Narrator 2: Lark opens fire.

[A shrill, scream-like sound.]

[Colossal, menacing electro-doom music.]

Narrator 1: A blue-white laser beams from Lark’s gun like a lightning strike in the dark. A blinding freeze-frame. A hairline razor of deadly light.

Narrator 3: The air immolates from it, a twenty-foot wall of just neon blue fire gouting instantly up along the beam of the laser as the Fold ignites, billowing into the foggy darkness.

Narrator 1: Impossibly, supernaturally direct hit. The starboard engine of the foldmersible explodes. [Rock version of Lark’s theme.] Red flames erupt. Black smoke billows. The huge vessel dips violently in the air and plows into the edge of the desert promontory, crashing into the warren of spiky thorns and wild plants surrounding Lark’s house, its nose hooking, hanging on the cliff’s edge.

Narrator 3: Oh, did we forget to mention? Guns are laser guns in Midst. They were the whole time. We just haven’t seen anybody shoot them until now. That’s just the way guns are, here.

Narrator 2: This is a science-fantasy space western, after all. You can’t tell us what to do! We’re not predictable! We’re mad with power.

Narrator 1: And the Fold is mad with hunger.

Narrator 2: A laser is the most concentrated form of light, and the Fold has this thing about light. To the Fold, a laser is an incredibly high-octane, insanely potent source of irresistible energy. We’re talking moth-to-a-flame levels of attraction, but with lasers instead of flames, and zillions of spooky microscopic entropy generators instead of moths.

Narrator 3: The Fold dives on the laser, devours it, instantaneously morphing into a stream of concentrated tearrors. There’s something like a sonic boom, a thunderclap of Fold slamming into the space occupied by the light and consuming it with the ravening desperation of a swarm of piranhas.

Narrator 2: Speaking of a swarm of piranhas,

Narrator 1: Lark is trying to fend off the screaming swarm of piranhas that have appeared in a flurry around the muzzle of her rifle. She’s batting them away with her arm. They’re biting her.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Ow!”

Narrator 3: she yells. 

Narrator 1: Spahr doesn’t like the look of that. (Spahr) “Fuck!”

Narrator 2: Lark sweeps the piranhas away, and they snap and gasp and flop around her on the floorboards. (Lark) “Coulda been worse. Will be worse. Don’t lose your head yet.”

Narrator 1: Lark cycles her gun, ejecting the spent Loxlee bulb cartridge to the floor. The glass shatters upon impact, the smoking, ruined filament within hissing at contact with the air, whining with the abrupt change in temperature. 

Narrator 3: She loads a new bulb in its place. If it wasn’t already clear, these are NOT fold-safe lights, hence the distinction this whole time. Loxlee can, and does, manufacture other kinds of lightbulbs very much NOT intended for use in the Fold.

Narrator 2: You think Loxlee became the largest, most profitable corporation in the universe by manufacturing lightbulbs for people to use in their living rooms? Nope. Loxlee Lights primarily makes an absolute killing…making lights that kill people.

Narrator 1: Yeah, the company name “Loxlee Lasers” didn’t do quite as well in focus group testing, you know how that goes.

Narrator 2: [singing an ad jingle] “Loxlee Lasers!”

[Music and sound effects abruptly resume.]

Narrator 2: Weepe’s Tripotentiary Guard, armed and armored, are pouring out of the downed foldmersible, leaping out through the flames, dozens of them, then dozens more, and it looks like—

Narrator 1: Uh oh. Oh no.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “They’ve got guns!” 

Narrator 1: Phineas yells. 

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “All of them!”

Narrator 2: He ducks low in a cabin window, loading his rifle.

Narrator 3: (Spahr) “For fuck’s sake,” says Spahr. “This is insane.”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Told ya,” Lark says, and takes position to fire again.

Narrator 3: All along the path of Lark’s first laser shot, all kinds of nightmare garbage has spawned in the air. In the space of an instant, surreal bullshit on par with the moon tearror is suddenly fully-formed, raging into existence.

Narrator 2: In a strange way, it almost makes the moon tearror seem gentle by comparison. That tearror had something of an ebb and flow, a natural rising and falling, a crest and a withdrawal that washed over the victims in a strangely hypnotizing manner. A sense of pacing! But these tearrors? Meaner. Nastier, somehow. 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye. Every single one of them a jump-scare.

Narrator 1: This is the very reason Spahr did not want them using guns. Buckle up.

