kids. Reads the paper.

Narrator 3: He enjoys every moment of his morning. Usually.

Narrator 1: Not today. The coffee has gone cold. The egg is untouched. There is no newspaper at all.

[A nervous, droning ambiance begins to rise.]

Narrator 2: He didn’t bother to pick one up. There’s just a piece of stationery and a pen on the table.

Narrator 3: He writes shakily, his eyes darting between the stationery and the spines of the Consector’s ship just visible in the shipyard down the hill.

Narrator 1: His hand is shaking. Patricia, noticing, stops by the table.

Narrator 2: (as Patricia) “Uh, feelin’ alright today, Mr. Fuze?”

Narrator 3: (as Fuze, frightened) “Y—yes…” he says, putting the stationery away, looking up at her… gaze bright, frightened, and distant. It scares her.

Narrator 1: (Fuze, miserably) “Never been better!”

[Theme music]

Narrator 1: Jonas Spahr and Phineas Thatch—in full, glorious armor—are quite the spectacle strolling down the streets of Stationary Hill.

Narrator 2: Unsurprisingly, they’ve been attracting quite a bit of attention since they arrived here. Little by little, a crowd has been gathering around them, trailing their every step.

Narrator 1: Word has spread like wildfire, of course. It started, naturally, when the massive ship descended out of the sky. There was certainly commotion then! Even more so now that the ship is on the ground and its people have disembarked and begun to thread their way through town.

Narrator 2: Not many people on the islet of Midst know a great deal about the Trust, but everybody knows SOMEthing… and they know enough to know that a Consector is a very important figure and this might be their chance to get some of that Valor that is apparently also extremely valuable. And apparently you don’t have to DO anything for it, really? It’s not like MONEY; you just walk your neighbor’s dog and then you get paid. That’s how it works, right?

Narrator 1: Yeah, something like that. Word on the street and in the pubs as of last night (ever since the ship came down) has been that you… you do things that are good or valuable, and then you receive sort-of-like “money.” There are, of course, people in Stationary Hill on Midst who are, themselves, Trustees. They’re considered to be a little bit WEIRD. You know, why would you want strange, PRETEND money when you could have completely real, UN-pretend money for things that you’ve done? And of course those people who are “in the know” have been highly sought-after for further information.

Narrator 2: And of course ever since Notary Goldfinch arrived, she’s been educating people. But unfortunately some of her teachings have gotten a little bit… twisted and distorted as they worked their way down the wire. So now we have this group of people trailing after the Consector and the Adsecla, telling them everything they’ve ever done in their lives that was the least bit praiseworthy.

Narrator 3: Somehow it’s altogether more REAL when the Consector is right there in front of you!

Narrator 1: (as Spahr) “Now, listen!” Spahr says. He puts a hand on Phineas’s shoulder. Turns around in the street. There’s a throng of people following him in the road behind who stop, listening excitedly. [Spahr:] “I’ve said this to the last of you and I’ll say it to you who are here now: please feel free at ANY TIME to go speak to your new Notary, Madame Goldfinch, in the Mission! Some of you I’ve already talked to. You! You over there! You know where it is. You can show them.”

Narrator 2: (as ‘that person over there’) “I’d be happy to! It’s my HONOR and my PLEASURE to do this FAVOR for EVERYONE HERE!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “It would be very Valorous of you to show the public, here, our new facilities. Thank you.”

Narrator 2: (that person) “How much is that WORTH, by the way?”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Alright, we—”

Narrator 3: (as another random person in the throng) “I painted my neighbor’s fence last week! That’s gotta be worth something, right?”

Narrator 1: (as yet another person in the throng) “My friends were moving and they didn’t ask for help, but I helped them move because I have a large pallet and I brought that. They have some really heavy furniture. I just did it out of the goodness of my heart!”

Narrator 2: (as an elderly lady in the throng) “My adult son has been living with me his entire life and he’s in his 40s now and, y’know, I’ve never asked for a single thing and I… I don’t GET a single thing and, well, y’know, maybe it’s time for that to change! Uh, do you have any thoughts on that, Consector? Consector!?”

Narrator 1: Anyway! There’s a LOT of yelling. Everyone’s trying to get the Consector’s attention. And the Consector is tired of all this right now.

