Narrator 2: Tzila has had a pretty nice day, all things considered.

Narrator 3: She’s had a bath. Plenty of food. She’s been given some new drawing supplies, a change of clothes, and the space to decompress after the pell-mell hell she’s been living since the moon fell.

Narrator 2: That rhymes!

Narrator 3: We don’t usually do that here.

Narrator 1: We do now, though!

Narrator 2: From now on all lines will rhyme.

Narrator 3: Oh, that’s a dangerous precedent!

Narrator 1: Until now, there hasn’t been a moment for Tzila to breathe, to process everything that has happened to her thus far. To process what she’s lost. It still… doesn’t seem quite real.

Narrator 2: ‘Sherman is dead. The Trust found him…’ is all Lark told her about her dad. Speaking of which, Lark has not come to check on her like she said she would. Since Tzila can’t sleep anyway… is it day? Is it night? It seems like everyone else in the Lazaretto is asleep right now.

Narrator 3: At least it’s quiet.

Narrator 2: So… she figures she might as well go look for Lark,

Narrator 1: as long as Lark isn’t going to come looking for her.

Narrator 2: She wanders the empty Lazaretto halls. Quiet. Peaceful. Somewhat spooky at… night? Or… we won’t belabor the point anymore; it’s hard to tell what time it is if you’re not from here.

Narrator 1: It is a very, very large place, though most of the sprawling expanse of the Lazaretto’s castle-like structure is not open to visitors. So there are only so many places Lark could be. All the same places that Tzila, herself, could theoretically go.

Narrator 2: She passes by a tall ornate window overgrown with moss and hanging ivy. It looks out over that kelp maze, the glowing fronds waving back and forth in the fold breeze. Actually, some of them are waving and wiggling a little bit more…

Narrator 3: …deliberately?

Narrator 2: More energetically than others. Tzila leans over the windowsill. Takes a closer look. Is that… Lark… down there?

Narrator 1: It’s hard to mistake that hat.

Narrator 2: It’s fuckin’ Lark!

Narrator 1: That backpack and that rifle hanging from her shoulder.

Narrator 2: There she is, striding purposefully through the kelp stalks,

Narrator 1: in a hurry. Moving quickly and quietly, looking over her shoulder. Hmm!

Narrator 2: Tzila, quick as a flash, rushes down to the ground level of Lazaretto. She’s still barefoot. She’s running out across the mossy grounds, trying to catch up with Lark. She dives into the kelp maze, the bioluminescent fronds slapping her face as she runs.

Narrator 3: Both Lark and Tzila have completely ignored the meditative path that one is intended to use while passing through this maze. They’re just cutting right the heck across through it.

Narrator 2: A very annoyed Mother will have to fix that afterwards. Lark, obviously not deaf, has heard all the rustling behind her and has turned to face whoever’s pursuing her.

Narrator 1: Tzila scrambles into the clearing and skids to a halt in front of her… friend? Caretaker?

Narrator 3: Babysitter, once.

Narrator 2: (as Tzila) “Wha…. where’re you… where’re you going?” Lark looks down at her unsmilingly. [as Lark]: “I’m just out from a midnight stroll.”

Narrator 1: Tzila takes in the gun, the backpack,

Narrator 2:  the hat, the coat,

Narrator 1: the other gun, as well. The knife,

Narrator 2: the other OTHER gun.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “You’re not… leaving… are you? Without me?”

Narrator 3: And this is the exact conversation that Lark was trying to avoid.

Narrator 2: The whole point of stealing away in the dead of night like this.

Narrator 3: Though we’ll let you in on a little secret. There’s more going on than just that. Lark is jumpier than usual. She’s got this weird panicky edge to her energy that just isn’t normal for her.

Narrator 2: She hadn’t planned to steal away in the dead of night TONIGHT. No, she was going to abandon Tzila in a thoughtful, responsible way. Y’know, check in on her, make sure the Mothers were treating her right, get that damned Adsecla to leave the Lazaretto, and THEN… then she was going to disappear.