Narrator 3: Along the path of the laser, there now exists…

Narrator 2: Whole pieces of rebar,

Narrator 3: A Human Centipede-style chain of 17 dead seagulls embedded within one another, beak to cloaca,

Narrator 1: A dripping strand of acid-like mustard gas, undulating like an aurora,

Narrator 3: A spire of frozen hydrogen, sizzling with the leidenfrost effect,

Narrator 2: A wad of turgid, living cottony substance that is rapidly spreading with little tendrils down the length of—

Narrator 1: —an ornately-carved spiral staircase—

Narrator 3: —embedded in the ruptured side of the foldmersible, emitting from the far end—

Narrator 2: —into the chandelier from Phantom of the Opera, not really, that would be crazy, can you imagine, it’s probably some other gigantic opera house chandelier that hugely crashes out of the air—

Narrator 1: —onto a drill-shaped boxcar full of what sounds like quacking duck toys landing upon the—

Narrator 3: —fossilized carcass of a fold wail that slams to the ground in a heap.

Narrator 2: Lark got lucky with that pathetic little swarm of piranhas that spawned right next to her. Now all she has to do is get lucky a bunch more times, every single time a shot is fired, until she wins. Or until she dies.

Narrator 3: There is a cacophony of sounds. The burning foldmersible, the shouting soldiers on the move, some kind of awful feedback from the damaged loudspeaker, the aforementioned duck toys. It’s awful out there.

Narrator 1: A platoon or more of armored Tripotentiary soldiers are spreading out around the cabin, zeroing in.

Narrator 2: Lark and her allies are outnumbered as fuck. This is suicide.

Narrator 1: Gunfire erupts. Lasers everywhere. A fogged-out discotheque strobe light laser show of blinding razor beams, fanning and bolting through the night.

Narrator 2: Curtains of blue fire billowing in the darkness.

Narrator 3: The air churning, boiling, fold eating itself alive.

Narrator 2: Trees and dance parties and radiators and propeller hats and intestines flash and spin in the desert.

Narrator 1: Lasers saber through cabin walls. Furniture, rafters severing in half, bursting into flames. A vortex of tearror erupts in the eaves, billowing in the cabin, spewing a shower of cannibalistic metal locusts,

Narrator 3: A torrent of partly-used graphite pencils,

Narrator 2: A gout of bloodsoaked vintage posters advertising a series of burlesque shows performed by owls.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “We gotta hold them back!”

Narrator 2: Spahr yells as they all dive for cover, scrambling on loose pencils and piranhas.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “We’re dead if they flush us outside!”

Narrator 3: They seem pretty dead in here, too, but who knows? This is bad.

Narrator 2: Lark and Spahr are shooting guys through the windows, Phineas hauls ass across the cabin, fire spreading fast, burning along walls and floors, locusts swarming.

Narrator 3: Phineas posts up by the doorframe. (Phineas) “Here they come! We have the high ground. Focus on them while they come through the ravine!”

Narrator 2: All three of them here in the cabin luckily have Company-issue armor — Jonas has the full set, Phineas and Lark wearing what’s left over from their Central Vault disguises, just lacking their helmets.

Narrator 3: Phineas takes aim through the door. (Phineas) “There’s one coming up the si—”

Narrator 1: And he is shot directly in the chest by a sniper outside.

Narrator 2: Sparks shower. Neon fire is hot in his face

Narrator 3: as the shiny surface of his breastplate—

Narrator 2: —the mirror-like surface, dare we say—

Narrator 3: —reflects the laser beam back outside in a blazing, eye-watering ricochet. He’s knocked back, chest stinging brutally, but that’s a hell of a lot better than dead.

Narrator 2: Okay, we’ve been giving the Company armor a lot of flack for looking goofy and videogame-y, putting aesthetics over function. But whatever else it may be, it is heckin’ SHINY.

Narrator 1: Mostly laser-proof. They wear this armor for a reason.

Narrator 3: In the afterimage of the laser beam, countless lampreys coil and undulate off of Phineas’ chest, rasping mouths glancing off of the hard breastplate.

Narrator 2: Lamprey-proof as well.

Narrator 1: Outside, the sniper is running fast toward the cabin. Spahr laser guns them through the cracked door and they go down as hot spaghetti and baked clams pour out of their faceplate.

Narrator 3: That’s not a metaphor for gore.

Narrator 2: That’s just hot spaghetti.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Thanks!” 

Narrator 2: Phineas wheezes, straightening his smoking breastplate.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “No going back now!”

Narrator 2: Spahr yells, taking position.

