Narrator 1: There is a mob headed up the street toward the post office.

Narrator 2: “Right on time!” Imelda says cheerfully, checking her watch, smiling over at Jonas Spahr, who is stationed at her side. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Narrator 3: The first wave has arrived and is being held at bay by the Consector’s company of soldiers. There’s a lot of yelling and waving of Trustee Handbooks. Brandishing of papers. Townspeople are vying for attention.

Narrator 1: (as a townsperson) “I’d like to purchase a share of Midst, please!”

Narrator 3: (as another townsperson) “What do I need to do to make an investment on this new

‘cooperative venture’, I’m given to understand?”

Narrator 2: (as another townsperson) “Please! Excuse me! Could I speak with Imelda? I made an appointment yesterday!”

Narrator 1: (as another townsperson) “I’ve been waiting in line since the beginning! People are cutting in front of me! I demand to speak to someone at once!”

Narrator 3: (as another townsperson) “Now look here! I did several good deeds the other day! Why weren’t those included in this? This whole bureaucratic initial foray detail?”

Narrator 2: (as another townsperson) “I’ve been here for an hour and no one has spoken to me!”

Narrator 1: So much screaming! Spahr chuckles all this and pats Imelda on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ll have your work cut out for you for a few days, Madame Notary,” he says. “You’ll be filing new accounts night and day!”

Narrator 2: “And I wouldn’t have it any other way!” she says. “My volunteers and I are going to be fast friends by the time we’re through!”

Narrator 1: “Best jump right in, then,” Spahr says, “and waste no time getting started with the good work!”

Narrator 3: He gestures her ahead as the company holds back the throng of Stationary Hill citizens… and Imelda, smiling ear-to-ear, follows him up onto a dais overlooking the street, where Jedidiah Pom—bursting with pomp and dignity—presents her with a microphone.

Narrator 2: (Imelda, addressing the crowd via microphone) “Good day to you, Stationary Hill!” Imelda says joyfully, beaming out over the still-growing crowd. “I’m delighted to see you all here! Midst now belongs to YOU!”

[Crowd cheers, applauds.]

Narrator 2: (Imelda, cont’d on microphone) “Or WILL! Just as soon as we can get each of you set with a new Trust account!”

[Theme music.]

Narrator 3: There is a line out the door and down the street. Volunteers (led by Mr. Stex) populate tables throughout the Mission—throughout the post office—taking applications and processing them in an efficient brigade.

Narrator 1: There is a symphony of adding machines clattering away. There is a dinging of registers. A clatter of receipts. Bills of sale being printed. The sounds of industry echo across the top of Stationary Hill.

Narrator 2: The banking machine is churning out abacuses ceaselessly!

Narrator 3: It is a bonanza of paperwork! Of stamping. Of filing. People are forking over cash and receiving the equivalent Valor and then shelling the Valor right back out to buy shares of Midst.

Narrator 2: The conversion rate ticker set in the wall is ticking steadily upwards towards a higher and higher, less-favorable conversion rate as more and more people strive to open accounts.

Narrator 3: Even the postmaster and the other postal workers, themselves, are arrayed in a large telethon phone bank—fielding a huge volume of teletheric calls from off-site investors. It’s madness!

Narrator 2: Of course. madness is always in danger of tipping over into downright chaos! So the Consector, the Adsecla, and their company is on patrol.

Narrator 1: Phineas and Spahr, side-by-side at the front of the company, are patrolling the top of the town.

Narrator 3: Members of the company are stationed at specific points around the circumference of the post office and up and down the main street of Stationary Hill, trying to maintain order. Trying to maintain a line.

Narrator 2: For now, the pandemonium is lively, certainly, but under control. Spahr seems relaxed. Cheerful, even!

Narrator 1: “What do you think, Phineas?” Spahr says, strolling jauntily, hands behind his back, his armor gleaming, his hair blowing in a gentle breeze. Quite the figure! [Spahr:] “This is how the Trust looks at its most lively! On the ground. Among the people,” he says.

Narrator 3: “Well, these fuckers don’t know how good they have it,” …is what Phineas would LIKE to say… but what comes out instead is [Phineas] “It…it’s great! I mean, they’re all here on the ground floor of a new venture. Good for them.”

Narrator 1: There is, somewhat down the road, what appears to be some kind of fight propagating amongst the populace.

Narrator 2: Hmm, people who couldn’t decide on their places in line, no doubt! Spahr squares his shoulders magnificently. [Spahr] “Well, come on Phineas: Time for us to do our job.”

Narrator 3:This is literally the reason why Spahr and the company are here: to keep ORDER!

Narrator 1: Spahr and the company—Phineas included—weave their way through the crowd, approaching the mess spawning down the street.

