Narrator 1: It’s field trip day here in the Upper Trust!

Narrator 3: There ARE some downsides to having vast, Valorous wealth… and being required to visit the Central Vault for an official private tour is just one of the many inconveniences.

Narrator 2: Oh, poor Weepe! Weepe and his glittering abacus and his trendy little sunglasses and snazzy shoes is grumbling to himself (in his mind) about all the governmental functions he’s going to have to attend going forward if THIS is the kind of life he’s going to lead. All the foundation… foundings!

Narrator 3: All the baby-kissing.

Narrator 2: Ew!

Narrator 3: All the ribbon-cuttings.

Narrator 1: No babies for Weepe, please. No, ick.

Narrator 2: Gross!

Narrator 1: He’s had a pretty packed schedule today already (not kissing babies), attending various mandatory functions. And here, now, towards the end of the day, he has just one more appointment ahead of him. And he is now, at this very moment, descending into the depths of the Central Vault. A location you, of course, are familiar with. Welcome back!

Narrator 3: But we’re going DOWN this time, into the depths today.

Narrator 2: You haven’t been down HERE before. You don’t have the security clearance.

Narrator 1: Very few people do have that security clearance! Weepe does, actually, to his own surprise. The guards at the front desk were delighted. They were simply honored to admit him with all of his Valor into the golden elevator at the back of the lobby. And he has been descending now for really quite a long time, actually.

Narrator 2: He’s passed several different security checkpoints with Company officers checking his credentials, his abacus, and admitting him yet deeper into the bowels of the Central Vault.

Narrator 1: And here at last, the elevator coming to a slow stop, the doors opening, Weepe steps forth into a very grandiose corridor.

Narrator 2: A lobby — an antechamber — and one of the more glorious rooms he’s seen here at the Central Vault, which is saying something. And here waiting for him are Imelda Goldfinch and Prime Consector Jonas Spahr.

Narrator 1: Both dressed in their very finest!

Narrator 3: (as Spahr) “Good day,” Spahr greets him a bit stiffly.

Narrator 2: (As Imelda) “Oh, Mr. Weepe!” exclaims Imelda.

Narrator 1: (as Weepe) “Hey there, Imelda, Mr. Consector. I’m sorry to keep ya waitin’. I’ve been running around quite a bit today.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Of course you have, Mr. Weepe! You’re a very important man! Oh, I’m so excited for you! Through these doors is the Arca, one of the most important chambers in all Trust society. But of course you wouldn’t be familiar with it yet…”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, other than the bits and pieces I pick up in the Trustee Handbook, Imelda, but… the Handbook is hardly Upper Trust literature.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Indeed, Mr. Weepe! Even in the Trustee Handbook, the Arca is discussed only minimally… for this chamber has a certain… oh, how would you put it, Consector? Mystique?”

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “You could say that,” Jonas answers simply, without elaborating further. His tone is a little detached — as though he would rather be ANYWHERE else right now. And honestly, that makes two of the party.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “It’s simply not FOR everyone, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, I’m very touched I get to be one of these people, Imelda!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “This chamber, the Arca, is reserved for particular people on particular occasions. I remember coming here when I was ordained! And, of course, the Consector—”

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “Yes, uh, this was where my Consectorship was granted to me: where I officially became the Prime Consector of the Trust.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “So many important rites of passages occur here! And for you, Mr. Weepe, as the newest member of the Upper Trust, it is now YOUR privilege to step within this chamber and see it for yourself! Something that you haven’t had the chance to do yet with all the unusual things that have been going on.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Mmm, you said it, Imelda! Well, I’m very sure it’s very marvelous. I couldn’t possibly be more excited for this opportunity, Imelda. So yeah, sure, why don’t we, uh… let’s have a quick look, shall we?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes, let’s! Consector, would you open the doors, please?”

[Doors hiss open.]

Narrator 3: And the trio pass into a hallway surrounding a massive triangular room.

Narrator 2: They have a clear vantage through the shining glass walls of this triangular chamber,

Narrator 3: into the Arca itself. And WHAT a room! If that antechamber was rad, well, fuck!