Narrator 1: But that all changed when she woke up in a cold sweat less than an hour ago feeling sick to her stomach with dread out of nowhere… seized by a horrible, invasive sense of entrapment, claustrophobia, desperation… that she absolutely could not account for.

Narrator 3L: Paranoia? Or spiderweb vibrations…?

Narrator 1: Whatever it was, it made her want to run for her life immediately. Without thinking. Without planning. So she tried to. And her panic made her sloppy, and, well, here we are now. The feeling of sourceless panic has subsided somewhat, but now she has a different problem on her hands.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Okay. Yes, Tzila. I—”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “No.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Listen.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “No!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I… listen.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “No, you can’t do that!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Tzila.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Lark!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I am leaving. You are staying here with the Mothers.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “No, no I’m not.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “That’s that.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “No!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “This is for your own good. You shouldn’t be with me. You shouldn’t WANT to be… you don’t even know me. You don’t know who I am, what I’ve done. It’s dangerous for you to come with me.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “It’s—”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “You’ll be better off here. I can’t give you what the Mothers can give you.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Well, it’s dangerous anywhere right now, Lark! I… I know you’re some kind of outlaw. I mean, look, obviously you are. We’ve all known that for a long time. I don’t care, though! I want to stay with you. My dad trusts you… he… he trusted you. And you’re the closest thing I have to family right now anyway.”

Narrator 2: Lark almost says ‘Just because I’ve fucked your dad a few times does NOT make us family.’

Narrator 3: What she ACTUALLY says, though, is:

Narrator 2: (Lark) “That… is awful. And I’m sorry.” She stands there glaring at Tzila. It doesn’t look like she’s going to budge.

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “Lark, I… I won’t cause you trouble, I…but… y—”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “You don’t know that.”

Narrator 3: (Tzila) “I just can’t let you leave without me.”

Narrator 2: Tzila has planted her feet — her bare feet — there on the ground. Is looking up at Lark with an expression of absolute determination on her face.

Narrator 1: Amazingly stubborn.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I’ll scream.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) [Scoffs.]

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “And then you won’t be able to go anywhere at all. Or you can go and you can take me with you! Lark!?”

Narrator 1: (Lark) “Fine. Fine! Come with me right now. Be quiet. D’you have… you don’t even have your shoes. Well, whatever. If you’re coming, you’re coming now.”

Narrator 3: And there’s a kind of utility to this. While, on the one hand, it would have been convenient to leave Tzila in the care of the Mothers, Lark acknowledges that Tzila would have still been a loose thread.

Narrator 2: There’s a certain practicality in keeping her… witnesses… close to her. Close enough where she can keep tabs on them.

Narrator 1: At least that’s what she convinces herself of since she apparently doesn’t really have any other choice anymore.

Narrator 2: It’s not like she… CARES, actually. [Lark]: “Well, come on then.” And she grabs Tzila’s hand.

Narrator 1: The pair of runaways proceed to the Lazaretto’s marina.

Narrator 2: Sort of a stable where they keep those manta-ray-like creatures, one of which they use for the ferry between sequester and the Lazaretto. These broad-winged creatures are bobbing in their enclosures,

Narrator 1: dimly bioluminescent, purring quietly in their births,

Narrator 2: chittering to each other.

Narrator 1: Lark skirts around them, staying low, keeping her eyes out for any activity. There are no Mothers afoot at this late hour.

Narrator 2: She thinks that they would actually probably just GIVE her one of these creatures if she asked… but then she would have to ask. She kneels down in front of one of them. Strokes its flank. Starts getting acquainted. Starts getting it prepped for travel.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “We’re taking… this?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “We’re taking this.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Do you know how to… ride one of these things?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Shouldn’t be too hard to figure out. That’s what they’re bred for.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I don’t think it’s that easy, Lark!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Listen, do you want to come with me or not?”

Narrator 1: Ehh, that’s a fair point. Tzila looks around. [Tzila]: “What… how do we…?”

