Narrator 1: It’s a beautiful day in the Highest Light. The city gleams and glimmers. Shards of mica float and flow overhead.

Narrator 3: Sherman Guthrie is here, sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe, sipping some steaming tea, eating a deluxe-looking and freshly-baked pastry, watching the world go by. And he is enjoying himself not one bit. This establishment is one of few that has been allowed to operate during the current freeze on Valor, and even then the only customers allowed are the Company, the Upper Trust, and those in their custody.

Narrator 2: He has been granted ‘freedom,’ they’re calling it. Freedom to move about the city as he wishes, though everywhere he goes he’s accompanied by several Company officers.

Narrator 1: They stand at a respectful distance, affording him some privacy, though he is aware of their lurking presence wherever he goes.

Narrator 2: And they draw much closer anytime he tries to enter into conversation with anyone. Who he talks to and who talks to him is still tightly controlled. So he’s been coming here to this cafe surrounded by flowers, enclosed in a mica-proof glass dome, getting as close as he can to escape… which is to say watching the ships come in and leave, thinking about how he might manage to get on one of those ships.

Narrator 2: Distantly, some of those ships are making their way to and from some individual estate islets. You might even recognize one of them, the telltale watery shield enveloping it: that’s the Loxlee islet just there,

Narrator 1: hovering at a substantial distance from the city, surrounded by a flotilla of gunships protecting it from those who are not welcome there.

Narrator 2: No one has come to speak to Sherman since that initial interrogation with the Consector.

Narrator 3: And he’s just kind of biding his time.

Narrator 2: It’s all he CAN do. But it’s clear they think he knows something, and they are not going to let him go until he tells them.

Narrator 1: He has a newspaper folded out on the table in front of him. He’s been scanning for news of Midst for several days.

Narrator 2: It’s all he can think about: Midst and his daughter.

Narrator 1: But there is little to no reporting of any kind in print or on the teletheric that he’s been listening to in his stateroom at the Delagney Hotel for the last few days. Coverage is limited, strictly controlled, and weirdly ambiguous. He doesn’t like it one bit.

Narrator 2: The best information he’s been able to find are just sensational vague headlines like ‘Midst continues to be terrorized by unprecedented tearror; Fold more dangerous than ever; don’t go there, Fold bad! We don’t like the Fold very much here!’

Narrator 3: There’s definitely a bias in Trust media.

Narrator 1: Well, whatever’s going on down there, it sounds legitimately horrific… and his mind is a spiral of concern for his daughter, whose whereabouts remain completely unknown.

Narrator 3: For the fourth time that day, he folds the newspaper up in disdain and frustration.

Narrator 2: He both hopes and fears that she is still with Lark. Lark does know how to survive… but it seems she’ll do almost anything towards that end.

Narrator 1: (as Moc Weepe) “Hey there, my good buddy. Got room for one more at this table?”

Narrator 2: Oh. Great.

Narrator 1: Adorned in a shimmering drape of extravagant Valor, dressed in the fine garments of a Trust elite, wearing a pair of tiny, bizarre sunglasses… and carrying a small suitcase in one hand, Moc Weepe helps himself to a chair across from Sherman here outside the cafe.

Narrator 2: That man has always been hard to look at in any kind of lighting, but here in the unflinching absolute brilliance of the upper Un, he is at once glorious and incomprehensible and kind of eye-hurty.

Narrator 1: He attracts quite a bit of attention. Not just for his extravagant display of Valorous wealth, but also for his hyper-reflective opalescent appearance.

Narrator 2: His light-incompatible skin.

Narrator 1: Many people gathered at the cafe and those passing on the sidewalk spare him a fascinated glance.

Narrator 2: Fragrant blooming flower hedges surround them, screening off their table from the others and offering them a little alcove of privacy.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hey, this is a pretty nice place, Sherman! Have you been comin’ here with some regularity?” Weepe says, steepling his spidery fingers and looking at Sherman over his sunglasses.

Narrator 2: Sherman sets his teacup down, trying to remain calm. [Sherman:] “Yes, I’ve found it’s a pretty nice place to come and be alone with my thoughts.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Terrific, I will have to start coming here as well,” Mr. Weepe says. “I dunno about you, Sherman, but I’m really havin’ trouble gettin’ used to all this bright light all the time. Dammit, it gives me a headache!”

