Narrator 1: We told you this was going to happen.

[Thunderous echoes and tense music.]

Narrator 2: For a moment, the crowds in the streets fall perfectly still as everyone looks on in horror.

Narrator 1: The residents of Midst stop what they’re doing in the streets and look up with curiosity at the moon blowing apart in the sky. And THAT, for just a moment, is an interesting spectacle. That’s not something you see every day.

Narrator 3: Huge fissures rip across the surface of the moon.

Narrator 1: The huge mica shard that is Midst’s moon is shattering, flashing, and sparking—splintering apart in the air high above the black ocean of Fold—and is breaking apart. Luminous, not in the way that mica usually is. It is exploding quite literally in a fiery burst.

Narrator 3: The diffuse light normally given by the moon flickers as titanic explosions rip across it…

Narrator 1: …and the entire moon begins to fall out of the sky.

[Music pauses. A titanic crashing sound like a huge peal of thunder.]

Narrator 2: There’s something almost stately about it—

Narrator 3: —almost like watching fragments of a glacier slough off into the ocean—

Narrator 1: —beautiful for a moment, but then its sonic shockwave hits the islet. Windows break.

[Crowds screaming. Glass shattering. Music slowly grows in intensity.]

Narrator 2: Everyone loses their balance.

Narrator 1: The ground quakes. Formations of rocks split. Roofs collapse.

Narrator 2: As the first fragments of the shattered moon hit the Mediun…

Narrator 1: (The surface of the black ocean of Fold…)

Narrator 2: …there is an immediate reaction. And that was just the first few fragments. They keep coming; they keep raining down from the remnants of the moon, and each time it gets worse.

Narrator 3: Like lightning in the distance, huge flashes of light strobe on the horizon. In a matter of moments, a storm—a hurricane, a tsunami of Fold—has begun to form under the broken cascade of moon pieces.

Narrator 1: A churning storm of tearror is surging downcurrent across the ocean… straight towards Midst.

Narrator 2: What it looks like from Stationary Hill is a slowly mounting, roiling black wall on the horizon. At this distance, it could almost be imagined to be a normal foldrise, but no one is fooling themselves.

Narrator 1: This is terrible, and they’re all going to die. Everyone in the streets is panicking.

[Sounds of screaming and wailing crowds.]

Narrator 2: If it seemed like complete pandemonium before, well… at least it was fueled by… excitement, anticipation, avarice.

Narrator 3: But this…

Narrator 1: Now everyone is running for their lives.

Narrator 2: Panicked confusion. Why is this happening? No one knows, and nor will they—

Narrator 1: —and nor will YOU—

Narrator 2: —for some time, but they DO know they have to get off Midst NOW.

Narrator 1: But where can they go? Down from the hill, maybe towards the shipyard. It’s an idea that many people have, and there’s an immediate stampede down Stationary Hill towards the only obvious means of immediate escape.

Narrator 2: But are there enough ships to hold everyone?

Narrator 1: No. Absolutely not.

Narrator 2: And are they going to wait around until they’re at maximum capacity, or are they going to take off as soon as they possibly can?

Narrator 3: Ha! The latter.

Narrator 1: Lark is hauling Tzila away from the Black Candle Cabaret, at this point aware of the moon, but without the luxury of time to really care.

Narrator 3: One thing at a time.

Narrator 2: Her mind has gone into survival mode, something she’s all too familiar with. There are things happening to her right now, deadly things, that she cannot control. She can only focus on her next step, on what she can do immediately, now.

Narrator 1: And Tzila, with her, is focusing furiously on what she perceives to be her next step, herself, which is to find her father. She is crying out, fighting against Lark’s grip, screeching that she has to go NOW, she has to find her dad.

Narrator 2: Her panic is completely inconsequential in the midst of an entire city’s panic. No one notices her.

Narrator 1: The stampede around them is so extreme right now that Tzila could very easily be flattened, trampled in a moment, and Lark will not let her go.