Narrator 3: The Tripotentiary Company is moving closer with every passing moment. Lasers lance and slice the cabin as Lark and the others stay low, moving to retaliate.

Narrator 1: They can’t stay here in the cabin. The fire is spreading, the roof is largely on fire, the heat is extreme.

Narrator 2: In addition to their sidearms, the incoming soldiers are hefting blunt, glowing, Company-issue weaponry — mica-laced maces, morning stars, hammers, as well as scary-looking syringes, all dripping with dark ichor.

Narrator 1: Everybody’s got the Weepe juice.

Narrator 2: The soldiers keep coming. It’s easy enough to pick them off at a distance as they make their arduous approach up to the cabin on foot, but there are too many, and they are closing in.

Narrator 3: There’s too much fire, too many lasers, too many foes!

Narrator 1: Too many piranhas. They have to get out.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Aaugh!”

Narrator 2: Phineas hisses, armor becoming blisteringly hot from the ravaging inferno and roasted locusts within Lark’s cabin.

Narrator 3: Spahr, hair matted with sweat and soot, dodges a burning rafter collapsing beside him.

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “We can’t stay in here! Back to back, stay low. Get out of here and take out Weepe.”

Narrator 2: Lark takes aim through the open door, blasting an approaching guard out of the way—

Narrator 3: Flowers peel out from the blue-white beam in a torrent of petals and stems—

Narrator 2: As the trio scurry forth, their armor blackened with soot and smoke.

Narrator 1: And the light of the burning cabin illuminates easily fifty soldiers coming up the hill straight towards them through a tearrorized maelstrom of warping harpsichords, fluttering ballgowns, and brooms made of tightly-wound mulling spices,

Narrator 2: Cinnamon and clove sharply augmenting the smells of fire and blood and spaghetti and roasting piranhas.

Narrator 3: Lark grimly takes stock of the Company onslaught, the burning foldmersible, the lasers, the glittering shining armor and luminous mica-tipped weapons of her foes. A battlefield of deadly light and tearrors. Weepe nowhere to be seen.

Narrator 1: They are completely exposed. No cover. All Company weapons are trained on them. There is a brief, precious lull in laser fire.

Narrator 2: Lark seems calm. She closes her eyes. But not because she’s awaiting death. Because she’s planning to avoid it.

[Silence. A monstrous chittering sound echoes.]

Narrator 3: (Soldier) “What was that?” a Company soldier asks.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Close your eyes,” Lark whispers to Spahr and Phineas.

[A beastly roar, followed by galloping footsteps.]

Narrator 3: A black shape in the dark. Gaunt, fast. There one moment, gone the next, ripping through the Company.

Narrator 2: A soldier is wrenched away into the night, blood spurting in the air, splattering on stone.

Narrator 1: (Soldier) “What the fuck?!” another one yells.

Narrator 3: Soldiers are desperately reloading.

Narrator 1: (Soldier) “Open fi—!”

[Another roar.]

Narrator 3: A second soldier is dragged away screaming into the ink-dark desert.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Don’t look,” Lark reminds Spahr and Phineas calmly. “Keep them closed.”

Narrator 1: They don’t need to be told twice. What the fuck? The Fold is batshit!

Narrator 2: The Company panics. Screams rend the night air as, drawn to this cacophony of light and sound, a familiar creature—

Narrator 3: Familiar to you—

Narrator 2: Emerges.

Narrator 1: Amid the flames and lasers and swirling tearrors, a twinkling light spackles the desert as a kind of photolocating scan sprays across this scene of violence.

Narrator 3: And the violence gets much, much worse.

Narrator 2: Leaping effortlessly onto the promontory, backlit by the burning cabin, a blinding is barreling in, its skin thick and full of tension, taut in a natural defensive armor.

Narrator 3: Its large morning glory-like frill spread open, numerous tiny nematocysts fanned out and sparkling, an almost hypnotic cluster of pistils like the heart of a flower, glinting, looking out, and finding so, so much to see.

Narrator 2: So many wide, terrified, reflective, appetizing eyes.

Narrator 1: The blinding moves, as we like to say, with blinding speed. It springs into the fray with horrific grace, face-to-frill with the Company’s reflective visor-like helmets.

Narrator 2: Catching the glint of its own light in a soldier’s eye, it stabs a bristly spike in through their helmet slit, spearing through their ocular orbit and rupturing their brain.

Narrator 3: Lark, Phineas, and Spahr stand untouched in the middle of all this chaos, the luster of their armor darkened and obscured by soot.