Narrator 2: They’re both basically jet-lagged right now.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I don’t know when to sleep, I can’t get up, I feel very disoriented, Sherman, but I suppose you’re used to this… this being your hometown, after all…”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “I USED to be used to it. I’ve grown accustomed to life on the Mediun since then.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I hope you don’t me paying you a visit, Sherman. I just heard you were in a bit of a situation and I wanted to come pay my best greetings and see how you are doing these days.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “You mean… the situation YOU put me in when you sold out the Black Candle Cabaret and everyone who worked there? THAT situation?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yes, that is correct,” Weepe says with a benign smile, gazing placidly, disaffectedly, at Sherman with no particular emotion visible on his incomprehensible face.

Narrator 2: Sherman looks his employer up and down, taking in the new clothes, the extravagant abacus, the dandy little tinted sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. “Well, I can see that seems to have worked out pretty well for you… just like you planned, I suppose.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Sherman, if I’m being perfectly honest with you — and I WILL be perfectly honest…” Weepe says, leaning in closer across the table and waving to a waiter.

Narrator 2: Sherman sighs as he sees that this is not going to be a brief encounter.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “None of this was my plan. Really, Sherman, I mean that. Y’know you can trust me. I did not want for this to happen.” Weepe gestures to himself, to his garments, to his Valor.

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “No? What, uh… what WAS the intended outcome?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, just that we would have a beneficial and mutually, uh, helpful relationship with the Trust.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “With all of us who Breached out of there, you mean? Mr. Weepe, I’m separated from my daughter because of you. What do you want?”

Narrator 1: Weepe pops open a little silver cigarette case and lights a smoke for himself. This conversation is clearly not going to be as congenial as Mr. Weepe hoped it would be. He had presumed that things might go amicably. It seemed to him that there was a CHANCE of that possibility, but, well, clearly the plan needs to be amended. “Look, Sherman, I know you’re worried about your daughter. If I could guarantee her safety to gain your trust, I would, but I’m gonna be honest with you, Sherman, I have no fuckin’ clue where she is. And I don’t think that anybody else up here does either. I hope she is okay.” At the sentence level, this is a nice comment… but coming from Weepe, it’s pure shit and Sherman doesn’t care for it.

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “I don’t have to be polite to you anymore. I don’t work for you now and we are NOT friends.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, Sherman, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Weepe says, blowing an ostentatious smoke ring across the table. “Yes, I could have a cup of whatever he’s having, please, thank you very much. And please if you would put into it one or two more sugar cubes than you would like to normally put in, that would be most delicious, I think, thank you,” Weepe says to the waiter, who scurries off, bowing and scraping before his Valorous customer. Weepe stretches his neck gently. Grimaces a little. Removes his sunglasses. Places them on the table in front of him. And with a glance to the two Company members supervising this moment, issues a little flick of his hand. The Company members exchange a glance, look at each other, and back away out onto the street, affording them a little privacy.

Narrator 3: Sherman can still see them, but they’re not as in earshot as they were before.

Narrator 1: Weepe makes himself very comfortable in his chair, propping his spidery legs up on the side of the table, and picks a flake of frosting off of Sherman’s pastry and pops it into his mouth. “Mmm! That’s pretty good, Sherman, that’s a good choice,” he says, blinking his opalescent eyes and leveling them at Sherman disarmingly. “Forgive me for being interested in your welfare, my friend. I was hoping to have a civil conversation with you, but I see we should just cut to the chase.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Probably.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Very well, as you wish. So, Sherman…” Weepe crosses his fingers. “Sherman, you and I both know the Trust is holding you here, y’know, because… they think you know something that you think you know, y’know? D’ya know what I mean?”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Look, I’ve already told them and I’ll tell you the same thing: I DON’T know anything,” Sherman says, which is technically true. He suspects, but he doesn’t know, and he’s not about to say anything to THIS guy.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, I’ve been diggin’ around in some files, Sherman, and, um… lemme ask ya this: do you know — DID you know — anybody on Midst who would resemble this description?” Weepe, unclasping his briefcase, pulls out a small file, which he pages through, licking the tip of his thumb, flipping one page after another.

Narrator 2: Sherman’s stomach begins to fall even before it has a reason to. Even before he knows for sure what that description is.

Narrator 3: Sherman’s aversion to the Trust extends to an aversion to the Trust’s paperwork.

Narrator 1: He takes no pleasure at all in seeing this binder of documents.

Narrator 2: Which Weepe handles almost fetishistically.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Did you happen to know, Sherman, anybody going by the name of Clara? Clara Mire? Down on Midst?”

[Lark’s theme begins to play.]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “If I’m doin’ my arithmetic correctly, Sherman, she would be in her 60s these days. Does that ring any bells for you, Sherman? I’ve got her physical description here, too…” he adds, showing Sherman an old Company document with a list of basic physical traits on it. Eye color and so forth. They DO, incidentally, match Lark’s. But they COULD also match a lot of other people’s. It’s certainly nothing incriminating…

Narrator 2: Sherman takes another sip of his tea… partially to hide his face, partially to give himself a moment to think.