Narrator 2: Her grip is like iron.

Narrator 3: People are barging in and out of doors, windows are slamming open and shut, glass everywhere.

Narrator 2: People are grabbing their possessions, or abandoning them entirely, or grabbing OTHER people’s possessions— there’s already a bit of looting going on.

Narrator 1: The street is a strewn mess of abacuses, brand-new, lost, dropped, forgotten. Paperwork everywhere, on the wind. Forms and contracts blowing in the air.

Narrator 3: Supplies that were being carted up and down the hill to build, to create, now being ripped apart, scavenged, stolen.

Narrator 1: And in the air above all of this, the moon cascading apart piece by piece, shattering more and more, raining down into the ever-growing tearror, the tearror growing closer and closer.

Narrator 2: Lark hauls Tzila to the first place that comes to her mind: the garage, where she left her bike.

Narrator 3: (as Tzila) “Lark, let me go!”

Narrator 2: (as Lark) “Would you hold still? I’m trying to save your life.”

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “I need to get back to my dad!”

Narrator 2: But Lark pays her no heed, just hauling her along, as implacable as ever.

Narrator 1: Tzila tries to bite her. That’s new.

Narrator 2: Lark grunts but doesn’t loosen her grip.

Narrator 1: Tzila, now more or less certain that she’s being kidnapped, begins to fight tooth and nail.

Narrator 3: She’s becoming frantic.

Narrator 2: By this point, Lark has somehow managed to drag the fighting girl all the way to the garage, where her bike still is. (as Lark) “Would you shut up? Sit down.”

Narrator 1: Tzila, not accustomed to being nearly shouted at by Lark (though shouting is not necessarily the way to describe what Lark just did), sits down, scared but surprised.

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “Lark, what’s going on?”

Narrator 2: Lark steals another glance at the horizon. Already, the tsunami of fold has grown taller, thicker, and its surface is now more apparent. It’s roiling, it’s angry.

Narrator 1: The teletheric receiver, still on (here in the garage), previously receiving Jedediah Pom’s announcement of the sale of Midst, is still squawking away… but now is broadcasting Jedediah Pom’s live coverage of destruction. He is rambling melodramatically, wind blowing upon his microphone, clearly on the move somewhere. [As Pom, on the teletheric:] “It’s a spectacle of horror such as none that I have ever seen! Dear listeners, I can barely begin to describe to you the catastrophe that—” [Sound of teletheric broadcast cuts out] —and Lark doesn’t care about that.

Narrator 2: Lark catches sight of the thick interisletary cable which stretches from the top of the post office tower into the depths of the Fold,

Narrator 1: the tower itself kept upright by four high-tension cables connecting it to the hill.

Narrator 2: One of these cables snaps. There’s an incredible echoing metallic noise that reverberates down the entire length of the cable, and it comes whipping, whistling through the air, collapsing…

[Sound of the metal cable slamming into the ground.]

Narrator 3: …like the cable of a suspension bridge.

Narrator 2: It flattens houses, smashing through their roofs, shattering windows.

Narrator 3: Even a few bystanders are caught by the lash of the enormous whip.

Narrator 1: Sherman is gone. Lark knows this. Midst is about to be swallowed, eaten alive by a tsunami of tearror. Lark has to get out. Tzila needs to come with Lark. They need to go now. There’s no chance of getting down to the shipyard, not with his mob, and Lark’s old ship, hidden far out in the desert,

Narrator 2: stashed, for, well, not just such an occasion as THIS, but… She had it there in case of an emergency, she just wasn’t imagining THIS kind of emergency.

Narrator 1: She looks out to the horizon, toward the growing tearror, toward the moon continuing to descend and break apart, gauging how much time she has. Can she make it out to that distant ravine? Will she have time to untether her ship? Will she have time to remove the tarp concealing it? Will she even have time to get its engines spooled up?

Narrator 2: Is it even worth it? Should she just try to run to the shipyard? Is arrested better than dead?

