Narrator 2: Fresh off of murdering his old political rival Kozma Laszlo, Weepe is now making executive house calls. He is a busy Tripotentiary, and he still has more things he has to do today. No rest for the Valorous!

Narrator 3: One of the many things he needs to do is drop by the home of the Tripotentiary’s Archauditor, the new job that he just spontaneously made up the other day.

Narrator 2: He’s been keeping the Archauditor very busy, talking about potential reforms and surplus actions, y’know, economy stuff. Until Lark can be found and retrieved for… “reclamation,” people still need to go about their lives.

Narrator 1: He’s actually never been to Imelda’s house before — not surprising, perhaps, since he’s been involved in nonstop action, excitement, and sociopolitical intrigue ever since he relocated to the Highest Light. But now, he and Imelda are running the whole Trust more or less kind of together. They are colleagues, you might say.

Narrator 3: They have become the proud parents of a freaky cult.

Narrator 2: Here in the entry of Imelda’s residence, his Tripotentiary Guard patiently stationed outside, Weepe is jauntily hanging up his raiments, trying to thread his arm and his hoses out of a coat sleeve.

Narrator 1: His portable IV pump contraption wheels beside him, quietly wheezing and gurgling, dark vials bubbling with black, squirming blood.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Please, let me help you with that,” Imelda says, taking his coat for him and hanging it up in the hall closet. She offers to take the little white paper bag he’s carrying too, but he shakes his head.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “That’s a little surprise,”

Narrator 2: he says.

Narrator 3: Imelda raises her eyebrows with interest but chooses not to press the issue, and leads him further inside.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Gosh, I’m so sorry for the awful mess, Tripotentiary.” Imelda minutely straightens a minutely less-than-straight little vase of flowers.

Narrator 1: Weepe takes a look around. Imelda’s modest home is spotless.

Narrator 3: Like, literally spotless.

Narrator 1: Just like her mission back on Midst to used to be. It smells nice in here. It’s even been pre-darkened for his convenience. The drapes are drawn, cutting down on the unlight. (Weepe) “Imelda, this is a real nice place you got here. Not as… spacious as my place, but you got some, uh, nice rooms.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Thank you. It is cozy, and terrifically convenient for getting to and from the Central Vault. I just love this neighborhood.”

Narrator 3: In addition to all the typical things you’d expect to find in Imelda’s home, like dense academic reference texts, she also has a shelf full of obtuse strategy board games and a well-polished Jod table over there.

Narrator 2: Unmistakable. You of course would recognize the telltale pegs and greebles of the classic game of Jod anywhere. The trapezoidal board, the small bowls of color-coded salt, the glassy success pips, the hand-cranked penalty siren, the seventy-pound rule book, you know, all that stuff. Jod stuff.

Narrator 1: Weepe is familiar with Jod, too. (Weepe) “Ooh, nice. Jod. Always wanted to learn how to play,” he lies. He already knows how to play Jod. Worst game ever.

Narrator 2: Jod fucking sucks.

Narrator 3: Unimaginably boring and tedious.

Narrator 2: He once killed a man in order to get a game of Jod to stop. (Imelda) “Is that a fact? Well, I’ll teach you sometime.”

Narrator 1: Weepe’s stomach drops. Fuck. What has he done?

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Did you know, I was in Jod League all through school, and nowadays Penny and the gang come over every other week to play! It really is just a riveting game — always stimulating, never the same twice, especially after the seventh greeble depreciates and Provision 338 amortizes the dealer’s subsidiaries. I’d take Jod over a boring old game of cards any day! Well, we’d better get down to business. Right this way, to my home office.”

Narrator 1: Weepe follows Imelda down a short hallway wheeling his IV pump contraption.

Narrator 3: They pass a lavender-scented bathroom, a linen closet, a small kitchenette full of tiny, specific little appliances — flower presses, dehumidifiers, rice cooker, a ceramic teapot collection, that sort of a thing. It’s all so orderly, so immaculate, no detail out of place.

[Tinny phonograph music.]

Narrator 2: Imelda’s office overlooks the Central Vault, looking radiant and shiny in the unshine now that the rain has passed. Oop, that’s actually a problem — she quickly draws the curtains across the window, making the room safe for Weepe to enter.