Narrator 1: Weepe’s tea arrives and Weepe takes a sip.

[Sipping. Then sudden gagging.]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Uggh! I dunno how ya drink this stuff, Sherman, this is way too fuckin’ sweet! Are you tryin’ to poison yourself? That’s one way to get outta here!”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “You asked for… never mind. I, um… I dunno, Mr. Weepe, that’s kind of a vague description. I… sure. I’ve seen lots of people. I definitely don’t know anyone by that name, at least.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, a picture is worth a thousand words, Sherman. Maybe this visual representation will help you conjure up somethin’.”

Narrator 3: And Weepe produces an artist’s interpretation of a girl. A solemn-looking girl, fairly nondescript except for the expression she wears.

Narrator 1: She seems in the sketch to be approximately the same age as Tzila, though the image is old and worn, clearly not recent.

Narrator 2: Sherman looks at the drawing. There’s something about the expression, maybe, but it’s… it’s a vague drawing just like it’s a vague description.

Narrator 1: Sherman shrugs.

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Sorry, no. I… couldn’t say. Look, there’s many people on Midst that could match that description who… who could have looked like this as a child. Why… why are you REALLY asking me about this? The Consector has been… evasive… but he did let something slip in our last conversation. That Fuze’s death was maybe connected to some 50-year-old cold case? Well… there’s only one 50-year-old cold case I can think of off the top of my head, and that’s only because it’s famous.”

Narrator 1: Sherman glances down at the old sketch on the table between them.

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Did Fuze know something about that? Is THAT what this is REALLY about?”

Narrator 3: Weepe regards Sherman. Even though he called Sherman his ‘buddy’ earlier, they are NOT friends. Let’s just be clear about that. But in the same way that you get to know the tells and idiosyncrasies of your coworker or your boss or an employee, Weepe sees in Sherman the micro-expressions of curiosity. Of putting two and two together. Of realization slowly working its way across Sherman’s face.

Narrator 1: And Weepe doesn’t answer. Doesn’t say anything. He just sips his tea for a long moment. “Very well, Sherman. You say you don’t have the information I’m lookin’ for. So I will just take you at your word. You’ve always been a very… trustworthy man.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Ha!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You laugh, Sherman, but you know I’m serious. It’s one of the reasons I was pleased to employ you at the Black Candle Cabaret. And you know what else, Sherm—”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “You didn’t just employ me, Weepe, you were running a Breach operation, remember? You offered a sanctuary to people trying to run from the Trust. You gave them a hiding place and a cover story by bringing them to Midst and letting them work for you. Seems altruistic on the surface, but also happens to give you a nice, cheap, compliant source of labor that has no choice but to put up with all your weird bullshit.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Is that what you think, Sherman?” Weepe says, his look actually snapping now to Sherman seriously, more earnestly than before. “Is that what you believe.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Well, I mean… that… that’s why so many of us were… were brought through there. Were sheltered there.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Not because you’re cheap, Sherman. It was because you’re damn good at your job. You’re the best fuckin’ bartender that ever come through Midst on that route. That kinda stuff matters when you’re tryin’ to run a business.”

Narrator 2: Sherman rubs his face. Mr. Weepe was trying to run a business, perhaps. Saskia? She was trying to help people.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You do excellent work, Sherman. We had nothing but the best reviews of you and your service at the Cabaret, and do you know what else, Sherman?” Weepe says, pulling yet more papers from his briefcase.

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “What?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I see in your file, here, that the Trust has kept on you—” and oh god, there it is: his file. Sherman had hoped never to see that paperwork ever again. It sits now on the table here at the cafe between him and Moc Weepe, Moc Weepe paging through it thoughtfully.

Narrator 2: He can see all those negative graphs even from here.

Narrator 1: Weepe puffs thoughtfully on his cigarette. “I’ve been talkin’ to the manager at the Delagney Hotel, Sherman. Your former manager. And, uh, speaking as one man who has employed you to another, that manager had many nice things to say about ya, Sherman. Excellent disposition with the guests. And he spoke about your excellent memory, not just for drinks, but for faces and names. You always had a good word for the customers when they came in, checkin’ in on them. Rememberin’ them every time. Is that right, Sherman? So I’m just curious, Sherman, if you could just let me know if you happen to have any recollections of anybody on Midst who could have evaded the Trust for decades… who might… be very good at… killing… people… perhaps…”

[A beat.]

Narrator 1: There is… a long pause in the conversation. “Okay,” Weepe says. “You’re welcome to be evasive if that’s the way you’re feelin’ today.” Weepe sips his tea, grimacing. “Excuse me, could I get another one of these with fewer sugars?”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Mr. Weepe, even if I DID know this information, why would I tell you?”