Narrator 1: And down the street, in the shipyard below, she can see the Consector’s ship emitting soldiers as the crowd arrives, people boarding their own ships, people jumping aboard cargo scows, the citizens of the town desperately trying to seek entry into the Consector’s ship itself, only to be turned back by the soldiers. And seeing them all down there, Lark knows that if she IS wanted, if they are at ALL here for her, they WILL find her there. And she cannot risk that. [All sound effects pause. A new indoor soundscape begins, the noise of destruction now muffled. There is the quiet, incessant clattering of beads.] At the top of the town, in the mission, there is pandemonium still.

Narrator 2: Imelda is TEARING around the mission, a whirl of deadly, focused efficiency and panic. The company is assisting her, recalled from their various duties, Spahr and Phineas included, Sherman, or what’s left of him, in tow.

Narrator 1: Company members are scooping up paperwork, shoveling things into satchels, raking her possessions off of her desk. Everything must go, as much as can be carried, but there’s simply not time to carry it all.

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “What is that buffoon Pom doing?! We need to STOP him! We need to lock this down! Someone needs to shut him up! Can’t you see?!” She gestures to the ticker of the conversion rate on the wall, which is spiraling down at an alarming rate. “At this rate, Valor will be WORTHLESS!”

Narrator 3: As word about the disaster is breaking on Pom’s emergency broadcast airwaves, the Trust, like the moon, is crashing. The value of Valor plummets.

Narrator 1: Spahr commands the room. “Company, get the Notary’s things. Madam Notary, come with me. Phineas, I’ll deal with you later. Keep up. We’re leaving, NOW.”

Narrator 2: There is murmured assent, and “Yes, of course sir.”

Narrator 1: Imelda, of course, objects. She wants everything to go, everything must be saved or all of her work on Midst will be lost.

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “None of this can be left behind. It’s too important—”

Narrator 1: (interrupting) “Madam Notary,” Spahr thunders, “you will DIE. We will ALL die if we stay here to get your things. The bank machine will be lost. The accounts have been transmitted and are secure. We can rebuild. But now, we must go.”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Of course… you’re right. But you KNOW we are going to lose more than Midst if you don’t stop Pom’s broadcast.”

Narrator 1: She might have a point there.

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “All of our Valor accounts will mean nothing.”

Narrator 1: And several members of the company are racing across the mission to Pom.

Narrator 2: There’s a muted squawk from both Pom and Backpack as the teletheric line connecting the microphone to the machinery on her back is severed. [Brief audio feedback sound, suddenly silenced.] (as Spahr) “Sorry Pom, we can’t have that now. The situation must be contained.”

Narrator 3: (as Pom) [blustering sound of surprise and indignation]

Narrator 1: But Pom is not one to argue, and he suddenly knows it to be true, as much as anyone here does. This cannot get out… but unfortunately, it already has.

[The soundscape changes again to a different interior environment. Muffled booming from outside. Otherwise, it’s comparatively quiet.]

Narrator 2: Inside the Black Candle, the soldiers that were left behind to contain the breached fugitives,

Narrator 1: to escort them to THEIR respective cells aboard the Consector’s ship,

Narrator 3: are losing resolve, abandoning their assigned duties in favor of… saving their own skins?

Narrator 2: People that are still handcuffed, for the most part, find themselves… no longer… under arrest, perhaps?

Narrator 3: And so, unobserved, Mr. Weepe makes his way quickly back to his office.

Narrator 1: He has seen it all through the windows. He knows what is happening. And as a man very, very well-acquainted with tearrors, moreso even than most on Midst, he knows how deadly this will be.

Narrator 2: He’s already lived through one tearror he thought would kill him. He’s not eager to do it again.

Narrator 3: He’s not eager to repeat the experience.

Narrator 1: And he is up the stairs in a flash, taking them four at a time (his legs ARE very long), and he is across the balcony, down the hall to his office door. He scrambles with the keys, he can’t find the right one, he kicks the door in. [Bam.] It’s a weak door. And he is in his office, looking for his things.