Narrator 2: Within the glass walls of the Arca’s inner chamber, Weepe can see two huge silos, almost: vast, towering glass cylinders,

Narrator 3: one filled with the luminous, pearlescent beads of Valor, the other with the darkly gleaming beads of Caenum.

Narrator 1: Weepe is actually gobsmacked by this. The scale! The sheer amount of WEALTH on display before him in these two gleaming, spotlit, humongous, magnificent silos! It is an almost holy experience. And while he — as you know — does not believe in ANY of this crap… he can still feel the symbolic power of the spectacle.

Narrator 2: The room has clearly been designed to inspire exactly this kind of awe. It’s cathedral-like in its grandeur. From the two vast storage cylinders, innumerable pneumatic tubes emit, whisking away the beads to wherever it is they need to be in the Central Vault or elsewhere in the city.

Narrator 1: Do you remember the last time we came here? We described for you how the building of the Central Vault seemed to be almost alive with a giant hamster maze — a marble maze — full of quietly rustling beads. Well, this, here — THIS is the very beating heart of that mechanism.

Narrator 2: The two chambers of the Trust’s heart.

Narrator 3: Caenum and Valor, Valor and Caenum… both going out and coming in… maintaining a balance in constant flux. The three visitors stroll along the observation path enclosing this central chamber, drawn by the gravity of these edifices, these huge silos before them.

Narrator 2: Imelda is prattling on about all this, her tone impassioned: “…as you can see, Mr. Weepe, this is the main location where the bulk of our Valor and Caenum units are housed!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Mmm, sort of a big storage room, it would seem.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Eh, you’re not wrong, Mr. Weepe, but you’re not quite right, either.”

Narrator 1: Imelda is gazing through the window separating them from the inner chamber, looking upon the silos within with a look of such wonderment.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “While it IS a storehouse, in a manner of speaking, it is a place of deep significance to the Trust — particularly those who are charged with its protection, with its balance. It is where we come to reflect. To bear witness to it all.”

Narrator 1: Weepe can see this. He understands this. This room definitely does NOT feel like a bank vault. If anything, it feels more like a spiritual chapel. The almost-musical rustle and rumble of the beads, the quiet elegance of the lighting, the gleaming adornments of the walls and floor, the distinct lack of guards…

Narrator 3: Even just the SCALE of it all reinforces this feeling of… of sanctity. The three visitors seem tiny, microscopic, compared to the vast, towering repositories of Valor and Caenum.

Narrator 2: Imelda is clasping her abacus sash emotionally. [Imelda]: “…and of course, these are more than just beads! Each one denotes a representation of that which does good, and that which does harm in the cosmos.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yes, I think I understand, Imelda. it’s been made, uh, abundantly clear for me at this point.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Ah! It seems like only yesterday… and yet so long ago… that you were giving me a tour of a place meaningful to you, Mr. Weepe!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh yes, a tour of Midst. I remember it.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “And I would just love to bring things full circle now by admitting you into the Arca itself.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hmm, I recognize a kind of symmetry in this, Imelda! And y’know…” Weepe stops on his walk and turns from the observation windows to look at Imelda and Spahr. “Let me just say, I thank you for returning the favor to me. A good tour is hard to come by these days!”

Narrator 3: Spahr stands patiently, his posture straight, his expression distant, his hands clasped behind his back… waiting for this conversation to move along.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You know, Mr. Weepe, some people — people outside the Trust — find it strange: our eternal struggle to quantify and calibrate the ephemeral, the contents of the human heart…”

Narrator 1: Hmm, she’s on to the heart now! Weepe has never heard this particular angle from Imelda before. He examines Imelda with some surprise.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, we’re not unaware that people think it’s an impossible task in some corners of the cosmos. They think it’s futile.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “It does seem a little strange, Imelda, I could concede, to some people who use more normal monies… that you would all be devoted to all of this.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Just because there are a vast number of variables to keep track of doesn’t mean it’s impossible! But it certainly is difficult… yet a more worthy cause I cannot bring to mind! And you are a part of this now! This endeavor.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, thank you very much, Imelda. That’s very touching. Mhmm, yep, yep. Yeah. Uh-huh.”

