Narrator 2: Stationary Hill is a ghost town.

[Somber music. Wind and crickets.]

Narrator 3: Cue tumbleweed.

Narrator 1: Weepe and his Tripotentiary Guard are walking up the main street, carrying a coffin,

Narrator 2: The blazing brightness of the Un beating down upon them.

Narrator 3: Weepe is shrouded and veiled and gloved against it, huddled under the shade of a somber and ornate parasol, leading the procession.

Narrator 1: A silent specter, a bandolier of quietly-pumping hoses and black vials encircling his body.

Narrator 3: Cue disembodied rabbit head tumbleweed.

Narrator 2: This is serious. We’re taking this seriously. This is a somber moment. A dead wind blows. It just so happened that there was a disembodied rabbit head tumbleweed.

Narrator 3: Read the appendices if you’re confused.

Narrator 1: Weepe has come to lay Saskia to rest where she belongs, at home, on Midst.

Narrator 2: Other than them, not a soul is in sight. Just the strange reincarnated version of Stationary Hill that the tearror left in its wake.

Narrator 1: Weepe takes it in — the ruins, the buildings, reimagined and rebuilt and rearranged. Impossible avenues, improbable angles. A town resurrected from a bad dream.

Narrator 2: While Weepe has been going through transformations of his own, he now sees that his would-be hometown has transformed just as drastically.

Narrator 3: This march is moving parallel to the hovering creek babbling down the hill, displaced by about three feet, hovering above its once bed.

Narrator 2: The general store, front door ajar, interior empty. The shop sign swings gently, reading “Closed.”

Narrator 1: Patricia’s Cafe, alfresco chairs on the patio abandoned, a cup of coffee cold on a plate. The aroma of both fresh and moldy breads waft from an open window.

Narrator 3: Goe’s Gara-g-g-g-g-g doors are open, half-serviced bocular contraptions laying inside, abandoned. A small team of lingering Company spot the approaching march and peek out from behind a barricade-like pile of doors,

Narrator 2: many of which appear to be strapped down in a very deliberate manner,

Narrator 3: that are stacked inside of the garage bay.

Narrator 2: The Company watch the strange funeral procession march past, uncertain of what is expected of them, uncertain of everything now. Weepe and his Guard pay them barely any notice.

Narrator 1: They pass the Fractal District,

Narrator 2: formerly West Hill,

Narrator 1: And its twisting side alleys endlessly repeating out into the desert. A street made of porcelain glints in the unlight.

Narrator 3: Just beyond, the procession stops. Before them, a twisted multi-story mutation of a building, a surreally glamorous architecture of dark windows, asymmetrical awnings, doors, and stairs to nowhere.

Narrator 2: The Black Candle Cabaret, Version 2.0.

Narrator 1: Weepe raises a gloved hand, and the procession comes to a halt. He looks up at the building from under a wide-brimmed hat. He removes his little unglasses, wincing in the bright light of day, and with inkshot eyes examines his former place of business.

Narrator 2: It’s way taller than it used to be. The floors are all mismatched, the walls strangely reconfigured, an entirely new porch growing out of one side of the building.

Narrator 3: Under other circumstances, he’d be very pleased to see this kind of, just, killer renovation of his old place.

Narrator 1: He does kinda love it, in a way.

Narrator 3: But right now, he just feels…

Narrator 1: Well, he doesn’t know what he feels. He just knows what he has to do.

[Door creaking.]

Narrator 2: He pushes open the doors, gratefully entering into the shady darkness within. The Company, bearing the casket, follow him inside.

Narrator 3: The interior of the Black Candle Cabaret has clearly seen a lot of use in recent days.

Narrator 2: As warped and weird and haunted as it is, this space has obviously been repaired, worked on, and inhabited. He can see Saskia’s influence all over this work, this loving attention to detail, these attempts to heal what is clearly ruined.

Narrator 3: It’s strangely inviting and comfortable here, a port in a storm.

Narrator 1: It also looks like it was decorated for a party. Recently.

Narrator 2: Confetti litters the floor, flies buzz around a sticky punch bowl, and colorful streamers hang from the walls and ceiling. There’s a big banner that says “Welcome Home.” Weepe’s pretty sure that’s not intended for him.