Narrator 2: He is ripping his desk apart. Every drawer is being ransacked.

[Sounds of hasty rummaging.]

Narrator 1: There are papers that he would love to take with him. Where the HELL is his suitcase?

Narrator 2: It doesn’t matter if he makes it off the islet — if he loses his medical case, he’ll die anyway.

Narrator 3: He finds the enormous burlap sack containing his abacus.

Narrator 2: [noise of exasperation]

Narrator 1: He doesn’t give a shit about that. He’ll die trying to get THAT down the hill.

Narrator 2: (as unidentified character) “I suppose you’re looking for this?” [Moody music begins: a slow, melancholy rendition of the duet from earlier.] Saskia is there, casual as you please, leaning against the doorway, dangling his medical case from one finger.

Narrator 1: “Where did you get — yes,” Weepe says. “Give it to me.”

Narrator 2: She makes a disgusted noise, throws it violently at his chest.

Narrator 1: He scrambles for it, catches it, barely.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Take it. NEVER come back here.”

Narrator 1: HE is suddenly angry with HER. What right does he have to be angry with her? This is all his doing. “Well, my dear,” he says, coming toward her. “Frankly my dear, I don’t really think at this point, that there’s going to be much of a here to come BACK to.” They are face-to-face at the front of his office, she looking at him, he looking at her.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Is that all you can offer, even at a moment like this? Sarcasm?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Saskia, I’m just trying to do what—”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Don’t give me that shit.”

Narrator 1: He was going to say “do what’s best for her,” and there IS still some of that in him, there always has been. He has always had a soft spot for her.

Narrator 2: She was never supposed to find out that it was HE who had betrayed the Cabaret.

Narrator 1: The very least he could do, he supposes, is extend her a helping hand. “Look,” he says. “Saskia, we don’t have any time. We don’t have TIME to be unhappy here, okay? I understand you’re very upset, I did something you didn’t like very much, all right, it was bound to happen eventually, you know we couldn’t do this forever, so.” He reaches out to touch her shoulder.

[Slapping sound.]

Narrator 2: His face stings. There’s a ringing in his ears.

Narrator 1: He staggers back for a second, looks at her. (as Weepe) “I suppose I might have deserved that. Listen… I’m going to get out of here, you can come with me. At the very least don’t just stay down here and go down with the ship or some shit like that.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) [derisive laugh] “It’s better than going anywhere with you.”

Narrator 1: This isn’t going to go anywhere at all, as a matter of fact. Weepe sees that. He has his case. He looks around the office. There’s nothing.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Leave.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Don’t mind if I do.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Get the fuck out of my cabaret.”

[Weepe’s theme music begins, an ominous waltz.]

Narrator 1: “Okay, he says, and walks straight past her. “Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Del Norma. It was fun.” He always has to have the last word. It doesn’t matter what she says, he WILL have the last zinger. He must. He would die without it.

Narrator 2: And she knows this, so she simply closes her eyes and clenches her jaw until he has left.

Narrator 1: And he is down the stairs with his case. That’s all he really needs. Everything else can be rebuilt. He started with NOTHING at least three times over, and has always come back, and he’ll do it again.

Narrator 3: Oh, and here he is… with nothing! Again!

Narrator 1: This feels so familiar! What a wonderfully perfect symmetrical cycle, happening once again. He practically cackles to himself, going down the stairs, then almost cries for a second — that’s very unusual, but that does happen very infrequently — but then it’s all contained again, and he is out the door [door bangs, sudden rush of crowd noise, as Weepe’s theme music swells to its climax], into the street, where he trips unceremoniously over a bunch of stampeding people who have fallen flat on the ground, and he almost falls down himself and then is on his hands and knees in the dirt.

Narrator 2: But he has his case. That’s the important thing. (as Goldfinch) “Is… is that Mr. Weepe? Get him!”