Narrator 3: Weepe is… well, he’s kind of trying to rush this whole thing along. This feels like Trust 101 shit to him… and he’s impatient. Imelda presses him:

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Do you understand the importance of that, Mr. Weepe?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Hm? Of all this? Yeah, yeah, yeah, Imelda, I… yes. Mmhmm.”

Narrator 3: The Consector cuts in, also perhaps trying to help move things along: “Now I understand you’re a busy man, Mr. Weepe. Let’s get on to the main event here. After all, time is Valor.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “And your commencement is not quite complete until you step within the Arca itself! Right through this gate, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Very well, if you insist, Imelda, Mr. Consector.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I promise you, you will see things from a different perspective once you stand within the splendor of the Arca itself.”

Narrator 3: With one distinguished, gauntleted hand, Jonas Spahr invites Weepe to step through the golden gate into the interior of the Arca chamber itself. Weepe does so with gravitas, passing through the portal, beholding the towering silos before him. He stands there… witnessing them in their total splendor.

Narrator 2: The only sound the gentle rainfall-like patter of the beads in their tubes overhead.

Narrator 1: Broken only… by the sharp clank of the gate shutting behind him.

[Gate slams.]

Narrator 2: Shutting… and locking.

[Gate locks.]

Narrator 1: Weepe turns. Imelda and Spahr are standing outside of the Arca chamber,

Narrator 2: shoulder-to-shoulder on the other side of the gate,

Narrator 1: looking in at him through the golden bars of the portcullis,

Narrator 2: the notary’s expression sympathetic as she removes her key from the lock.

Narrator 1: Weepe blinks. [Weepe:] “What, uh… exactly are we doin’ here?”

Narrator 3: Imelda is gazing at Weepe levelly. He’s not quite sure he likes the way in which she’s doing that, and he’s almost seen this expression on her face a handful of times before… almost as though there is a glittering, complex calculator whirring behind her eyes.

Narrator 1: Weepe is doing his own calculations. He’s outwardly calm, casual, lackadaisical. He does a quick scan of the inside of the gate, the rest of the Arca chamber that he stands within. There is no unlocking mechanism he can see. There is no other way out.

Narrator 3: Spahr is also gazing at him. He looks implacable and professional as always, though… was that a hastily-concealed trace of smugness on his face?

Narrator 2: It was. We’ll just tell you that. He’s never liked Weepe and wouldn’t mind seeing him squirm just a bit.

Narrator 1: But Weepe is not going to give him that satisfaction. Certainly not! Weepe offhandedly pats his pockets, looking for his lighter. Shit, he must have left in one of his other jackets. [Weepe]: “How long is this gonna take, Imelda? Don’t get me wrong, this is a real nice room you got here, but, uh, I skipped lunch today on account, as you know, of bein’ a really important man and all that, d’you understand? Um, I don’t think I’m in the mood to stay long in here unless… unless this event is going to be catered, maybe?”

Narrator 2: Imelda smiles patiently. [Imelda]: “This doesn’t have to take long, Mr. Weepe. It’s really up to you. But I will say… the Consector and I have both cleared our schedules. Just in case.”

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “As have the dozen Company soldiers who are now stationed out in the antechamber,” Spahr adds, failing once again to conceal his satisfaction.

Narrator 1: Weepe is looking around for something to lean on: something to show how casual he is. It’s hard to be a casual, cool, jaunty guy in this kind of situation with nothing to lean on in a jaunty way. There are no props in this regal, spotless room. Nothing he can fidget with. He stands there, looking more than ever like a marble statue in a museum. Feeling like an idiot — something he doesn’t LIKE to feel like — doing his best to look bored. [Weepe]: “Mm, gosh, a surprise party, Imelda! I would have worn a fancier outfit if I’d known about this. What… what’s goin’ on? Is this about the Sherman situation? Look, cuz if it is, I… if this is because I haven’t told you anything yet, you gotta realize I just like to get all my notes in order before I typically start—”

Narrator 2: Imelda gently interrupts him. [Imelda:] “This is completely unrelated to that matter. This is not about a murder mystery or what some poor Breached soul does or doesn’t know. This is about YOU and ONLY you, Mr. Weepe.”