Narrator 1: The procession circles the bar,

Narrator 2: now just a swirling counter, twisting and turning throughout the room, glimmering with unimaginable bottles,

Narrator 1: and he enters the cabaret theater.

Narrator 3: The stage is dark, the curtain half-drawn across it. The supper club tables are abandoned, all of their lamps extinguished. There’s only a single ghost light there on the stage. It has become a tomb.

Narrator 2: From the shadowy VIP balcony above Weepe, an unmistakable voice echoes down over the empty theater. (Unidentified speaker) “We’re closed.”

Narrator 1: Weepe’s heart, such as it is, seizes up in his chest. It seems to stop beating entirely for a moment. He slowly turns and peers up into the shadowy alcove of the VIP balcony above, now warped, twisted, bent, crooked, bizarre.

Narrator 2: No one to be seen. A single green glass lamp casts ghostly light against the ceiling.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Get out,”

Narrator 2: he says quietly to his guards.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Leave the casket.”

Narrator 3: And they file out without question, waiting for him outside. And Weepe is alone. Alone…with a ghost.

Narrator 2: His walk up the spiral staircase seems to take forever, partly because it IS at least half again as tall as it used to be, each step leaning at a strange imperfect angle.

Narrator 1: His weird knee twinges painfully.

Narrator 3: He takes his time, stepping carefully, his ichor pump laboring to keep up with his efforts.

Narrator 2: He isn’t in a hurry to get to the top. In a way, he wishes this climb would last forever.

Narrator 1: The VIP balcony, like so much else here in Stationary Hill, is a bizarre echo of what he remembers. The round tables, the intimate booths, the stained glass lampshades, all smeared and twisted, re-skinned with surreal textures.

Narrator 2: On the darkened balcony, there is that single green glass lamp, lit up over one table.

Narrator 3: Two people are there, one reclined on a daybed, the other leaning over them.

Narrator 2: They’re only silhouettes to Weepe right now. They turn to face him as he approaches.

Narrator 3: (Unidentified speaker) “Hello, Swinzy,”

Narrator 2: says Mother Trauma.

Narrator 1: Weepe barely registers recognition of his former doctor, his former name.

Narrator 2: All he can focus on is the other person, turning weakly to regard him from the daybed, flanked by two enormous foldhounds. Saskia.

Narrator 1: The dogs’ hackles go up the moment Weepe appears. Then they seem to recognize him. A friend? A familiar smell, but changed now. They’re confused. Their hackles go back down, but they remain tense, watching Weepe closely for any sign of danger.

Narrator 2: They don’t leave Saskia’s side.

Narrator 3: Weepe is silent for some time, motionless, paralyzed. Composed, but a visible tremor moves through him.

Narrator 2: Everything that moves through him is visible these days. (Saskia) “Hello again,” Saskia murmurs dreamily.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “What have you done?”

Narrator 3: Weepe’s blackened eyes track to the dark horned specter of the Mother.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “What have you done to her?”

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “You’re still a ray of unshine, I see. I have merely delayed the inevitable.”

Narrator 1: Weepe glances between Saskia and the balcony. (Weepe) “The body downstairs. The coffin…”

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “One of two. A byproduct of the recent Fold activity. Not my machination.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Weepe. They’re both real,”

Narrator 1: says Saskia weakly.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “They’re both me.”

Narrator 1: The Mother leans down to whisper something to Saskia, and she nods slowly.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “I understand. Thank you, Mother, for everything.”

Narrator 1: The spectral figure departs from Saskia’s bedside and pauses briefly beside Weepe.

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “You look like shit. If you’d done what we’d prescribed and sent your blood samples regularly instead of selling them for profit, maybe we could’ve delayed—”

Narrator 2: He gestures to Weepe’s whole deal.

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “—this.”

Narrator 2: Weepe looks numbly surprised.

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “Oh yes, we found out about your little racket. How’s the knee?”

Narrator 1: Weepe just stares, eyes still on Saskia. (Weepe) “Still weird.”

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “Oh well. Clearly you have bigger problems. Oh, and Swinzy…”

Narrator 2: He turns his black-shrouded face back towards Saskia.

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “Half of her has perished. One cannot survive without the other. She is fading.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Bring her back.”

Narrator 2: Weepe’s voice is hollow, and he turns slowly to face Trauma directly.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I know you can.”