Narrator 1: The walls are hung with numerous diplomas, certificates, textural abstract art pieces, and of course a nice shiny Trust sigil hanging in a place of honor.

Narrator 2: A tiny personal-sized conversion rate ticker spins like an itty bitty Rolodex on her desk, a convenient at-a-glance reference.

Narrator 3: Imelda’s home office is shockingly similar to the one that she had in her mission on Stationary Hill. The desk is in the same position and orientation, stacks of paper neatly piled, a perfumed candle burning in the corner. That might even be the same phonograph player, at least the same kind.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “So! I can’t contain my curiosity a second longer. How did your one-on-one with the Baron go today? Did you deliver our acceptance of her terms? Did she agree to our counteroffer and approve our schedule of concessions in writing? Obviously, we can’t cease ALL Breach collection activity, that would be ridiculous, the whole Valor restoration plan hinges on Clara Mire, after all… But hopefully she found our terms acceptable? We gave her everything she wanted in regards to expansion. We can revisit the agreement later, of course, but we really can’t afford to get into a war with the Baronies right now.”

Narrator 1: Oh, hey, it’s these mints again!

Narrator 2: He is not listening.

Narrator 1: In their natural habitat no less, not even imported. Weepe crunches one of them. Tasty. (Weepe) “Oh, yeah yeah yeah, no, it was no problem, all taken care of. Kozma didn’t even really argue. Much.”

Narrator 3: Imelda’s face fills with relief and appreciation, her eyes shining.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Aren’t you just a wonder. Thank you for handling that. I can’t wait to hear about all the juicy details. Obviously, we’ll need to redouble efforts here in the Highest Light to tamp down on Breach activity. I can’t help but feel on edge thinking about what she said. Do you think she was exaggerating at all, about having people everywhere? I was genuinely suspicious of the bakery staff when I was getting a roll this morning, and I’m sure that’s exactly what she intended. She wants to undermine our faith in one another! What a bitch!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh, don’tchu worry about a thing, Imelda. Little ol’ me will take care of everything.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “At least we know we can rely on each other. The Trust cannot be broken while the two of us are taking care of it.”

Narrator 3: Imelda is still wearing her customary Valor sash, but where it used to be that broad band many columns wide, it’s now just a single thin string of beads.

Narrator 2: She personally made sure her account was justly depleted after she caused Weepe that… “discomfort” in the Arca chamber, and it was depleted again when Valor was redistributed to make sure the Tripotentiary was the Most Valorous Trustee of all.

Narrator 1: Weepe eyes her pitiful abacus. (Weepe) “I know your account balance took a bit of a hit with recent events, Imelda, but I can’t have my Archauditor walkin’ around with a sorry abacus like that. Doesn’t reflect well on me.”

Narrator 3: Weepe removes a little box from the nondescript white paper bag he’d been carrying around. He unclasps the lid, his gruesome fingers spidering inside.

Narrator 2: Imelda creeps forward to the edge of her seat, watching Weepe curiously as he produces… a lavish new abacus, a beautiful necklace style of descending tiers of beads, at once glamorous and professional.

Narrator 1: Weepe walks around behind Imelda’s desk and places the abacus upon her, clasping it in the back. (Weepe) “There, now you really lookin’ like an Archauditor, Imelda.”

Narrator 3: It’s worth noting that there never has been an Archauditor before, so who really knows what one is supposed to look like.

Narrator 2: Sparkly, apparently.

Narrator 3: Imelda pulls a small hand mirror out of a drawer in her desk, gazing at the abacus she’s wearing, breathless.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “My word! Thank you, Tripotentiary. You absolutely should NOT have done this. That Valor is supposed to be for YOU, to empower YOU to do what needs to be done.”

Narrator 1: Weepe takes in her flashy new style. (Weepe) “I’m Tripotentiary, Imelda, and your Valor is what I say it is.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “If you insist! Your word IS law. Oh my gosh, that reminds me, I have something for you, too!”

Narrator 3: She hops down off of her chair and goes to a bureau against the wall.

Narrator 1: Weepe continues to stand by the desk, regarding Imelda with polite amusement.

Narrator 2: Imelda brings him something in a frame, holding it backwards against her chest in order to do a dramatic reveal, a coy smile on her face. (Imelda) “Because of your swift and decisive actions, and in recognition of your prestigious rank now governing all islets and principalities of the Trust, it is my most sincere honor to present to you…” And she flips it around and hands it to him, reverentially.