Narrator 2: Lark is whispering quietly — soothingly — to the ray, displaying a gentleness she’s never used with Tzila.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “So where are we going, anyway?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Don’t know yet. Doesn’t really matter. There are plenty of other islets down here in the Fold. Away from the Trust is all that really matters. Grab me one of those saddles, would ya?”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “One of these?”

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

Narrator 1: Tzila quickly and quietly moves over to a rack of creature accessories. With considerable effort, Tzila hoists one of the large, cumbersome saddles into her arms.

Narrator 2: Lark continues to tend to the creature for a while. Tzila seems like she’s taking longer than she should. [Lark]: “What’s the holdup?” she calls out.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Uhhh… Lark?”

Narrator 2: Lark turns.

Narrator 1: Oh. It’s him.

Narrator 2: (Tzila) “Hi, Phineas,” says Tzila, a bit uncertainly, glancing at Lark.

Narrator 3: There, standing in the doorway, shoulders heaving slightly from being partially out of breath, is Phineas Thatch,

Narrator 1: who has a way of showing up in doorways dramatically just in the nick of time.

Narrator 2: He looks… different. First and most obviously, he is not wearing his Adsecla armor. It’s the first time either of them — Lark or Tzila — have seen him out of his armor. And, well, wow: it makes quite a dramatic difference. He seems smaller, younger, more vulnerable? Certainly less imposing, and just kind of more of a… boy.

Narrator 3: Yeah, he’s probably not even much more than a decade older than Tzila. And the only thing distinguishing him as a Trustee at this point is the single bead of Caenum still on his abacus… that he’s still wearing.

Narrator 2: There’s also a look in his eye: a kind of…

Narrator 3: …almost a hopefulness.

Narrator 2: It’s different from anything they’ve seen in his face before. Lark doesn’t like it. Lark doesn’t trust it. Lark is on her feet, walking towards Phineas menacingly. [Lark]: “Don’t try to stop us, kid. Won’t work.”

Narrator 3: (as Phineas) “I’m not here to stop you, Lark. There’s just something I’d like to get off my chest. Something to… to say to you, Tzila, before you go. And then I’ll… I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll be out of your way.”

Narrator 2: This is not what Lark was expecting. Tzila is surprised as well. [Tzila]: “Something to… to ME?”

[A beat.]

Narrator 1: For many days, Lark has shielded Tzila from this. Prevented Phineas at every turn from talking with her directly. But here and now, there’s something about him. Something… new and strange and small and sincere. So she does not protest. And, of course, if it turns out she doesn’t like where he’s going with any of this, she can just clobber him mid-sentence.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Tzila, I… I did something… terrible… to your father. I thought Sherman knew something that would… would help me break even and, uh… I’m… it feels so stupid to say, but I… it-it would have helped me to… well, it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t even know how to apologize to you. I just… I want to try to make things right for you.”

Narrator 1: Tzila is standing in the middle of the stable.

Narrator 2: The saddle slips out of her limp grasp. [Tzila]: “YOU… killed him?”

Narrator 1: What?

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “N- n- no! N… no. What!?”

Narrator 1: What is she talking about?

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “No, he’s al… he’s alive. Or he was… the last time I saw him, anyway. The Company took him into custody. He was with Spahr, the… the Consector… and the last I saw of the Consector, he was on the ship. So it stands to reason that he would have been brought with him.”

Narrator 1: Tzila is vibrating. Visibly shaking. She turns immediately to Lark. [Tzila]: “You told me he was dead!”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “I… I thought he was.:”

Narrator 1: This is true! She DID think that. This is new information.

Narrator 2: Lark, answering Tzila, is still staring straight at Phineas. [Lark]: “He LOOKED pretty dead… from my vantage point.”

Narrator 1: Tzila is sizing up Lark with wide-eyed… mistrust? Confusion?

Narrator 2: She is breathing fast.