Narrator 2: But Trauma shakes his horned, veiled head.

Narrator 3: (Mother Trauma) “This is different, Swinzy. She doesn’t have long, and neither, I daresay, do you.”

Narrator 2: And with that incredible display of bedside manner, Mother Trauma glides into the shadows of the dark balcony and vanishes.

Narrator 1: Weepe and Saskia and the two dogs are alone.

Narrator 3: The silence is loud, and Saskia is the first to speak.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Swinzy?”

Narrator 3: She peers at him, eyelids heavy, tired.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Why did the Mother call you that?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Because it’s my name.”

Narrator 3: He can’t look at her. The memory of her dying in front of him in the Vault, her body engulfed in fire, is burned into his mind, and this ashen ghost, this fading echo of her in the daybed…he can’t take it. He turns away. He leans on the balcony rail, hands shaking, knees weak. The ghost light on the stage below pulses dimly, casting haunted shadows around the theater.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Weepe’s not real. He never was. Just a lie on top of a lie on top of a lie on top of a lie.”

Narrator 3: He forces himself upright, turning back to face her.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Are you real? Who are you? Are you really Saskia?”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “It’s me, Weepe. What’s left of me.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I watched you die. I saw you die in front of me in the Vault.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Just part of me. I hoped that maybe I’d go back to the way I was before, but it felt more like getting cut in half. It doesn’t matter. It was a risk I was willing to take.”

Narrator 3: Weepe looks at her, helpless to do anything.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Please tell me what happened after I died. Did the others make it? Hieronymous, Lark, Phineas, did they…?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “They’re alive. They escaped. And you completely fucked up the Trust.”

Narrator 3: A calm seems to settle over Saskia, a tiny smile of relief, of satisfaction, hearing that her sacrifice wasn’t for nothing. Weepe knows this is the only thing he has to tell her that can make her happy, and, wretchedly, he savors it. She closes her eyes for a moment, only to open them again, assessing his face, his ichor pump, his translucent skin.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “How did it get so bad? You…took your medical case with you. Did it stop working? Or…did you stop using it?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Imelda did this to me. She was tryin’ to teach me a lesson, change me, make me believe what she believes.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “By…by torturing you? I don’t understand.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “’Course you don’t, you couldn’t be more different from her. But I do understand. Imelda and I…we have a lot in common. And there’s no better teacher than pain.”

Narrator 3: She takes a shaky breath.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “So. What’s next, ‘Tripotentiary?’”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You know what. I have to find her, Saskia.”

Narrator 3: He looks angry and sad and resigned. Black poison slithers under the skin of his deathly face.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “It’s not over until Lark’s dead, until they all are.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “No. You can stop, Weepe. You can just stop.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I can’t. I have to finish this.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “You don’t have to do anything. Do you actually believe in the Trust now? Do you actually believe that you can salvage anything after what the Breach did? You can do the right thing and just quit this.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “No, I can’t.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “You can.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I can’t. I’m not like you, Saskia. I’m not a good person. I don’t do good things. It’s not a choice.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “It is a choice. Stop writing your own self-fulfilling prophecy.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Easy for you to say, you’re good, you’re kind, down to your bones. Everyone loves you. Everywhere you go, everyone just adores you. You’re the heart, the soul of Midst. Just bein’ around you is special. But me? I’m a fuckin’ freak, a problem, a mistake, a villain. My whole life, I just hurt people and make things worse and burn everything to the ground.”

Narrator 3: The gleam of the green lamp catches a shimmer around Saskia’s neck — a string of pearlescent Valor rising and falling with each of her shallow breaths.

Narrator 1: Weepe reaches for the abacus, running the warm beads through his translucent fingers.

Narrator 3: Bartimaeus growls soft warning, and Weepe withdraws his hand.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Why are you still wearin’ this…thing?”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “A fair question. I’m well past the point of needing to keep up appearances, but I actually wear it more now than I ever did before the tearror. I think it reminds me of what the Trust used to mean to me, before I got disillusioned, before I came to Midst. No matter how much you do, no matter how many deeds you accumulate like beads on a string, there’s no end point. No one is ever finished becoming a good person, and that’s okay. It’s the endeavor that matters. Also, I just happen to think the beads look pretty.”