Narrator 2: And with their eyes diligently closed, they remain dull and unreflective targets, slightly less visible to a blinding’s senses.

Narrator 3: Lark, in the same way she sensed their tremors here before, feels the blinding’s rampage throughout the battlefield. And not just one…

Narrator 2: A second blinding erupts from a thicket of thick, squishy jades, its scary morphing skin bunching and hardening and reforming around its spindly skeleton kind of like an octopus squirming around on a jungle gym, making it really incredibly hard to tell the exact borders of its body. Where does it begin? Where does it end? Where are its vital organs? Oops, while you were trying to figure that out, it drank your eyeballs.

Narrator 1: (Soldier) “Oh my god!” The Company are yelling, trying to shoot them, failing to shoot them, being carried away into the dark, one after another after another.

Narrator 3: (Soldier) “Fucking shoot them!”

Narrator 1: The Company’s numbers are dwindling fast. More than half are gone. The rest are pulling back towards the foldmersible, regrouping into a tight defensive formation, desperately shouting commands, trying to take aim, barely getting off shots before sharp-pronged barbs take out their eyes and pump them full of digestive enzymes.

Narrator 3: Liquivores!

Narrator 2: But suddenly the blindings freeze, recoil, hissing, spitting. Agitated by something. Alarmed.

Narrator 3: Lark cautiously peeks her eyes open to check the source of the blindings’ sudden skittishness.

Narrator 1: One last figure is walking slowly up the hill toward the cabin, the Company parting to let him pass. You know who it is.

[An ominous ambience slowly builds.]

Narrator 2: The blindings seem to be tasting the air in his direction, and they do not like what they find. They immediately flatten their frills down against their necks, shrink back, their aggressive posturing totally deflated.

Narrator 3: And as abruptly as they appeared, they are gone, darting away into the darkness. And Lark feels it too.

Narrator 2: A poisonous aura, a sickness, a rot, a black necrotic contagion poisoning the spiderweb. Her vision swims, her stomach lurches. An unnatural malevolence tremors around and within her.

Narrator 1: What little remains of Moc Weepe stands before them.

[Broken shreds of Weepe’s musical theme.]

Narrator 3: The Baron, the boy who would be mayor, the liar, the swindler, the cabaret owner, the Trustee, the Tripotentiary, the cold-blooded killer. A shell of a shell of a man.

Narrator 2: Whatever spark he used to have — that swagger, that humor, that eccentric whimsical flair — is gone. He is cold, solemn, empty.

Narrator 1: Well, not empty. He’s very very much full of Fold, anyone can see that, it’s just right there, pulsing inside his cellophane flesh, now beyond translucent, beyond transparent. He’s now just bones and organs and withered muscles and black squirming veins clinging to a haunted skeleton inside invisible skin. An absolute horror.

Narrator 2: But there is nonetheless a hollow quality about him. A void.

Narrator 3: Worse than that, a gravity, threatening to consume everything in its path. He wears a familiar suit of gold Consector’s armor,

Narrator 2: Sparkling with an absurd amount of Valor,

Narrator 3: And holds a familiar gold Consector’s mace.

Narrator 2: Spahr tenses.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Narrator 2: Something is terribly wrong with him.

Narrator 3: Tearrorably.

Narrator 2: Ha-ha.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Anyway, back to business.”

Narrator 3: The remaining soldiers advance, holstering their rifles—

Narrator 1: They learned THAT lesson—

Narrator 3: And instead drawing their mica maces and flails.

Narrator 2: The blindings certainly made a dent, but the trio of renegades is still hopelessly outmatched.

Narrator 3: They huddle closer, back to back to back, out of ammo, readying their meager knives and hatchets, facing out against the tightening ring of Company.

Narrator 2: Lark and Weepe lock eyes.

Narrator 3: This happened before at the Central Vault. They both felt something then, and they feel it again now.

Narrator 2: It’s love!

Narrator 3: No, it’s not. Quiet!

Narrator 2: Okay, it’s definitely not love, but it IS an undeniable connection. They are, in a sense, blood brothers, uh, Fold siblings, two spiders encountering each other on the same strand of spooky cosmic silk.

Narrator 1: The soldiers unholster dripping black syringes and attack.

[The sounds of combat.]

Narrator 2: A swinging mace.

Narrator 3: The chop of a hatchet.

Narrator 1: Spahr’s breastplate takes a shattering blow.

Narrator 2: A whistling flail.