Narrator 1: There is a congregation of Trustees coming down the hill, the REAL ones, none of these half-assed new converts. The Consector and his entire company, plus those media people and Imelda Goldfinch, are migrating rapidly down the hill, bringing a ton of cargo with them.

[Phineas’s theme music begins.]

Narrator 2: Members of the company encircle him, temporarily protecting him from the onslaught of the crowd.

Narrator 1: Weepe looks up at them, crawling in the dust.

Narrator 2: Two of them hoist him to his feet.

Narrator 1: He almost drops his case. (as Weepe) “I need—” He claws for it, he drops it. They see it fall to the ground. They pick it up and hand it back to him. “Thanks. I really wouldn’t know what I would do without this.”

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “Oh, thank goodness we spotted you. I don’t know if we have a spare seat for you, but… you’re GETTING on our ship.”

Narrator 1: Sherman is… oh, god. Sherman is with them, dragging between two soldiers, his head limp, his body slack.

Narrator 2: “Oh…” Weepe murmurs. He wants to say something. He gestures for Sherman, but then they’re on the move again. He’s being hauled down the street.

Narrator 3: And suddenly he’s in lockstep with that Thatch character. What was his name? Phineas?

Narrator 2: The one who screwed this whole thing up for him?

Narrator 1: IMELDA screwed this up, when he specifically told her NOT—

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “Did you get your abacus, dear?”

Narrator 1: (as Weepe) “What?” Weepe… [sigh] No he didn’t, obviously. “Uh, damn,” he says. “I seem, I seem to have forgotten that, uh, in all this—”

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “Well, no matter, it’s fine, we can get you another one. It’s only a symbolic representation of your true account.”

Narrator 1: And they are tearing along down the hill, the entire company lugging a pile of junk from the mission.

Narrator 2: (Goldfinch) “The important thing is YOU are here. YOU are where the Valor is contained, Mr. Weepe. Rest assured, you’ll be well taken care of. Just stay with us.”

Narrator 1: Phineas is hurrying along side-by-side with Spahr. Spahr is tight-lipped, not looking at him, hurrying along.

Narrator 3: (as Phineas) “Sir, about what happened back there…”

Narrator 1: (as Spahr) “Save it, Thatch. This isn’t the time.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “But sir, I, I think… he’s a lead. I was just doing what I thought needed to be done.”

Narrator 1: Spahr turns on him. “Have you truly learned nothing from this, Phineas?! [Phineas’s theme music swells.] There’s a DIFFERENCE, Thatch, between having INITIATIVE… and being an IMPULSIVE FUCKING IDIOT.” And Spahr looks so ferociously angry, so disappointed.

Narrator 2: Pom, even though his microphone has been disconnected and taken away from him, is watching this exchange with a rapt eagle eye. This is certainly going to show up in the next day’s tabloids.

Narrator 1: But Phineas isn’t thinking about that right now. All he sees is Spahr.

Narrator 3: Phineas’s vision blurs, and he casts about, trying to look at anything, at anyone but Spahr, at his supervisor, at his mentor, at his role model.

Narrator 1: (as Spahr) “I gave you a CHANCE, Thatch. This was NOT what I needed from you. Not at ALL.”

[The melody of Phineas’s theme concludes, drifting into a tense unresolved echo.]

Narrator 3: Phineas’s heart rate quickens. He looks at Pom. Pom is just staring right back at him.

Narrator 2: Absorbing every juicy detail.

Narrator 1: He has failed. He has failed completely, and Spahr is about to SAY it.

Narrator 2: Ahead of them, Sherman is being dragged by two company members, and as he’s pulled over a bump, he seems to come to, just for a moment. He weakly lifts his head.

[Music stops.]

Narrator 1: (as Sherman) “Tzila…”

[Music abruptly takes on an unnerving, urgent rhythm.]

Narrator 3: (as Phineas) “The girl!”

Narrator 1: (as Spahr) “What?”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “We’ll use the girl! Tzila! Guthrie!”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Phineas—”

Narrator 3: And like that, Phineas is off, surging into the crowd.