Narrator 1: She chuckles weakly.

Narrator 3: The beads do look pretty. Weepe’s own unparalleled Valor glimmers on his Tripotentiary vestments, his bones aching under the weight.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “You don’t know everything about me, Weepe. I’ve done bad things too, you know.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Not like I have.”

Narrator 3: His bandolier pump is starting to choke, to sputter, to struggle.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I stabbed you in the back. I destroyed everything you and I built together, Saskia. It was fun while it lasted, but I always knew I was gonna fuck it up eventually and if I’m gonna fuck it up I want to be in charge of when and how I fuck things up. Things always end bad for me, for everybody involved with me, because I’m a fuckin’ piece of shit. I’m not a good person, Saskia, I’m not. You don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know who I am, you don’t know… You don’t know who I was.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Weepe—”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I’m not Weepe. I’m a liar and a murderer and a thief, and I always have been. I hurt people. I destroy things. Like you, like Midst. Where is everybody, Saskia? The townspeople, do they know you’re dying?”

Narrator 3: She shakes her head.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “They don’t know how bad it is. I didn’t want them to worry about me when they should be worrying about you.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “They should be worried about me. Are you hiding them from me?”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “They’re somewhere safe. Somewhere you can’t hurt them. Thanks to the tearror, this town has hidden places now that an outsider could never find their way through, and that includes you. This isn’t your town anymore.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, we’ll see about that, ‘cause unless you got ’em all off-islet somehow, which I doubt, I’m gonna find ‘em, so they better be hidin’ deep. I don’t wanna hurt ‘em, but I’m gonna hurt ’em anyway, whether I want to or not, just like I didn’t wanna hurt you, but here we are. I should’ve been here with you when the tearror changed you, when it changed Midst. Maybe it could’ve fixed me, because I sure as hell can’t fix myself. It doesn’t matter what I want, I’m gonna kill Lark and then I’m gonna kill the rest of the Breach and then the Trust is gonna become somethin’ so much worse than it was before, because of me. And now you’re dying because of me. What am I doing, Saskia, what’s wrong with me, WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME, WHAT’S—”

[A loud clatter.]

Narrator 3: He wrenches himself away from her. A table topples, a lamp breaks. His pump bandolier is struggling, failing.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I’m a fuckin’ monster. I didn’t ask for this! Look at me, I’m a sick fuckin’ freak, I’m a fuckin’ zombie!”

Narrator 3: He’s tearing at his ruined body with horror and rage, ripping the needles and hoses from his skin. He violently hurls the pump over the edge of the balcony into the darkness below.

[A distant crash.]

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. But I fuckin’ deserved this. Kozma, the other barons, they did this to me because I fuckin’ earned it.”

Narrator 3: Weepe collapses to the ground, shaking, sizzling, smoke curling off of his body. Barty and Lloyd whine and growl and sniff the air, huddling in tighter around Saskia.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I can’t…I can’t even count how many people I killed, how many families I destroyed when I was Baron, the suffering I caused just because I could. And the other barons, they had to stop me, they had to, they threw me into that abyss to stop me, and that tearror ate me alive and I fuckin’ deserved it…”

Narrator 3: Weepe is silent for a moment, a million miles away, trembling with guilt and grief and pain. Saskia watches weakly, wordlessly. And when Weepe does speak again, his voice is hollow and sick and lifeless.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I was dead, Saskia. I was dead. And I shoulda stayed dead. But the Mothers brought me back, all sick, twisted, full of Fold.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Why?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Because they could. Because they can. Because they listen to the Fold and the Fold told ‘em to. They’re barely fuckin’ human, Saskia. They don’t answer to anyone and they don’t explain themselves, and they sure as hell didn’t ask me. Comin’ back was a curse, Saskia. Comin’ back was a fuckin’ curse.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “No, I mean, why are you telling me this? It’s too late, Weepe. I can’t forgive you.”