Narrator 1: That’s… not great! [Weepe]: “Uhhh… what does that mean in this particular context, Imelda?”

Narrator 2: Imelda’s smile turns sad… and she walks right up to the golden bars of Weepe’s cage. [Imelda]: “Weepe. Now, I don’t know exactly what you think of me, but I am no fool. I know that from the moment we met, you have been exploiting the Trust and the Trust systems to your own benefit. I know that you care for Valor only as a stand-in for wealth, and not at all because of what it’s supposed to represent. I also know that you are here because you have nowhere else to go right now — having burned all your bridges in exchange for a… a ‘signing bonus.’ I know you are so consumed with trying to survive that you have lost sight of what it means to LIVE. I understand your motivations and it pains me to say this… but they do not befit a member of the Upper Trust.”

Narrator 3: Spahr clarifies grimly: “This is an intervention, Mr. Weepe. You can drop the ‘good Trustee’ act. You’re not fooling anybody.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You never were.”

[A loud crash as Weepe hurls himself against the gate!]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKIN’ CULTIST PIECES OF SHIT, YOU THINK YOU’RE SMARTER THAN ME?” Weepe slams up against the gate, arm shooting through the bars, clawing for Imelda’s throat.

Narrator 3: Spahr yanks Imelda back from the gate before Weepe can get his hands on her. He stares with amazed and slightly disgusted consternation at the rabid Trustee on the other side of the bars.

Narrator 2: Weepe has completely dropped the smile, the casual act. His weird face has transformed into a snarling mask, backlit by the gleaming pillars behind him.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You tryin’ to fuckin’ extort me? You have no idea who you’re fuckin’ with! What I do to the people who cross me! You don’t know me at all, Imelda, you don’t know me, you don’t know who I am, you don’t know a thing!”

Narrator 2: Imelda is watching this display with a curious mixture of emotions on her face, but she primarily looks patient and sympathetic — which, of course, only enrages Weepe further.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “So I’m not foolin’ you, huh? Well, you’re not foolin’ me, either, Imelda, you SCHEMING little piece of shit, prancin’ around, playing dumb with your little curls and your dimples and your stupid little sexy suits. You’re a joke, Imelda, and you wear too much fucking perfume. I can smell you comin’ a mile away. And YOU—”

Narrator 3: He turns his seething, sneering face to the Consector.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You’re pathetic. Big man, big important shiny man in your fancy armor. The Trust has you on a fuckin’ leash. You’re a show-pony, Consector, walking around in your own shit. You have any idea how fast you’d go down in a REAL fight —  a fight for your life, you entitled little idiot bitch?”

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “I beg your pardon?” Jonas finds himself bristling unexpectedly at Weepe. Pushing Imelda deliberately aside, he takes a step closer to the gate, himself, filling Weepe’s line of sight with his gleaming golden bulk. Jonas hates the way he has to look UP to meet Weepe’s eyes. [Spahr:] “You feel like putting that to the test?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, I feel like it a lot!”

[A crash! Jonas cries out.]

Narrator 1: A wraithlike arm shoots through the bars, seizes Jones by the neck of his breastplate, and with a shocking amount of the force yanks the Consector right up against the gate.

[Bang!]

Narrator 1: Metal clangs against metal. [Weepe]: “Let me out of here or I’ll kill you, Consector.” Bony vicelike hands clamp around Spahr’s windpipe, freakishly strong.

Narrator 3: Immediate desperate struggle.

[Crashing. Clanging of armor against the gate.]

Narrator 3: Spahr grapples. Imelda cries out. Weepe’s grip tightens.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “What do you think about that now, Consector? What do you think about that now!?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Mr. Weepe!”

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “Get off me!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Gentlemen, stop!”

Narrator 3: Spahr wrenches free—

[A crash and a scattering of broken beads.]