Narrator 2: Four or more people are rolling on the ground in the dust. Phineas sees a tooth go flying.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Enough of this here! Cease your fighting at once!” Spahr commands.

Narrator 2: They don’t even seem to notice.

Narrator 3: People behind the knot of fighters are now shouting, throwing blows.

Narrator 1: (as a brawling townsperson) “You don’t understand! At this rate we’re not even gonna be able to AFFORD to buy a new account!” People are panicking. They want IN… and they’re too far down the street to make an impact.

Narrator 2: The violence is increasing in a ripple effect. This is quickly getting out of hand.

Narrator 3: Spahr turns to Phineas.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “They’re not gonna listen to reason, Phineas. Do it.”

Narrator 3: Spahr and Phineas flip down visors from their mica helmets.

Narrator 1: A companyman nearby pulls something from a bandolier around his chest. Tosses it to Phineas.

Narrator 2: It’s a canister of liquid. Well, what APPEARS to be liquid. It’s black and sloshing, at any rate.

Narrator 3: Phineas catches the canister in one hand, feeling the liquid slosh within, and in only a moment (because that’s precisely how long he has) Phineas lobs the canister above the head of the fighting crowd.

Narrator 1: The charge fractures in the air…

[An explosion. The mob screams.]

Narrator 1: (continued) …and a black, writhing fog emerges, spilling out into the air, twisting and knotting. And the crowd SCATTERS, panicking.

Narrator 3: A flailing of darkness writhes in the air above the crowd. But only for a moment.

Narrator 1: There is screaming. There is scattering. There is a stampede migration AWAY from the TEARROR in the air.

Narrator 2: Phineas is a bit taken aback. He expected the crowd to scatter, certainly; that’s what these things are intended for.

Narrator 1: Crowds usually DO scatter when they set off tearror charges in the Un. That’s what they’re meant to do: scatter people.

Narrator 2: But he didn’t expect them to run as though for their LIVES. These people are PANICKED. Ah, and then he remembers: this is an islet on the MEDIUN; they spend half their time submerged in the Fold. The REAL Fold where wild, organic tearrors can arise at any moment. And you never know exactly what it is they’re going to do… whether they’re going to make chairs walk, make you think of a funny joke from your childhood, or cause your brain to sprout out of your ears.

Narrator 1: Or in the case of this specially-engineered Fold grenade, to feel like your eyes and senses are on fire, tear-gas style. Painful in the moment… but ultimately harmless. The entire street—all the way up and down the hill—watch as the fog dissipates into a black slime pooling on the ground, twitching, puddling.

Narrator 2: It burns through its limited supply of energy and soon lies inert on the ground, little more than a black puddle.

Narrator 1: Spahr and Phineas flip up their visors.

Narrator 2: A few unlucky people who were caught in the radius of the blast are wailing and clutching at their eyes. It’s irritating. Painful, certainly, but nothing lethal. Nothing lasting.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Now if you please,” Spahr booms, “form an ORDERLY LINE!” And the crowd doesn’t need to be told twice. None of this fazes Spahr; this is all in a day’s work. Crowd control? This is a piece of cake! He turns unconcernedly to Phineas. “Now”, he says. “Where were we? About that, uh… Fuze.” Spahr says. “How’s that going? Done anything more with that?”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Uh, yeah, not since the interrogation, no. We’ve had this, uh, security detail.”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Well, yes, I know, but you PLAN to follow up with any more of the contacts that girl mentioned? Pursue any other leads? Visit the man’s local places of interest?”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Of course.”

Narrator 2: (Spahr) “Have you actually made any plans yet? Set anything in action?)

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Well, there’s the cafe the girl mentioned. There’s the cabaret. All the regulars there. The employees. The owners.”

Narrator 2: (Spahr) “Well, what are you doing here then?”

Narrator 1: What… how are you supposed to answer this question? Phineas is supposed to be HERE right now, and yet Spahr is looking at him, waiting. Is he NOT supposed to be here? He was told he had to be HERE, NOW.

Narrator 3: Is he doing something wrong? [Phineas:] “I was under the impression that I was required HERE, sir.”

Narrator 2: (Spahr) “A consector, Phineas, is required everywhere.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “I will be following up, sir.”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Good,” Spahr says. “Glad to hear it. There’s that initiative I was talking about!” But Spahr looks at him… sarcastically? Maybe he’s just paranoid. Maybe everything’s fine.

Narrator 2: Phineas finds it best to maintain silence. When you’re silent, no one can tell if you are confident or fearful.

Narrator 1: Their patrol continues.

[The patrol fades as we transition to a different part of town.]