Narrator 3: Saskia struggles onto her elbows, her cheeks suddenly flushed with exertion.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, and I’m sorry for your pain, but whoever you used to be, whatever was done to you, it doesn’t really change anything. You had everything you needed to become someone different, and you turned your back on that possibility because you were too much of a fucking coward to try something new. And now you have the gall to come back here and unburden yourself to me in my final moments with your fatalistic bullshit. If you expect me to just lie here and let you delude yourself— You never did ANYTHING to hurt me until you DECIDED to hurt me. And you did that on purpose. You did that with plenty of time to change your mind. It didn’t just happen. So stop blaming your own choices on your…your soul, or whatever it is you believe you have. Up until the moment you threw us to the Trust like a carcass to the scavengers… you were good to me.”

Narrator 3: Her eyes are shiny with tears. It almost seems to bring a spark of life back into them.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “You appeared in my life just when I needed you. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing with the cabaret until you showed up, this weird loner from the Fold with no past and no connections and no money. The cabaret wouldn’t have lasted three more weeks, let alone gotten to the point where it could shelter and protect hundreds of people, and provide for me, and bring music and community to an entire town, and make a profit… if it hadn’t been for you, Weepe. And it wasn’t just about the business. I liked having you around. You were my friend. So what if you never cared about helping the Breach the same way I did? Maybe you were only in it for the sense of power, or the showbiz, or just the chance to screw me over somewhere further down the line… But you still helped me. You came up with things and did the ledger books and made something tangible out of this dream I had. Even if the other things didn’t really matter to you, I think you liked seeing me happy. For some reason.”

Narrator 1: Weepe can’t answer her. Can’t breathe.

Narrator 3: She collapses back onto the daybed again, a distressingly faraway smile appearing on her pallid face.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Do you remember the night after we finally got the new stage built? Everyone else had gone home, but the stage lights were still on and it felt like a full house somehow, and our numbers were finally in the black and we had just seen our first shipful of Breach people safely on to their next destination, and I was just so…happy.”

Narrator 3: Weepe remembers. 

Narrator 1: He definitely remembers.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “And you put on some music and lifted me up and twirled me around the stage and I was laughing, and…and I just felt like I’d finally built a home for myself. You were there when I realized I had a future ahead of me…and you’re here again now that that future is almost used up. And that’s why I can’t forgive you, Weepe. Not because you’re some intrinsically evil creature, but…because you’re not, and you choose to be anyway.”

Narrator 3: Weepe is still slumped on the ground, feeling his blood do irreparable damage to his insides without his medical device holding the worst of it at bay anymore. He feels calmer than he has at any point since he walked up those stairs and saw what awaited him. He observes his own deterioration with detached curiosity, like watching a crushed bug writhe on the sidewalk.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I don’t want you to forgive me. I just want you to know me.”

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Well, you should have told me all this before, then. Everybody comes to Midst because they’re running from who they used to be. Everybody deserves a chance to change. You…you could have started over, if that’s what you really wanted. I would have understood. I would have tried to help you.”

Narrator 3: He drags himself closer, collapsing against the bed, gazing out into the darkened balcony.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You did help me. You did. The one good thing about bein’ brought back was meetin’ you. Good for me, bad for you. You were so fuckin’ kind to me, Saskia. Nobody’s ever been kind to me like you. I didn’t know what to do with kindness like yours. You deserved so much better. You’re good, and you deserved a good life. I stole that from you. What have I done, Saskia? What have I done, what have I done…”

Narrator 3: He can barely speak. Inside his translucent skin, his bones are taking on the scorched color of charcoal, of burnt firewood. The pain is overwhelming, but it is also all that is sustaining him, his closest companion and his most familiar presence.

Narrator 2: Saskia’s breathing isn’t labored anymore. It’s soft. Too soft. He turns around again, kneeling against the daybed, and is shocked to see just how much ghostlier she has become in the last few moments. She’s fading before his eyes.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I’m sorry, Saskia. I’m sorry. Saskia, please don’t die.”

Narrator 3: She’s nearly gone.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Saskia?”

Narrator 3: Barty and Lloyd are whining softly, licking her hands.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Saskia, please.”

Narrator 3: He wants to do something, anything, but it’s too late. He wants to take her hand, but doesn’t want to inflict his touch on her in her final moments.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “There’s nothing left of the Trust, and there’s barely anything left of you.”

Narrator 3: Her eyes rove over him, holding a flicker of the empathy they used to for him.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “You’re not far behind me. Is this really how you want to go? Ripping people’s lives apart at the head of a cult we both know you don’t believe in? If being a monster makes you feel so terrible, you truly have one last choice. One last chance to do the right thing. You can end this without hurting anyone else.”