Narrator 1: Weepe tosses a slack ichor hose over one shoulder to free up his hands and accepts the plaque from Imelda. And… hey! Well, well, well, what do you know?

Narrator 3: It says: Moc Weepe, Mayor of Midst.

Narrator 1: He looks at it a little bit longer, then a little bit longer still. He eyeballs it with satisfaction, and then carefully sets it aside.

[Phonograph music comes to an end.]

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Do you like it? Say something.”

[Jazz brush percussion.]

Narrator 3: Weepe turns to her, a cheerful pulsating nightmare skeleton grinning inside a translucent head the color of raw uncooked shrimp. His IV pump is speeding up, pumping faster.

Narrator 2: Weepe doesn’t say something. He, uh…

[A muffled exclamation from Imelda.]

Narrator 3: Oh, no. No!

Narrator 1: Yes!

Narrator 2: Oh my god.

Narrator 1: He kisses her full on the mouth.

Narrator 2: She’s ready for it, waiting for it.

Narrator 3: He pushes her onto the desk.

[A heavy crash. Desk squeaking. Objects rattling. Numerous untranscribable vocalizations.]

Narrator 2: She grabs him passionately. She’s totally into it.

Narrator 3: Oh, no!

Narrator 2: What? This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Narrator 1: Ha ha, whoops, uh oh, oh boy!

Narrator 3: Things fall off the desk, like the certificate, it’s on the floor, let’s look at that. Wow, what a mess they’re making, it was just so clean in here.

Narrator 3: The chair falls backwards, that’s on the floor too now, so many things falling on the floor. Ah, the mints, those mints, they’re on the floor too! Well, now—

Narrator 2: Can we leave? Does a world exist outside of this room while we’re not narrating it? Can we go check?

Narrator 1: Ooh, geez, this is happening fast!

Narrator 3: Hey, the audience! This is a time when you might want to shut this off. There are other podcasts, other shows, nice family podcasts.

Narrator 2: Yeah, yeah, we’ll meet you again at the end of the episode, if they’re done.

Narrator 1: Nope, you bought the ticket, you take the ride.

Narrator 3: Speaking of rides…

Narrator 2: He’s got a lot of energy. So does she!

Narrator 3: Guess he’s not THAT sick.

Narrator 2: He’s having a great time.

Narrator 3: What do we DO? Do we just stand here? How much time is left in this episode?

Narrator 2: Do we describe it? That’s sort of our whole job, usually…

Narrator 3: WE are the ones who decide what our job is. Bring up the background music.

[Background music gets louder, but not loud enough.]

Narrator 1: Ah, what can we say? With the power of your imagination, you too can become very excited—

Narrators 2 & 3: (in unison) Upset!

Narrator 1: Weepe’s vestments are on the floor. Oh! That would mean that they’re not on him…

Narrator 2: No!

Narrator 1: Yes.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Moc!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Call me Tripotentiary.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes, your Valorousness!”

Narrator 3: Oh god…

Narrator 2: Oh god, look at what the— Uh, you know what? You know what would be great right now? A smash cut.

Narrator 1: Oh no!

Narrator 3: Yes!

Narrator 3: Oh, if we must. Dang it, we didn’t even get to the—

Narrator 2: Quiet! Don’t worry about it! [Percussion and other noise ceases.] It’s an hour later now. We find Weepe and Imelda are no longer in the home office. They appear to have made their way to Imelda’s bedroom. It’s nicely decorated in here, too. No longer tidy, though.

Narrator 3: Weepe is wearing a silky floral robe of Imelda’s. It’s rather small on him. Where it might be a floor-length affair on her, it’s kind of a drapey little tunic on him, gaping open at the chest.

Narrator 1: They are lounging side by side among Imelda’s many pillows.

Narrator 2: Imelda is wearing her new abacus. Only her new abacus.

Narrator 1: Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is tousled.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Do you want any tea? It’s important to stay hydrated.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Nah, thanks for offerin’ though, I’m more of a coffee guy.” Weepe lights up a cigarette on a long cigarette holder.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I guess I’ll just have to stay right here then.”