Narrator 3: —abacus ripping, Valor beads scattering onto the floor between them. Weepe is not just a scared little weasel lashing out in a cage. This is… this is something more. Something that makes Spahr’s brain start pumping out all those good fear chemicals involuntarily. Gasping, clutching at his neck and broken abacus, he steps back from the gate and turns around before Weepe can read his face for too long. [Spahr]: “Madam Notary, is this really worth the trouble?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I know EXACTLY how much this is worth, Consector. I’ve done the math.”

Narrator 1: Weepe launches himself off the bars with a wordless roar of anger and starts pacing back and forth within the sealed Arca chamber like a caged animal. His palms are tingling with the aftershock being ripped off the Consector’s armor. [Weepe]: “So whaddya want? You want me to promise to be a good little Trustee? Pledge my undying devotion to Valor and all the goodness that it stands for? Beg forgiveness for my wily and selfish ways, Imelda? Do little song and dance for you to get off on? Go fuck yourselves.”

Narrator 2: Imelda smiles with infinite patience. [Imelda]: “As usual, you have a lightning-fast grasp of the surface level: the machinations, the performance… but not the substance. You are here because I don’t know how else to make you listen. I’ve tried! You’ve ignored me. So please listen. The Trust needs you — your mind, your genius, your ruthlessness! But we need you at your BEST, not as you are now. We need you truly and actually on our side. We are not your enemies!”

Narrator 1: Weepe is beginning to feel… strange. A horrible, familiar strangeness… deep inside his body… growing stronger. The tingling in his hands… is not going away. The surge of rage-fueled adrenaline in his body isn’t going away either, but it is rapidly turning from rage into fear… as he begins to realize what is happening… INSIDE him.

Narrator 3: This is NOT good. This shouldn’t be happening right now. This WOULDN’T be happening right now if he hadn’t lost his temper like that! On a normal day, he would still have hours before he felt the need to siphon. He needs to turn this around, and FAST. He exhales. He smiles. He spreads his hands placatingly.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Imelda. Mr. Consector. I’m really very sorry about all that. I lost my temper a little bit there. I would like to apologize for the nasty things that I said and that I did. I did not mean any of this.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Of course you didn’t, Mr. Weepe. You’ve been put in an unexpected and intimidating situation. Anyone would lash out!”

Narrator 1: Weepe nods emphatically. “Yes. Y-yes, Imelda, I’m glad you understand. It was just… that was a reaction. Now, I’m a reasonable man. You’re a reasonable person. Mr. Consector, Madam Notary, I have no doubt we can put my little… outburst… behind us and talk through this like adults, yes? Maybe over a meal at, uh… at your favorite restaurant, Imelda. Wouldn’t that be a little bit more comfortable for all of us?”

Narrator 3: Weepe’s skin is prickling, kind of like the way it does when your arm falls asleep. But instead of a falling asleep, this is a nauseating, horrifying kind of waking up. And Weepe is desperately trying to sing it a lullaby.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I’m sorry, Mr. Weepe, but I think I have the best chance of getting through to you if we stay right here. This is too important to leave to chance. Is that all right with you?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Fine, fine, yes, Imelda, whatever you say, go ahead, I’m listening.” Maybe if he just lets her talk he can get this over with. Maybe it’ll be over quick and then he can get out, back to his penthouse, get his medical case. Maybe it’s not too late.

Narrator 3: His white fingernail beds, just at the point where they emerge from the flesh of his cuticles, are beginning to turn a sickly gray. He feels aching in his bones — the gnawing at his insides — growing hotter. Sharper. Coming alive.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “The Black Candle Cabaret: what you did, turning it in, exposing the centerpoint of the Breach route? That was an undeniably Valorous action. “