Narrator 1: Can he? Will he? He clings to the bed beside her, eyes wide, afraid, nearly insensible with pain.

Narrator 2: Her breathing is slow. Her voice is quiet. Her eyes are closed. (Saskia) “Whatever you choose to do, at least Midst will outlive both of us.”

Narrator 3: Barty and Lloyd don’t even seem to notice Weepe anymore. They have eyes only for Saskia. They are quiet and solemn.

Narrator 1: With effort, her eyes open one last time, looking at Weepe with a fullness and a realness that both warms and paralyzes him. It was always so heartstopping when she looked directly at you. He could never quite handle it. He usually would look away. But he doesn’t now.

Narrator 2: (Saskia) “Nobody can give you what you want except you. The cosmos won’t wait for you to figure it out. The current will keep flowing. And Midst will keep turning.”

Narrator 3: And her rare, precious, unearthly gaze remains on him, inert, unbroken, until there is no one left within.

Narrator 2: He reaches for her,

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Saskia?”

Narrator 2: but pulls himself back, unable to touch her even now.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Saskia? Come back, come back, Sa— I’ll be, I’ll be good. I’ll be good. Please come back. Please come back…” [Sobbing]

Narrator 2: But she does not come back.

Narrator 3: She is gone.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Please come back…”

Narrator 3: And so is he.

[The solemn music ends. A change of scene.]

Narrator 3: Standing in awe beneath a glittering tree of glass is Archauditor Imelda Goldfinch. Unlight refracts through crystalline branches, prismatic rainbows dancing across the flattened template of the post office. The undulating kaleidoscope reflects up into her face from the multilayered abacus she wears around her neck. Her once-mission is choked with the knobbly knees of the glass tree’s cyprus-like roots.

Narrator 1: A breeze passes through the glassy boughs above, and a gentle rain of black and white bead-like berries falls from on high, pattering the flat floor plan around her. Imelda takes a deep breath — heady, fresh, unfiltered, no mica — and rests a hand upon the clear tubular bark of the tree, feeling a swirl of strange life within. The breeze rustles her curled hair.

Narrator 2: It’s been a hard time for her since the destruction of the Vault and the effective decimation of her society, but she’s taking it better than you might think. After all, she already wanted big changes for the Trust. She’s not afraid of a little change. And sometimes it’s easier to build what you want after destroying what it used to be.

Narrator 3: Though she doesn’t look at him, she senses the arrival of the Tripotentiary.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I hope you feel better now that that little errand is all taken care of. It’s unfortunate, but she chose her path. Now we can move forward with total focus.”

Narrator 3: By “we,” she of course means “you.” She doesn’t mind at all that the Del Norma woman is dead. She had always been an error in all of Imelda’s carefully-crafted formulae, a complication to the very end.

Narrator 2: Past the very end, given the frustrating way the Tripotentiary had reacted to her dramatic martyrdom, demanding a special trip just to come lay her to rest in the ruins of her little town. But she’s gone. He’ll forget about her now. He doesn’t wallow in the past, her Tripotentiary.

Narrator 1: Imelda closes her eyes, watching the opalescent light shift and fade across her eyelids.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I know things seem bleak right now, but all the same, I find myself feeling…excited, Moc. I am excited to see what we can build together, just you and I. The Trust cannot return, not the way it once was, but it was already holding us back, even then. Now? It has no limits. It can be a new dream we craft together.”

Narrator 3: Imelda opens her eyes again, gazing unward, watching the gentle sway of the beaded branches. A varicose tangle is knotted through the postal mast, the interisletary cable to Sequester gently waving high above. 

Narrator 1: A gloved hand rests upon Imelda for a moment, gently tracing the abacus’s path along her neck. She reaches up, entwining her fingers in his.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I daresay we have already changed the cosmos. And we’re only getting started.”

Narrator 3: The gloved hand withdraws from Imelda’s to resume playing with her abacus.

Narrator 2: (Imelda) “I knew I saw something incredible within you, Moc. Something truly Valorous.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You miscalculated,”

Narrator 2: says Willy Swinzy…as he strangles Imelda with her abacus.

Narrator 3: And rainbows dance as the wind returns.