Narrator 2: This is SUPER obnoxious.

Narrator 1: He turns with Phineas. “Well! how does it feel to be such a STAR, Phineas? You’re among the people now!”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Let’s just get on with this…!”

Narrator 2: (Spahr) “Yeah, we’ve got an appointment to keep.

Narrator 1: And as a matter of fact, they are currently LATE to said appointment. They were due at the Mission almost 20 minutes ago. Getting away from the airfield was a hassle. The welcoming committee was so large and so loud they could barely make their way through. They nearly had to FIGHT their way up the hill.

Narrator 3: They stride on, blustering through the crowd towards the post office and Imelda waiting inside.

Narrator 2: Let’s jump into Phineas’s mind for a moment.

[The ambiance of Stationary Hill halts as we focus on Phineas’s experience. Elements of Phineas’s crystalline theme music begin to emerge.]

Narrator 2: He’s never been anywhere like this. This red, dusty frontier. He’s surprised: it’s rather more beautiful than he was expecting. Nothing like the Un’s beauty, though.

Narrator 3: Where the Un is severe, imposing and established, this is more of a recently-built, handmade, rustic kind of place.

Narrator 2: And the greenery just grows straight out of the ground without any maintenance! It’s stunning.

Narrator 1: And the air is CLEAR and PURE. There is no shimmer. There is no vaguely metallic flavor as he breathes it in. The burning in his nostrils—of air laced with microscopic mica—is gone. It’s refreshing. Almost exhilarating. It’s a bit of a heady experience. He was warned when he disembarked that he would experience a moment of involuntary euphoria. And, well, he certainly did! He was dizzy, breathing in.

Narrator 2: He IS a bit uneasy being constantly aware of the presence of the Fold somewhere, lurking on the other side of the islet. 

Narrator 3: He keeps looking over his shoulder, checking to see if the blackness is yet there on the horizon. Last night wasn’t easy for him huddled in his quarters aboard the docked ship, trying desperately to stay calm as everything was submerged in the fold.

Narrator 2: He knows rationally that it’s nothing to be worried about. People LIVE in the stuff. Permanently, some of them. And other people living on the Mediun here on Midst are submerged in it half the time and it’s fine.

[Phineas’s music ends and the hum and patter of Imelda’s indoor Mission fades in.]

Narrator 3: Passing into Imelda’s Mission, they see her cheery face bobbing over the heads of some of the assembled citizens of Stationary Hill currently milling about.

Narrator 1: She waves to them, twinkling her fingers, and immediately sets about trying to shoo her patrons out.

Narrator 2: She claps her plump hands together. “Alright, then, everyone! I’m afraid I have to close up shop for just a few minutes, so if you’ll just step outside! And I’ll be happy to meet with you again just as soon as I can. Thank you so much for coming in, Agatha! I really enjoyed that conversation we had and I hope we can continue it soon.”

Narrator 1: Somewhat reluctantly (seeing the Consector making an entrance), the citizens of Stationary Hill make their exit from the Mission, Imelda closing the door behind them and twisting the lock. Just for a minute, she flips her sign from OPEN to CLOSED. She is overenthusiastic and it spins back to OPEN again, so she switches it around once more. [as Imelda Goldfinch] “There!” She pats it for good measure.

Narrator 2: She turns around, a dimpled smile on her face, clasping her hands. [as Imelda Goldfinch] “Jonas!” She reaches out her arms to him.

Narrator 1: They can’t exactly embrace… considering that he is covered in sharp armor. He simply reaches a hand out and clasps her shoulder welcomingly.

Narrator 2: She leans forward and up and gives him a little airy kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his left cheek.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Pleasure to see you again, Imelda! It’s been… I don’t know! How many years now?”

Narrator 2: (As Imelda Goldfinch) “Oh, two? Three? Something like that!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “More than that, I daresay! I’m ashamed to say! Please…”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “My, how time flies!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Let me introduce my—I can’t say ‘new Adsecla’ at this point—my Adsecla, Phineas Thatch.”