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Mmhmm, yeah, thank you, Imelda…”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “But… but — and here I’ll use a term that might be more meaningful to you than ‘Valorous’ — do you have any idea how much RICHER you would be… if you had performed that very same action with Valor in your heart? If you had done exactly what you did, but for the good of the Trust instead of for the good of just yourself?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Okay, Imelda, I see your point. It’s very well taken. I see what you’re saying, um… I haven’t been doing this with the best of intentions… Uggh…” [Weepe sounds pained and unwell.] “I’m trying to do… what I’ve always done my whole life… just trying to get by, tryin’ to make things work out, just trying to survive. You got to understand—” [Pained wheezing.] “—It’s what I do, Imelda! It’s the only thing I know how to do!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I do understand, Mr. Weepe. You don’t need to defend yourself. I understand well the motivations of wealth. Both the Consector and myself, all the notaries, everyone involved with the governance of the Trust — we know that Valorous people perform Valorous actions all the time with no motivation other than accruing Valor, which is a very different thing than doing something because you know it to be right! Of course, as long as the net outcome is that Valor has been generated, the system is technically working, but… but we can do better than that as a society. Don’t you think that it’s better to do the right thing for the right reason?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, y — y-y-y — of course, Imelda. Look, look, if you’re tryin’ to teach me a lesson, if you’re tryin’ — uggghh — tryin’ to get me to repent for being selfish, look, I’ll do it! Do you want me to pay a fine or something, Imelda? Take some Valor out of my account? I’ll do that too! What… what can I do to convince you, Imelda?” He’s… not lookin’ so hot right now. Even Imelda is really starting to take note. Spahr’s brow furrows.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You don’t NEED to convince me Mr. Weepe! I need to convince YOU.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Please, Imelda, y’gotta help me, Imelda, I’m not well, Imelda, I NEED MY—” [Agonized cries.]

Narrator 3: But he can’t finish his sentence… as a sudden full-body wave of dizzying pain pulses through him. The wind is knocked out of his lungs. He slumps down against the bars, suddenly weak. His skin is starting to flicker, its opalescence failing — a cancerous grayness consuming its iridescence.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You need your medical case, is that what you’re trying to say? You… you need to see to your… ailment, right?” Imelda looks down at her watch in some alarm. “Don’t you normally do that in the evenings? This is happening several hours before I thought…”

Narrator 3: How does she know about all of that? Weepe doesn’t have the presence of mind to dwell on it. His time is running out.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Imelda, you gotta listen to me: my medical case is in my penthouse on the other side of the city! You gotta send someone!”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Don’t-don’t worry, Mr. Weepe, your case is already here! I had it brought here before you even arrived. It’s in the antechamber with the Company just outside the door. I’ll get it for you, just… just as soon as we finish talking. Everything is going to be all right.”

Narrator 3: Weepe does not find this particularly reassuring. Neither does Spahr, whose eyes narrow to slits.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You had it brought here, Imelda? Are you plannin’ on killin’ me?”

Narrator 2: Imelda sounds on the verge of tears when she answers, “Killing you? Of… of course not! I was only trying to… to… to motivate you. To help you listen…”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, I’m listenin’, Imelda, but not for much longer. This is gonna be a problem for all of us real quick. You got all the LIGHTS on in here…”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “The… the lights?” As Imelda’s brow furrows with concern and confusion, Consector Spahr takes her firmly by the elbow.

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “Madam Notary, a word.”

Narrator 1: Increasingly very scared, Weepe watches through warping, short-circuiting vision as the Consector draws Imelda a short distance away for a private, hushed conversation further away from the golden bars of the gate. It’s getting harder for him to breathe. It’s getting harder for him to think straight. He realizes that he has collapsed completely onto the cold marble floor of the Arca chamber.

Narrator 3: Consector Spahr has an uneasy gleam in his eye. He has been watching this go down — watching this supposed ‘intervention’ go increasingly off the rails — and finds he can no longer keep silent even for the sake of the guy who just tried to strangle him. [Spahr]: “Imelda, what the HELL is going on? You said you were going to talk to Weepe about his motivations and make sure he wasn’t a detriment to the Upper Trust. You didn’t say anything about torturing him.”

Narrator 2: Imelda’s cheeks are flushed pink, but she looks up at Spahr with surprising composure. [Imelda:] “It’s true. I didn’t think his condition would deteriorate until I had much more time to talk and get through to him. It was only supposed to be the most distant of incentives. But regardless, the essence of my plan has not changed. We hold the course! He… he’s not in any life-threatening danger yet!”

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “You don’t know that! We don’t know ANYTHING about his condition! It’s some kind of unnatural Fold sickness! We have NO clue how it works. His gums are turning black, Imelda! You realize I’m going to have to report this.”