Narrator 1: Mr. Weepe is on a different kind of patrol, scouting out the situation in town to determine whether or not it jeopardizes his morally-questionable plan in any way. So far so good! He admires the crowd now, looking at all these happy new Trustees. The vast majority are still [not Trustees]—still waiting furiously and frantically in line… but here towards the Mission, people are having their paperwork processed. People are even walking away happily with new abacuses. (None quite as large as his OWN, of course.)

Narrator 2: (as a townsperson) “Hey there, Mr. Weepe! Are you trying to find the end of the line? It’s way back thataway!”

Narrator 1: (as Moc Weepe) “Oh, nah! Just wanna talk to Mr. Stex. Um. Just passing through!” And Weepe is… oh. There IS a whole line! And he is, uh, apparently cutting the whole thing. That’s why everyone’s looking at him so angrily. Who cares! He just wants to have a word with Stex. Stex, there, at the main volunteer table in front of these new barn doors they’ve installed in the Mission. Were these here the other day? They’ve apparently put them in, opening the place up to the mob.

Narrator 2: They allow a much broader access.

Narrator 1: Mr. Stex is sitting at a table with an adding machine and a small teletheric device. Mr. Weepe stands before him. “Hello there, Mr. Stex! Look at you with this, uh… you’re moving right up in the world! You’re some kind of new deputy Notary already? What am I… what is the deal here?”

Narrator 3: (Mr. Stex) “Oh, well, yeah! Uh, Miss Goldfinch sort of called us in. It’s a, uh, big day, you understand!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I see! This is one of the perks of being an early adopter! Is that what is up with this?”

Narrator 3: (Mr. Stex) “Er, well, absolutely! I don’t know if you’ve ever considered, Mr Weepe, uh… transferring some of your assets into Valor?”

Narrator 1: Ooh, that’s… nope! not gonna go there. [Weepe:] “No, that’s not me! I’m not that kind of guy, there, Stex! You know me: Mr. Business! I like my good old-fashioned money. None of this, um… Valor stuff. Not interested at all. I’m a businessman, not a cultist. Huehuehue.”

Narrator 2: Abruptly there’s a hand on his shoulder. Heavy. Gauntleted.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Sir, you have to wait in line like everyone else.”

Narrator 1: …and Weepe turns to regard Phineas Thatch.

[there is a unique sonic event]

Narrator 2: He gives him a nice, slow, ominous turn. One of those “do you know who I am?” turns.

Narrator 1: Weepe is about to object and say he’s not interested in starting an account, of course, and then add a little bit of an insult—little bit of a jibe in there.

Narrator 2: But just then, Imelda happens to pass by and she interjects, saving him. [Imelda Goldfinch] “Oh, Mr. Weepe! Congratulations again on your recent decision. That’s all right, Phineas, I’ve got it from here.”

Narrator 1: And she—pulling [Weepe] aside—has a brief moment with him, the crowd swarming around them. She whisks him aside.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Do you see what I meant, now, about how very timely your decision was? Of course, I couldn’t SAY anything about it before the fact, but NOW you see!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Now I understand! You were trying to drop some sort of hints, there, weren’t you?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, nonsense! I would never be involved in insider trading!”

Narrator 1: He looks at her. She looks at him. Big smile on both sides.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Well, back to the matter at hand: a man with as much Valor as YOU could procure a perfectly MASSIVE number of Midst shares, should he wish.”

Narrator 1: She gestures then to the exchange rate ticker on prominent display in her Mission. It is, well… comparatively SKYROCKETING.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “It wasn’t so long ago that I recall someone wishing he was the mayor of Midst.”

Narrator 1: Mr. Weepe’s investment is appreciating like MAD. He’s staring at the ticker with such a strange, transparent mix of greed and confusion… that he’s aware that suddenly people are looking at him. People he KNOWS, as a matter of fact: people who know him as a businessman who would have nothing to do with the Trust. He quickly diverts his attention elsewhere. [Weepe:] “Really great stuff there, Imelda! Good for you! I’m proud of you. You are also a very nice entrepreneur! You have good spirit!” He sort of thumps her on the back. “Ow!” he says, harming himself on her very hard blazer.

Narrator 2: Imelda waves him off.

Narrator 1: And he wanders carelessly out those barn doors into the crowd, looking around him with DISDAIN. This… he… who cares about any of THIS? Not Mr. Weepe, that’s for sure! He doesn’t care one whit for this. Wouldn’t be caught dead opening his own account!

Narrator 2: Oh my god, he’s so RICH!

Narrator 1: It WORKED! Even HE wasn’t expecting it to work THIS well! He’s beside himself with glee!

Narrator 3: Phineas watches this tall, spidery man wheel his way out of the Mission and approaches Imelda…

Narrator 2: …who’s still staring after [Weepe] with a coy look on her face.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Who was that?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Hmm… let’s just say… a VERY important asset to the TRUST. Oh, and that reminds me: Phineas, there’s something I need you to do.”