Narrator 1: Weepe does that weird waterfall thing where he sucks smoke from his open mouth up into his nostrils.

Narrator 2: What, is he trying to impress Sherman with his smoking tricks!?

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Sherman, I’m gonna give ya this one chance, and I can’t guarantee that the chance will be afforded to you again in the future, so I’m just put it down there for you right now.” Weepe begins to put away his papers. “And if you could make that tea pretty quick, I gotta be on my way. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, Sherman, that this isn’t really about Stationary Hill or some old guy who got murdered there. It’s about somethin’ much bigger. I can’t tell ya anything about the specifics right now, but lemme just say to you, Sherman: it would be very, VERY Valorous of you, Sherman… to let ME know this information if you happen to possess it or happen to remember it at some point in the future. Y’know, this whole Valor freeze that’s goin’ on right now? That doesn’t apply to fellas like me in the Upper Trust, Sherman. I can still make sure that you’re taken care of. I trust your gut instinct, Sherman. It has always been excellent. And were you to volunteer this information or any of those ‘gut instincts,’ I think that would be a very Valorous — very, VERY Valorous — thing for you to do. And do you know what, Sherman? A Valorous man can do whatever he wants. As you can see.”

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “Mr. Weepe, I… I tried the whole Trust thing. I really did. I don’t care about Valor. That’s why I tried to escape from it.”

Narrator 1: Weepe’s second cup of tea arrives in a hurry. Weepe takes a sip. “That’s pretty bitter. Could ya put some sugar in it? And bring it to go please. I gotta get outta here. I got a meeting I gotta get to.”

Narrator 2: This poor server!

Narrator 1: Weepe taps ash from his cigarette into the saucer of his teacup. “Well, Sherman, I certainly can’t argue with that logic. One way to escape from the system is, of course, to RUN from it. The other way… is to WIN at it.” Weepe leans in across the table, drawing uncomfortably close to Sherman, lowering his voice confidentially, sparing a subtle glance at the Company to ensure they are out of earshot. “I don’t really believe in the Trust either, Sherman. You and I have an understanding about this. But do you know what, Sherman? I know when to take an opportunity that is handed to me… when it will help me to survive. And do MORE than survive. In fact, to put myself in a very beneficial situation. Look at what my choice has gotten for me, Sherman. You are holding YOURSELF prisoner at this point.”

[A beat.]

Narrator 3: Now let’s get into Sherman’s head for a moment. A conversation with his old boss is hardly what he needed right now.

Narrator 2: He knows that Mr. Weepe is trying to manipulate him. It’s very transparent. He’s not trying to be subtle about it.

Narrator 3: He knows how Weepe is. How he behaves. How he interacts with people in his employ. But there’s something about what he’s saying… that twisted logic… that makes an uncomfortable kind of sense.

Narrator 2: Just because you know someone is manipulating you doesn’t mean it can’t work. And Sherman does have his survival to think about. More than that, his daughter’s survival.

Narrator 1: It is clear that the Trust is after Lark.

Narrator 2: And Sherman… well, he… he cares for Lark. He is pretty familiar with her physical description, in fact. But despite this bond he shares with her, it’s becoming increasingly clear that there’s a lot he doesn’t know about her. So… the Trust wants her and is willing to reward him significantly…

Narrator 3: …for ANYTHING about her, really.

Narrator 2: Even a gut feeling. With enough Valor, he could see to Tzila’s safety himself. He wouldn’t have to depend on Lark. He wouldn’t have to depend on the mercy of the Trust, the Consector. They wouldn’t have to run anymore. They could just LIVE. They… they could do more than survive, like Mr. Weepe was saying. But Sherman also knows that his daughter’s immediate safety in the short-term probably depends on Lark’s immediate safety. What would giving up this information DO to the both of them?

Narrator 1: Weepe’s continually-evolving cup of tea returns to the table once again in the hands of the waiter, now bottled to go in a little glass container. Taking it up in his hand, Weepe stands to go, raising a hand to beckon for the Company members’ return… but he hesitates, gazing pointedly at Sherman, opalescent eyebrow raised. “Last chance, Sherman. I cannot guarantee what the Trust will do with you, Sherman, but I CAN guarantee that very favorable things will happen for you if you were to relate any insights you might have to ME personally.” Weepe stubs out his cigarette. “If there is one thing you have always been able to count on me for, Sherman, you know damn well it is a consistent paycheck.”

Narrator 2: And Sherman understands more clearly what he could gain here.

Narrator 3: The question is: is it worth it?