Narrator 1: She looks to Phineas. She looks to Lark.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t even set out to HURT him, originally. I just… I.. beat him… unconscious…”

Narrator 2: Tzila has turned her attention back to Phineas at this point. [Tzila]: “And you’ve been with me all this time!? Being NICE to me? Pretending to be my friend!?”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Tzila, I didn’t mean to deceive you! I just couldn’t find the right moment to tell you! And if I’m being honest, part of me didn’t WANT to talk about what I had done. But things are different now. I’m different!”

Narrator 2: Lark narrows her eyes at him suddenly, taking in his weird, emotional, unguarded demeanor. [Lark]: “The hell are you talking about? Are you high?”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Uh, well, there was this moth… but.. it’s not the point. The point is, Tzila, I want to help you.”

Narrator 2: At this point, Phineas gets kind of formal all of a sudden. He drops into a knightly kneel before the young girl,

Narrator 1: a practiced pose he has clearly adopted many a time on many a special occasion,

Narrator 2: bowing his head in subservience.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “I’m not just here to apologize to you, Tzila. I’m here to PLEDGE this to you. I will go back to the Un. I will find Sherman. And I will bring him back to you.”

Narrator 2: Phineas delivers this pledge with utmost sincerity, and he feels in every fiber of his being that this is the right thing to do. This is his new purpose. This is his path. He feels for a moment suffused with a sense of what Valor REALLY means. So it’s all the more startling to him when he feels himself grabbed roughly by the scruff of the neck and jerked his feet.

Narrator 1: His new path is off to a rough start.

Narrator 2: Lark, in his face, an inch away from him, glaring daggers into his eyes. [Lark]: “Oh, shut your fucking mouth. This isn’t about Tzila. This isn’t about Sherman. This is about YOU. You’re just trying to play the hero to make yourself feel better for what YOU did.”

Narrator 1: Her face, so close to his, is astoundingly intimidating. She is one of the most menacing people he has EVER seen and he struggles to maintain his composure inches from Lark.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “What do you want? Applause? Valor? You can’t undo what you’ve done. EVER. This is part of who you are now for the rest of your life. It doesn’t MATTER how many good things you do from here. This doesn’t get erased.”

Narrator 3: Phineas is speechless. He thought he had things figured out after that whole moth experience. He thought his new objectives were clear. He THOUGHT this was what he needed to do, but… everything is so complicated outside the crystalline clarity of the Trust.

Narrator 1: Tzila is standing by, watching this, her expression a mixture of anger, betrayal…

Narrator 2: There are too many realizations crashing in on her at once right now. She can’t take it. It’s overwhelming.

Narrator 1: And she’s not looking to Phineas in this moment. She is regarding Lark with increasingly apparent dawning disbelief.

Narrator 2: (Tzila) “Lark… This whole time we’ve been with Phineas, you KNEW? You KNEW that it was him?”

Narrator 3: But before Lark or anyone can respond…

[A churning, rhythmic pulsing sound is growing louder and louder in the background.]

Narrator 1: …that increasingly loud sound that we’ve all been hearing in the background is getting very loud indeed…

Narrator 2: …and some kind of huge, shiny vessel crests up into view at the edge of the marina: a black, glistening, long hooded foldmersible — like if Cadillac made submarines.

Narrator 3: And existed in this universe.

Narrator 2: It has a hood ornament and everything.

[Thunderous militaristic theme music plays.]

Narrator 2: It is lined with the most ostentatious display of lights and headlamps that fold-safety will allow. It comes barging up into what looks to be a reserved parking space, extends a gangplank, and the doors open,

Narrator 1: down which a red carpet is unfurled. Steam billows forth.

Narrator 2: A procession of crisply-uniformed heralds proceed out,

Narrator 3: and, taking up their positions here in the marina,

Narrator 2: the lead herald, snapping to attention with a click of his shiny heels, holds a megaphone to his mouth and addresses the entire islet (at what we will remind you is basically like three in the morning)

Narrator 1: (herald, voice amplified via megaphone) “ARISE AND MAKE READY! KOZMA LASZLO, BARON OF THE FOLD SHALLOWS AND ALL ISLETS THEREIN… HAS ARRIVED!”