Narrator 3: A violent parry.

Narrator 2: Lark, back to back with Phineas, striking out, turning.

Narrator 1: A flashing knife in the dark. A soldier goes down.

Narrator 2: A needle darts.

Narrator 3: Lark dodges, strikes. A severed hand holding a syringe goes flying.

Narrator 2: Spahr deflects the flash of a spear meant for Phineas, sends a soldier toppling.

Narrator 3: But then a flail bashes him to the ground. A gold mica-headed mace descends, shattering Spahr’s knee.

[A crash. A shout of pain.]

Narrator 1: Weepe looms, grinding the mace into Spahr’s leg, splintering bone.

Narrator 2: He’s got that freaky strength and energy that only monster guys have.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Didn’t I tell ya how fast you’d go down in a real fight, show pony? How ya like—” 

[A shout, an impact.]

Narrator 3: Phineas Thatch’s gauntleted fist slams and breaks the see-through cheekbone of the Tripotentiary’s awful skull.

Narrator 1: Weepe staggers back, momentarily stunned.

Narrator 2: The mace remains just where he left it, embedded upright in Spahr’s leg.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Hang on!”

Narrator 2: Phineas pants, and seizes the handle of the mace.

Narrator 3: Pulling it free, Phineas swings it aloft and takes a protective stance over Spahr.

Narrator 1: Two soldiers charge Phineas, who fiercely parries and ripostes.

Narrator 2: A soldier goes down hard. Another swings. Phineas deflects.

Narrator 1: And then from behind him a hot needle stabs directly into his neck.

[Abrupt silence. Three heartbeats, then nothing.]

Narrator 3: Phineas didn’t think it would be like this. He’s imagined many times the many ways this might one day happen in the line of duty, in the course of Breach, but this was never one of them.

[Echoes of Phineas’s theme.]

Narrator 2: He doesn’t hear Jonas scream his name.

Narrator 1: His world is rapidly shrinking.

Narrator 3: Phineas feels the blood drain from his face, the ground surging up in his unfocusing vision. The one clear thing he can fixate on, a dead blue moth clinging stiffly to a rock nearby.

Narrator 2: He cannot breathe, he cannot scream, he cannot hear.

Narrator 3: He has reached his end, and the battle recedes from perception. There is only a crawling agony, surging up his throat, paralyzing his chin, seizing his tongue, and tearing up toward his brain. His perception is collapsing, but his eyes manage to register something swooping down from above the moth.

Narrator 2: A hand is reaching toward him, fold-black fingers appearing out of the fold-black gloom.

Narrator 3: His vision swims, sizzles, each and every neural connection in incomprehensible agony.

[Slow, mysterious strains of Lark’s theme.]

Narrator 2: The hand closes over his neck, over the puncture wound. Glaring golden eyes, the left one shot through with a vein of black, swim out of the darkness.

Narrator 1: A voice, distant.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “No you don’t. Not this way.”

Narrator 3: The relief is immediate. Inexpressible.

Narrator 2: The ichor is suddenly halted, frozen, petrified somehow. The black stain spreading across his throat instantly drains of color, fossilizing instead into a familiar light-defying opalescence.

Narrator 3: The pain stops.

Narrator 2: Lark’s face is grim and intent as she slowly releases her grip. Where she had been making contact with Phineas, the skin of her hand, too, has become riddled with veins of that same empty color, but inky Fold quickly reclaims her hand like a black river consuming and melting a patch of ice. More new branches appear on her cheek. She shudders imperceptibly at that brief flash of that dead, quiet, Fold-muffling feeling.

Narrator 3: But for Phineas, that very same feeling is a lifesaving relief. As his senses return, he hears a roaring in his ears.

Narrator 1: The Company hears it too, it would seem. And the Tripotentiary. They’re all turning to look.

Narrator 2: What is that, the roar of the Fold?

Narrator 3: The Fold doesn’t roar.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Ah, shit,” says Weepe.

Narrator 2: That roar is the sound of the entire population of Stationary Hill charging towards them.

[The Midst main theme! Finally!]

Narrator 3: People on foot, people on bocular vehicles, people on farm animals decked out in spiky makeshift battle armor.

Narrator 2: They’re wielding a motley array of different kinds of weapons — pitchforks, naturally, because what kind of angry mob would be complete without pitchforks — but also axes, frying pans, two-by-fours, crowbars, pieces of pipe, candlesticks, whatever was laying around. But mostly? Fury.

Narrator 1: They are close, close enough for Weepe to hear the angry scream echoing across the desert.