Narrator 2: Goldfinch extends a similar welcome to Phineas. “It is SO wonderful to meet you… AGAIN. Now, I don’t know if you remember, but, oh, around eight or nine years ago, when you were still just a ward of The Family, I had a couple rounds of duty there at the sanctuary, and I remember meeting you then! Mr. Meshkala pointed you out specifically to me. He said you were one of the most well-behaved little boys there! Never getting into any arguments, always doing exactly as you were told, no rough-housing… I suppose you’re making up for a bit of that lost time now!”

Narrator 1: Spahr’s eyebrows are up with polite interest. [as Spahr] “I wasn’t aware of the connection!” he says. “Well, how nice that we could have this little reunion!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “It is so heartwarming to see how far you have risen!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Well, let me be the first to invite you back to the ship one of these evenings! We can have dinner in the galley and you two can catch up on lost time.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Ohh, that sounds delightful! I’m afraid my schedule is pretty busy, but I’m sure I can squeeze that in somewhere!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Well, what am I saying? Why come to the ship when we could explore the town here? I would love to hear your recommendations: places to see, things to do… when we have some downtime, Imelda.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well! I’ll see if I can scrape together a list!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Of course we can talk about that later when time’s not so pressing. Thanks for fitting us into your schedule. Phineas and I are… well, we had a brief tour through town. We just came up the hill. What a place, Stationary Hill!” he says. “How has it been treating you?” They begin to take seats around Imelda’s desk.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well, you know, as you’ve seen it’s a bit rustic here, but I think I’ve been settling in rather gamely! I got some new hiking boots the other day and I’ve got a whole stock of Fold-safe lights stashed in the back room!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “You’ve gone entirely native, Imelda! I’m most impressed!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, yes, I’m roughing it now!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “You seem to be doing rather well for yourself.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes, things are coming along rather nicely, I should say. But it’s good that you’re here and that you’re getting the lay of the land. The news hasn’t been dropped yet, but as soon as it does, there’s likely to be a bit of a scene. Other than the usual inquiries, I’ve had several inquiries of a more significant nature. Several important business owners in the area are thinking about opening new accounts. Um, the fellow that owns the, uh, cabaret—the Black Candle—I’m pretty sure he’s going to open an account in the next couple of days. A rather robust one, I suspect!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “I’m very glad to hear it, Imelda! Cheers to you and your successes here. We look forward to more such news in the future.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes, well, business is only going to pick up as soon as the news comes along.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “We’re at your disposal, Miss Goldfinch.”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Yes, and Phineas here is quite the workhorse and will certainly be helping us around town to secure investments and our holdings here in light of the, well, NEW developments.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Good, good! Well! I know that the two of you have a little bit of downtime right now, before… before the big news breaks. Um…and, well, you’ve got quite a stack of letters here that have come in advance of your arrival. I’ve just been going through them, you know…”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Oh, yes, most here seem to have… well… bypassed the letter-writing entirely and have satisfied themselves with accosting us in the streets! These are the civilized ones, Phineas.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “They’re just so excited to see you! They should really be coming to ME, though. Most of these inquiries aren’t going to be worth your time, but—AHEM—I do have one here that I think you WILL want to take a look at…” And she extends an envelope (that has been carefully opened at the top) across the desk to Consector Spahr.

Narrator 1: He takes the envelope. Pulls out a single piece of STATIONERY…

Narrator 2: We’ve been using that word a lot today, haven’t we?

Narrator 1: (continued) …on which there is inscribed a few sentences in a shaky hand in black pen.

Narrator 3: Several words have been crossed out and rewritten.

Narrator 2: And the letter is anonymously signed ‘A Concerned Trustee.’

Narrator 1: He scans the writing… and his eyes dart to Imelda.

Narrator 3: He cocks an eyebrow.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Mm-hmm!” [Affirmative.]

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “This can’t be SERIOUS,” he says. He almost laughs. “Do you put any stock in this? When did you GET this?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “This just came in today, in fact.”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Someone HERE claims to know something about THAT?” he says incredulously.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “It’s the first time in quite a while that ANYONE… ANYWHERE… has claimed to know ANYTHING… about THAT.”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Well, if this is TRUE, this is…” He looks at Phineas. “Phineas, take a look at this.” He hands Phineas the note.

Narrator 3: Phineas scans it quickly.

Narrator 2: Now, we can’t tell you exactly what it says.

Narrator 1: Sorry. That would be spoilers.