Narrator 3: She dreamily watches his translucent lungs fill with smoke as he takes a long first drag on the cigarette. Black ichor slithers and squirms just beneath his skin, pulsing in his veins.

Narrator 1: Weepe examines Imelda, examines the abacus around her neck. (Weepe) “That’s a pretty good clasp on that necklace.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Yes, very sturdy. Good workmanship.”

Narrator 1: Weepe takes another pull, blows a smoke ring across the room. (Weepe) “You really earned this Valor, y’know.”

Narrator 2: She looks at him, a certain suggestive assumption apparent on her face.

Narrator 1: He shakes his head. (Weepe) “For your many OTHER contributions and deeds predating this, I mean. Not just the last hour. For your… service to the Trust.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Of course. We can be professional about this.” She examines her new abacus fondly. “Thank you.”

Narrator 1: Weepe repositions a pillow under his head, making himself extra comfortable. (Weepe) “So, um, speakin’ of earnin’ our Valor, Imelda, question for you, Madam Archauditor. Back on Midst, it really seem like we opened up my account at almost exactly the right time. If it hadn’t gone down the way it did, precisely WHEN it did… well, you and I wouldn’t be here like this, that’s for sure.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Mmhm.”

Narrator 1: That’s an affirmative from Imelda.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I knew you were special from the moment I met you. I wanted you…for the Trust, I mean.”

Narrator 1: Weepe raises an eyebrow. (Weepe) “That’s very kind of you to say Imelda, and I have known from the start that the Trust is very special to you.” He sits up a little bit more against his pillow. “How did you end up in this business?”

Narrator 2: Imelda props herself up on an elbow. (Imelda) “Well, I wasn’t always Valorous. I had to work very hard to get where I am today. It was a constant effort just to avoid falling further behind, never mind getting ahead, but I wouldn’t change a thing. That struggle made me who I am. Growing up with the burden of Caenum gave me crucial perspective on the flaws within the Valor system. I had to try harder, be smarter, and always think ten steps ahead of everybody else. I believe in the Trust, I love the Trust, but love doesn’t mean blind acceptance. If you truly love something, you should strive to bring out the best in it. That’s what I think. I always wanted something better for the Trust than what other people seemed to be able to see.”

Narrator 1: Weepe takes this all in quietly, puffing on his cigarette, examining Imelda. What an interesting person. Just when he was feeling like he’d sort of figured her out. Boy, she’s full of surprises. (Weepe) “You seem to be able to see a lotta things other people don’t, Imelda. You were thinkin’ ten steps ahead when we first met, too. You make, uh, some pretty direct signals in those early days to get me involved when you did. You had a plan.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You’re certainly right.”

Narrator 1: Weepe eyeballs her wryly. (Weepe) “Isn’t that, um… illegal?”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “We’ve already discussed at length the semantic differences between what is Valorous and what is right. If I hadn’t given you that nudge, you wouldn’t be Tripotentiary now. If you have any objections to what I did, you can certainly take corrective measures.”

Narrator 1: Weepe eats a strawberry. He touches Imelda’s hair.

Narrator 2: Where did the strawberries come from? We weren’t here for the last hour. Apparently they got up to some things we didn’t know about.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Nah, I’m good, Imelda. Besides, I think I need another thirty minutes or so before I can take any…more corrective measures.”

Narrator 3: Imelda swats at Weepe playfully, and he winces a little. Tendrils of black ichor jump and crawl under his skin where struck, swarming suddenly like a disturbed nest of hornets.

Narrator 1: Weepe’s pump noise accelerates.

Narrator 3: Imelda’s expression turns alarmed.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”

Narrator 1: She gets a little bit of a thousand yard stare for a moment.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Did…most of that hurt?”

Narrator 1: Weepe shrugs. (Weepe) “Eh, mostly not, but, uh, generally I am in constant agony.” [Hue hue hue.]

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “Because of what happened in the Arca? Is it my fault? You can tell me.”

Narrator 3: Imelda sits up, gazing at him fixedly.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I mean that didn’t exactly help, but, uh… No, I was havin’ this kind of trouble long before all this.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “You understand why I did what I did, right? It was hard for us both in the moment, but it needed to be done.”