Narrator 2: Imelda’s eyes are full of unshared tears as she says, “Why do you think I asked you to accompany me today, Consector? I need you to witness my Caenum! Make your report, and make it with full accuracy! I am doing something TERRIBLE! It is only right that my own account be diminished from my actions here today. But… Consector… I budgeted for this. The cost has been weighed… AND the benefit. I am willing to take the hit for the good of the Trust!”

Narrator 1: From within the Arca chamber: a hideous, wet cough as Weepe wheezes for breath. He’s whimpering: “Get it out of me! GET IT OUT OF ME! Imelda! Please! You gotta help me! It’s gonna kill me, Imelda! It’s gonna KILL ME, IMELDA, IT’S GONNA KILL ALL OF YOU, IMELDA, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS TURN OFF THE LIGHTS TURN OFF THE LIGHTS TURN OFF THE LIGHTS TURN OFF THE LIGHTS IMELDA IMMMELLDAA IMMELDAAAAAA—”

[Weepe’s pained wails continue in the background.]

Narrator 3: Spahr grinds his teeth and squares his shoulders. “That’s it! I’m calling this off! You can continue this conversation at a later date or have him kicked off of the Upper Trust, I don’t care! Let him out or I will have you arrested! This isn’t right.”

Narrator 2: In the blink of an eye, Imelda’s tone changes to one Spahr has never heard from her before. [Imelda]: “’RIGHT,’ Consector? Bold of you to assume you know what is ‘right’ in a situation as nuanced as this one! This is high-level notarial mathematics, Jonas. You have no concept of the complex calculations involved. You are the arm of the Trust, not the brain. Do you have any idea what it would do to your own account to interfere with me right now? Of COURSE you don’t. You’re not a notary. So let me just tell you: you can’t afford it. Go ahead. Do what you think is ‘right.’ But it will be the LAST thing you ever do as Prime Consector!”

Narrator 3: The Consector and the notary look at each other for several tense moments. Imelda has the glowing air of someone speaking with absolute certainty. And Jonas… well… he finds that he is NOT certain. He’s not certain of ANYTHING anymore. Definitely not certain enough to stake his entire account and position on it. He feels the conviction drain out of him as he stands there, unexpectedly paralyzed by the threat of losing… everything. And Imelda turns her body away from him, not breaking eye contact until the last possible moment… and she returns to the gate.

[Weepe whimpering in the background.]

Narrator 2: Imelda sinks to her knees and leans against the golden bars, getting as close as she can to Weepe without unlocking the gate. If Weepe were capable of smelling anymore, he would notice the floral notes of her perfume. Perfume which he really thought was quite nice,

Narrator 1: despite his insults against it earlier. All lies.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, Mr. Weepe. I need you to see that the way you have been using the Trust is toxic to what the Trust is trying to be, what it COULD be. And it’s toxic to yourself. Transformation is not always comfortable, but it is NECESSARY. We NEED you at your fullest potential, not as you have been living. Oh, but I never wanted to see you suffer like this!”

[A beat.]

Narrator 3: Dear listeners: we thought about sparing you the details of what is happening to our good friend Mr. Moc Weepe right now…. but it’s important for you to get the full picture. So… let’s take a look, shall we?

Narrator 1: We’ve seen Weepe in this kind of pain before… but he was able to do something about it at that time. Now? He tremors on the floor, clawing at his abdomen, ripping and fraying the seams of his new clothes as his body twitches and seethes, consumed by growing, ravening tearror coming alive inside his body.

Narrator 3: His eyes, rolling sightlessly behind those tiny sunglasses, are darting every which way… his vision occluded by his own internal infection… building within him exponentially the longer it is left unchecked.