Narrator 2: But we CAN tell you Phineas’s reaction to it… which is disbelief… followed by shock… followed by a sense of awe. Because if this IS true, this is going to make this trip significantly more interesting, to put it mildly. [As Imelda:] “To respond to your concerns, Consector: we can’t be certain that this has any merit to it, of course, but if it IS true and we IGNORE it… can you imagine the CONSEQUENCES?”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “At the very least, it must be looked into,” Spahr says.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “With your permission, Consector Spahr and Notary Goldfinch… may I undertake this… investigation? Just—just to see that it’s attended to?”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Do, yes! We are not fully underway with our operations yet. So… yes.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “That’ll be a good, exciting project for a young man like you to attend to while we look at the more boring regulatory matters coming up!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Yes, and there is a great deal of paperwork to do.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I’ve got all the copies and carbon-copies ready just here!”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “I’ll go and meet with them, then. It sounds like they’ll be at the same place each day until they hear from us, so I’ll take care of it.”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Excellent! I appreciate your initiative, Phineas!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “May your investigations bear fruit!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Now, Imelda: before we get into the paperwork, would you mind…” Spahr gestures to the Mission chamber around them, all at it’s best, all lit up, lamp-lit. “Would you mind giving us the grand tour?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Jonas! I thought you’d never ask!”

[Transition: we move to the quiet interior of Fuze’s house.]

Narrator 2: Later that evening, just after Fold, Fuze is getting ready to go out.

Narrator 1: He is at home in his small bungalow. His home is here on Stationary Hill. It’s a little bit down the hill from the center of town. There are a few other such bungalows nearby. He is off the road just by 50 feet or so. There’s a small trail that leads to his porch.

Narrator 2: All the houses on this row have a slightly standardized, mail-order-y look to them… almost as if they were ordered by mail!

Narrator 1: Yes, they are, in fact, kit homes. Fuze did not build this one himself; the former resident moved and he moved in and has lived here now for several years quite comfortably. And he is inside right now… well… NOT exactly comfortable, to be quite honest.

Narrator 2: He realizes he’s stalling when he’s brushing his suit for the third time. It’s dark. They’re not even gonna see if there’s any lint on it.

Narrator 1: He is fluttering around his small one-room living space. He goes to and from the kitchen. He’s nervous, which makes him have to pee a lot. Somehow he’ll go and then he’ll come back out and be ready… and then two minutes later he’s gotta go again, so… he goes and does that again, but nothing really comes out. He doesn’t want to LEAVE. He does not want to GO out the DOOR. But he knows he has to. He SENT his letter. They will be expecting him. If, that is to say, they come at all.

Narrator 2: He knows he has to act. And he has to act FIRST.

Narrator 3: He sets his upside-down mouth in a sort of grimace and approaches the door to his home, authoritatively grasps the knob, gives it a twist, and pushes it open, striding out into the dark of Fold. He is ready to go. But he’s not alone.

Narrator 2: Someone is on his porch, sitting in his rocking chair. Not rocking, though. Stock still.

[Eerie music begins to rise.]

Narrator 3: SHE stands up.

Narrator 2: (as Lark) “Going somewhere, Fuze?”

[A long silence.]

Narrator 1: Fuze does nothing except go instantly cold and regard her through the dark—the fog dense and dark between them—and feel every inch of his body flood with panic. But a STRANGE panic.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Mind if I come inside?”

Narrator 1: She brushes past him, entering his home. His back is to the door. He’s scanning the street frantically. Is there anyone here? Should he SAY…?”

Narrator 2: A hand appears on his shoulder and gently but firmly draws him back inside.

Narrator 1: She, circling him, shuts the door. The lights in his bungalow are off. The darkness around them complete. Only street light from the road outside comes in through one side window above his living room.

Narrator 2: He notices she doesn’t appear to be carrying weapons. No knife, no gun. She’s just standing there, watching him.

Narrator 1: Of course, she didn’t NEED any weapons last time…

Narrator 3: (as Fuze) “What… brings you here…? Lark?”

[A long silence.]

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Fuze. Come on.”

[Another long silence.]

Narrator 1: His knees almost give out, but he somehow manages to end up in a chair.

Narrator 2: Her arm is under his elbow. She helped him sit down.