Narrator 1: He knows if he can get the girl, then her father will talk. He can use her as leverage.

Narrator 2: The thought is only half-formed in his mind. He can’t give himself time to think this all the way through, he just has to act. There isn’t time.

Narrator 1: And he can’t let Spahr SAY it… will not give Spahr the TIME to tell him that he has failed. He will not hear that.

Narrator 3: Shouting over his shoulder, Phineas just says, “We may lose Midst, Consector, but you asked me to do this! I will NOT lose the lead!”

Narrator 1: And he’s off into the fray. He will not fail Spahr, will not fail this mission. Spahr shouts after him to stop.

[Screaming crowd noises fade back in, layering over the tense, urgent music.]

Narrator 2: [Spahr] tries to make a grab for his shoulder, but it’s too late.

Narrator 1: (as Spahr) “It’s OVER, Phineas!”

Narrator 2: But above the noise of the crowd and the horrific noises coming from the sky, the horizon, the Fold… Phineas just can’t hear him.

Narrator 1: The tearror is a growing black wave on the ocean, double in height and ferocity now than it even was minutes ago.

Narrator 2: Spahr tries one more time.

Narrator 1: (as Spahr) “We can’t WAIT for you!”

Narrator 3: But Phineas does not hear him.

Narrator 1: Spahr, swearing, makes to run, to chase, but Imelda is there.

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “Consector.”

Narrator 1: Spahr stops, looks at her.

Narrator 2: Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head at him, and this apparently is enough to stop him in his tracks.

[Music and crowd sounds go silent, replaced by the somber, formal music of the Trust.]

Narrator 1: Spahr would like to take Phineas home. Put him through the process. No doubt set him back into deep debt, inquire with him about his failings.

Narrator 3: Guide him to a better understanding of this process, of what it means to be a Consector.

Narrator 1: Between that and seeing him killed in a massive tearror, the choice is clear. But Phineas is gone, disappeared into the crowd. Imelda is at Spahr’s side.

Narrator 2: She whispers something in his ear.

Narrator 1: [Spahr] listens, and hearing what she has to say, his eyes turn to Mr. Weepe.

Narrator 2: They’re both looking at him now, and he feels their gaze and looks back with some surprise.

Narrator 1: They are all frozen in the street for a moment following Phineas’s outburst, not moving, many of them now looking at Mr. Weepe, who looks back at them. His brows go up. (as Weepe) “…Why you all lookin’ at me like that?”

Narrator 2: (as Goldfinch) “The Consector agrees, Mr. Weepe. We may have a spare seat for you after all.”

[Transition.]

Narrator 1: The mission is empty when Phineas arrives.

[The ambience of the mission fades back in: clattering beads and muffled sounds from outside. Tense unresolved music continues.]

Narrator 2: If he was thinking clearly, it would make more sense to start his search for the girl at the cabaret, but he’s NOT thinking clearly. He feels almost disembodied with desperation.

Narrator 1: The place is upside down, the windows broken, the roof half-caved in, papers everywhere, the bank machine still wildly spinning, processing, and on the wall, the conversion ticker spiraling down, down, down, as the market crashes, as news spreads and investors panic, as Valor nosedives.

Narrator 2: The thought abruptly surfaces in his mind that all his work to break even… has been rendered UTTERLY useless.

Narrator 3: His entire Valor value has depreciated into oblivion.

Narrator 1: Any value he has ever scraped together is now worth nothing. He is at square one. He is worthless.

Narrator 2: He’s just lost his life’s work. But… he can’t think about it. He has to focus the lead, on the girl. He forces himself forward to continue the search.

Narrator 3: The focus is all he has. As his vision tunnels, he forces himself out of the mission and into the street,

Narrator 1: scanning the crowd, descending, searching.

Narrator 2: In the garage, Lark is hurriedly firing up her bike contraption. She attempts to lift Tzila onto it.