Narrator 1: Weepe nods. It seems he does understand. It seems. (Weepe) “Oh yeah, of course I understand, you were thinkin’ of what was best for me, like you always thinkin’ what is best for the Trust, Imelda. Things are better than ever now. This whole thing with my blood, honestly, that was bound to happen sooner or later, you just, um… accelerated things. In a way, you kinda set me free.”

Narrator 3: Her face beams with appreciation and relief.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I knew you would understand. You are everything I hoped you would be, and more.”

Narrator 3: She adoringly regards the diseased, translucent, pulsating jellyfish-skeleton-wraith in bed beside her. His blackened heart pumps slowly in his glassy ribs. His lungs expand and contract. His ink-stained eyes rotate in the sockets of his see-through skull, peering at her.

Narrator 2: They just look at each other for a moment. It’s so romantic? (Imelda) “Moc, what happened to you?”

Narrator 1: She traces a finger across Weepe’s rib cage.

Narrator 2: Carefully. (Imelda) “And don’t tell me the version you shared with Penny and the others. What really happened?”

Narrator 1: Weepe finishes his cigarette, stubs it out, and lights another. (Weepe) “Let’s put it like this. Back in the day, I used to have, um… some people who didn’t like the way I did business. And they ganged up on me, decide they wanna take me down a peg or several. So they put me in a situation where I was in very close proximity to some very very bright light, way deep down in the Fold. It was very bright, and it was a place where brightness is real real bad, and I got screwed up. Some, uh, doctors found me and they put me back together, but, uh…” [A distant, distorted scream.] He looks distant for a moment. “It, uh, kinda took a toll on me. So that’s when they had to try and light-proof me the way I used to be, the way I was when you met me. But I still had to get this out of me, this black blood, and send it back to them for regular testing to make sure I was doin’ okay.”

Narrator 3: Imelda is watching him, rapt.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “This was before or after you ended up on Midst?”

Narrator 1: Weepe puffs on his cigarette. (Weepe) “Before. I kinda rolled into Stationary Hill after gettin’ my shit back together, after all this happened. I wasn’t even gonna stay on Midst, but y’know, I found a business there that I could help. It was kinda crummy, but we really classed it up.”

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “The Black Candle Cabaret.”

Narrator 1: Weepe nods. (Weepe) “That’s right.”

Narrator 3: For a moment, Weepe seems to become lost in thought, distant, gaze unfocused, clearly reflecting. His expression hardens, darkens. Imelda picks at an embroidered stitch on the duvet cover.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I know I made things awkward for you when I ordered the raid on the cabaret. You asked me to wait until you weren’t there. I didn’t.”

Narrator 1: Weepe shrugs. (Weepe) “Doesn’t matter. I fucked them over, not you. You were just doin’ your job.”

Narrator 2: Imelda’s brow furrows. (Imelda) “You did the right thing. Doing what you know you must in pursuit of true Valor is not always an easy—”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I didn’t turn in the cabaret for Valor, Imelda.”

Narrator 3: His fold-shot eyes lock on hers, narrowing.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I did it because it’s what I do. If I didn’t fuck ’em up that way, I would’ve fucked ’em up another way. I’m not a good person, Imelda. I don’t do good things.”

Narrator 2: Imelda grabs his hand. (Imelda) “But you do, you are. Things are different now. You’re different.”

Narrator 3: The grinning skull looks back at her, possibly looking THROUGH her. Weepe does not reply.

Narrator 2: She continues holding his hand. (Imelda) “And you have me now.” She leans in, gives him a soft, gentle kiss. He blinks his translucent eyelids. He seems to relax again. (Imelda) “So,” she says, settling back into her pillow, “maybe I can ask you now. I’ve been curious for a while. What’s the story with Saskia Del Norma? Were you two ever…?”

[The regular rhythm of the ichor pump falters.]

Narrator 3: Weepe visibly clenches up. Like, you see his muscles contract at the mention of her name. He pulls away.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Nope.”

Narrator 3: He’s suddenly getting out of bed, grabbing his tunic.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Excuse me, I have work to do.”

Narrator 2: Imelda smile falters slightly. She searches Weepe’s face, but his expression is anyone’s guess. (Imelda) “Oh! Well, let’s work together! I can write a report for the Upper Trust on the updated situation with Kozma Laszlo.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “No need, I’ll write it for you right now.”

Narrator 3: Weepe turns in the doorway.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Two words, Imelda: Kozma’s dead.”