Narrator 1: (Fuze) “Is there anything I can DO?” he says. “Can I make you CHANGE your MIND?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “It’s already made up.”

Narrator 1: He raises a hand, trembling, pointing to the window, gesturing in the general direction of the shipyard. [As Fuze:] “They’re already here, Lark. They’ve already come for you. They already know. They’re gonna FIND you.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Is that why you think they’ve come here? Do you KNOW that?”

Narrator 1: (Fuze) “Why ELSE would they be here, Lark?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “There are other reasons.”

Narrator 3: (Fuze) “It’s Midst, Lark. You’re the most interesting thing on it.”

Narrator 2: She continues to look at him.

Narrator 1: (Fuze) “Well, it’s already too late for you,” he says. “I’ve already done it. I’ve sent them a letter. They KNOW. I’ve already told them everything.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “There’s no way you told them everything. You need something from THEM. So you kept something back. They don’t even know who you are, DO they?”

Narrator 1: Fuze is getting shakily out of his chair. He’s going toward his kitchen just a few feet away past his coffee table.

Narrator 2: Lark makes no move to stop him.

Narrator 1: He turns a tiny little lamp. The Fold in the room swirls…

Narrator 3: …as the light pulsates gently.

Narrator 1: (Fuze) “If you let me go, you can escort me yourself. You can make sure I don’t talk to anybody. They already have the information. The damage is already done.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “They don’t have ALL the information. And there’s only one way I can make sure it stays that way.”

[A long, tense silence.]

Narrator 1: He’s making a coffee.

Narrator 3: As he pulls one mug out of the cupboard, he reaches up for a second and turns to look at Lark.

Narrator 2: She gives her head a slight shake.

Narrator 3: He leaves it at one mug.

Narrator 1: …and sits down at his tiny little two-person dining table just there at the end of his kitchen. She moves across the room, entering the lamplight, and takes a seat across from him in the creaky chair.

Narrator 3: The old man regards the woman.

Narrator 2: Her weathered face has no malice in it, but nor is there any mercy to be found there.

Narrator 1: He has been dreading this moment for so long, and now that it is HERE, all of his attempts to predict the experience—all of his efforts to try to grasp what he might do and what he might experience here and now, now that it’s happening—NONE of it is true. None of it was remotely accurate. He expected fear. He expected a fight. He looks to the butcher block beside him on the kitchen counter.

[A tense silence.]

Narrator 2: She would be on him before he could make a move.

Narrator 1: Instead, he feels calm. A calm of acceptance rather than the panic of resistance.

Narrator 3: The oft-practiced speech goes out of existence.

Narrator 1: Fuze has led a long life. And here at the end, he has everything assembled in perfect order. Everything that he needs. He has had his routine. He has money to his name. He has a good suit. He has his breakfast ritual. There has been ONE THING out of place. Just ONE THING missing from that perfect picture… and that has been the assurance of SAFETY. His fear of LARK has kept him from that resolution. And now the fear is GONE. And his picture is now completely serene. [As Fuze:] “It wasn’t anything personal, you know. I had to do it. They would have thought I was hiding you or something. Not that I’VE done anything wrong. Never have, never will. But I just don’t want them misinterpreting my intentions.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Well, Fuze, this is nothing personal, either. I have to. You know that.” Lark leans forward, reaches across, and puts a hand on the back of his hand.

Narrator 1: She pats him gently.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Why don’t you finish your coffee, Fuze.” She’s got a glove on now. A RED glove. As soon as she touches him, he feels a strange sensation on his skin: sort of a tingling, numbing feeling that rapidly begins to spread.

Narrator 1: He takes a sip of his coffee. Not as warm as he would like. Certainly not the way they make it at Patricia’s. The strange numbness is spreading up his arm.

Narrator 2: He gives a weak laugh as he realizes what’s happening. As he realizes that this is how it’s going to be.

Narrator 1: He draws a weak breath, more difficult than it should be.

Narrator 2: It is not painful.

Narrator 1: (Fuze) “Well…” he says to her, his voice going quieter, “I suppose… it’s nice of you, at least… not to bludgeon ME to death…”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I would never do that… to YOU.”

Narrator 1: (Fuze) “You know, I always did used to think… you seemed like such a nice young kid…”