Narrator 1: He’s writhing on the floor, his muscles seizing in disjointed, horrifying spasms like a hideous puppet with tangled strings attempting to right itself, but hopelessly so. His skin bubbles, boils, sizzles, and smokes. [Weepe]: “Imelda! Imelda! Imelda! Imelda! IMELDA IMELDA PLEASE IMELDA AAHGGH SASKIA UUHHSSASKIA we-we’re all gonna die Imeldaaaaaaaaaaa—”  

Narrator 2: Imelda is just openly crying now, the tears carving shiny paths through the foundation on her cheeks. [Imelda]: “Oh, Mr. Weepe! This is my failing, truly! I am the one who opened your account! I am the one who guided you towards the Trust, and yet I did not guide you away from your own shortsightedness until now… until it had to be so painful for you! I’m so sorry it had to be like this! I’m so sorry!”

Narrator 1: This is a terrible, delirious moment for Weepe: he is on the floor, curling more and more into a fetal position, absolutely dying, LITERALLY dying, weakly reaching towards the gate, life fading from his eyes, sounds around him coalescing into an incomprehensible muffled cacophony. He hears words. He barely understands spoken language anymore. He hears Imelda’s philosophies. He feels — more than he can even see anymore — the silos, the huge towers above him, full of Caenum and Valor as he is eaten alive from within.

Narrator 3: Spahr is rooted to the spot, like he’s watching a nightmare he cannot wake up from.

Narrator 2: (Imelda, crying) “You poor, poor man! Look what the Fold has done to you! Your life has not been kind to you, has it? You have been forced to look out for yourself because no one else ever has! But Mr. Weepe — Moc — I am looking out for you now! Tell me, haven’t you ever wanted to be part of something bigger than yourself? Something GOOD?”

Narrator 1: And Weepe DOES hear that through the maelstrom of raw, horrifying pain and sensory confusion assaulting him.

Narrator 2: (Imelda, crying) “I know that you want this! Please tell me that you understand and we can put this to an end! I wish I didn’t have to hurt you! But I NEED what you could be! Tell me, Moc! Tell me you will live for the good of the Trust!”

Narrator 1: Convulsing on the floor, smoke curling off of his body… trembling, weak, delirious, confused, and an extraordinary incomprehensible pain — the towering reserves of Valor and Caenum swimming in his vision — Weepe tells Imelda what she wants to hear. Whether he MEANS it or not is a story for another day. But weakly, quietly, just barely…. Imelda hears Weepe say…”

[A beat.]

Narrator 1: (Weepe, barely audible) “…I will, Imelda. I will. I will…”

Narrator 2: …and that is all Imelda needs to hear. She’s on her feet immediately. She’s unlocking the gate, shouting over her shoulder: “Consector, get the medical case! See to his ailment at once! We don’t have a moment to spare! And get someone to turn off the lights! TURN THEM OFF!”

Narrator 3: And Spahr feels himself unfreezing. He races to the antechamber doors, flinging them wide, and orders the Company medic into the room.

Narrator 1: The spotlights in the inner sanctum go dark, plunging the room into an eerie twilight.

Narrator 3: The medic, with Weepe’s case in hand, rushes into the Arca chamber and kneels on the ground by the sizzling, smoking husk… of what USED to be Weepe.

Narrator 2: Imelda is calling for backup. Five other Company members rush into the room, briefly registering alarm at the spectacle before them—

Narrator 1: —assisting Spahr, lifting Weepe’s body into a stretcher while the medic opens the medical case, pulling out the supplies, rapidly scanning the cryptic instructions contained within.

Narrator 2: Imelda is calling for water, for bandages.

Narrator 1: The medic plunges the needle into Weepe’s arm and siphons out — with horror, eyes going wide—

Narrator 3: —a seething darkness, gnashing and raging against the syringe’s glass reservoir, barely contained, swarming viciously for escape.

Narrator 2: Blistering nightmare darkness that absolutely should NOT be in anyone’s body. The poor unsuspecting medic nearly drops the syringe in her shock. The notary and the Consector look upon what they have wrought together,

Narrator 1: as the medic begins again to siphon a second round. Spahr inspects Weepe’s twitching remains, checking for breathing. And… he IS breathing. Just barely.

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “M-madam Notary, he… he looks…”

Narrator 2: Imelda rubs the tears forcibly off her cheeks before trying a smile… and says with forced cheerfulness: “Nothing a little… hair and makeup can’t fix, I should think. Anyway… it’s what’s on the inside… that counts.”