Narrator 1: Tzila, of course, is no happier than before: still terribly confused and upset and frightened by everything, continuously objecting, calling out about her father.

Narrator 2: She tries to bite Lark’s hand one more time, and that’s just the last straw. (as Lark) “Tzila?”

Narrator 3: (as Tzila) “What?!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Sherman is dead. The Trust found him.”

Narrator 1: And this scares Tzila so badly, she falls completely silent and still, and stares back at Lark. Lark is not the kind of person who has ever lied about anything, as far as Tzila is aware, and Tzila takes her word completely. She does not question what Lark has just said, because when Lark says something, Lark means it.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “And they’ll find you too, if you don’t come with me.”

Narrator 1: Tzila is in shock. She’s quiet, numb, which is useful to Lark.

Narrator 2: And Lark swings a leg over the bike, settling in behind Tzila.

Narrator 1: She revs the engine, turning the cycle about, aiming it back towards the street. And there in the road, coming down the hill through the crowd, is the last person she wants to see, coming straight toward her.

Narrator 2: It’s him. That same Adsecla who had been dragging Sherman Guthrie’s body.

[Lark’s theme music begins.]

Narrator 1: And now he’s searching for something, looking every which way, hurrying, pressing through the crowd.

Narrator 1: And he sees Tzila, and his gaze locks on. He immediately starts prying his way through the crowd, directly towards them,

Narrator 3: clawing against the surging tide of bodies, still panicked, still racing to and fro across the street.

Narrator 1: A deep rumble is building, booming over the town, coming from the tearror. It fills the entire horizon. It grows higher and higher in the sky. Their time is shorter now than ever.

Narrator 2: Phineas has to get her. He has to clear a path. There are too many people in the way.

Narrator 1: With Tzila in custody, Sherman will reveal the killer, and Spahr, at LAST, will see that Phineas IS worthy.

Narrator 3: He needs to get there, NOW, and these people are in the way.

Narrator 1: He fights harder against the crowd, cutting through the mob like a shark, headed straight for the girl. He’s almost to them. Lark, in the cycle, sees him coming, and there’s no escape. He’s UPON them.

Narrator 3: And when the sounds around them couldn’t get any louder,

[Rhythmic whooshing sounds as Lark’s theme swells to its climax.]

Narrator 2: Another, CLOSER roar fills the air, accompanied by a gust of wind. The Consector’s ship (Phineas’s ship) surges up into view immediately over the garage, turning in the air, breathtakingly close. Phineas stops in his tracks. LARK is even taken aback to see a ship this close, this suddenly. It has just crested into view, just over the edge of the hill, straight up out of the shipyard.

Narrator 3: The huge long oar-like projections along the hull of the ship are now emerging, fanning out, roiling madly against the air, trying to haul the ship up and away, but there—

Narrator 2: —on an open gangplank, looking over the town—

Narrator 1: —visor low over his face—

Narrator 3: —Phineas sees Jonas Spahr.

[Lark’s theme music ends.]

Narrator 1: But Jonas spar does NOT see Phineas. As he regards the town below—the frantic escape of the citizens to ships and barges—he does not see Phineas. He looks for him, to no avail.

[Distant thundering sounds, muffled screaming, and ominous, mournful notes from Phineas’s theme fade in.]

Narrator 3: And as the ship turns and the gangplank begins to rise, Spahr turns and enters the ship,

Narrator 2: and the ship goes.

Narrator 3: Phineas watches the golden vessel fly up and away. He drops his mace. The ground collides with his knees because his legs have buckled. People trample his cape.

[Motorcycle engine idling, revving, and fading into the distance.]

Narrator 1: He’s knocked almost flying by a mob, barely upright.

Narrator 3: He’s completely forgotten about Tzila.

Narrator 1: The motorcycle’s gone. Down the hill, on the move.

Narrator 3: He sees only the flicker of the ship disappearing into the blinding Un sky, leaving him alone, leaving him lost, on an utterly doomed… MIDST.

[Main theme music]