Narrator 2: (Mob) “FOR SASKIA!”

Narrator 1: (Mob) “FOR SASKIA!”

Narrator 3: (Mob) “FOR SASKIA!”

[A canine howl.]

Narrator 3: Landlord bolts out of the crowd.

Narrator 2: Holy shit, we didn’t even know he could go that fast.

Narrator 3: And he fucking launches straight at Weepe, sinking his teeth into his forearm, bringing him down into the dirt.

Narrator 2: He falls on Weepe like a wolf on a fresh carcass.

Narrator 1: Good boy! Wow.

Narrator 2: Before the Company’s commander can yell the order to regroup, an entire personality made of frogs bowls him over. Giselle has no mercy. Only frogs.

Narrator 3: Fiona and her leg-man Jacob are a formidable double threat, striking fear into the hearts of every Company grunt who lays eyes on them, wielding a confusing hurricane of four machetes.

Narrator 1: Goe of the garag-g-g-g-g, his enormous arms toned by years of hard bocular labor, mauls a guy with a heavy monkey wrench. His eyes are red, tearstained with grief and rage. (Goe) “Where’s Weepe?! Lemme at ‘im!”

Narrator 2: Patricia is lobbing rock-hard slabs of stale and moldy bread, shouting optimistic morale-boosting insights to her compatriots.

Narrator 3: Ettie and Ellie, bestride a galloping ox, swing shovels and fuckin’ swipe a guy, their coordination perfect, their sense of timing impeccable. Their violence has all the grace of a dance.

Narrator 2: Lark looks up at the familiar sound of her own motorcycle, left behind in the shipyard, but now, Sherman and Tzila astride it.

Narrator 1: Lark’s heart does an involuntary somersault. No – Tzila?! Why are there children here? Even Walter and Bets are here somewhere, protected in the center of the stampede. Everyone is here. She can’t believe what she’s seeing. This is impossible.

Narrator 2: Dude, you just watched a million tearrors chase lasers through the sky. You just healed a guy with your own hand. You think this is impossible? Of course you do.

Narrator 3: Tzila has some kind of improvised slingshot and is just blasting sharp colored pencils, peeking out from behind the warm comforting safety of her dad to fire potshots as Sherman drives them in speedy circles around the perimeter, yelling at Tzila to (Sherman) “PLEASE stay down, oh my GOD Tzila!”

Narrator 2: Emmet is unstrapping and lobbing doors off of a cart, heavy hinged fuckin’ doors that seem to catch in an otherworldly wind, translating off on indescribable axes to smash and bowl over the Tripotentiary Guards.

Narrator 1: The incandescent steel wool nervous system of Mr. Potts, lost and adrift in the wilds of Vermillion County ever since it was flayed out of his old body, suddenly floats through on a gust of wind, shredding enemies as it passes.

Narrator 2: Gretel peels past astride a bocular horse, Backpack inside, firing bocs out of a device basically kind of similar to a nail gun, but for bocs.

Narrator 3: Hieronymous is even here, still wrapped in medical gauze, looking SO out of his element, but nonetheless wielding a torch and pitchfork with the best of them.

Narrator 1: (Hieronymous) “FOR SASKIA!”

Narrator 2: Everyone is here. Lark, Phineas, and Spahr are just agog, but they quickly snap back to their senses and join the fray, taking full advantage of their sudden reinforcements.

Narrator 1: The Company is overwhelmed, absolutely beset, profoundly outnumbered. Their ranks break completely. Some surrender on the spot, some run, some are engulfed in frogs.

Narrator 2: That’s the worst fate of all.

Narrator 3: Spahr, even with a broken knee, fends off foes with expert precision and steely determination, Phineas wielding the former Consector’s mace in a ferocious display of athletic prowess that would’ve earned him a shitton of Valor in the old days.

Narrator 1: Weepe, unarmed, armor in ruins, finally shakes off Landlord, whose jaws smoke and foam now with black ichor.

Narrator 2: Don’t worry, Landlord’s fine. We promise.

Narrator 1: Weepe struggles to his feet, shattered pauldron and breastplate sloughing off of him.

Narrator 3: And a woman who stands out of the crowd a little bit like a sore thumb appears before him.

Narrator 2: (Unidentified speaker) “Mr. Weepe,”

Narrator 1: Meryl Concord says.

[The opening notes of Weepe’s theme.]

Narrator 2: (Meryl) “For most people, this is for Saskia. But I know what you did. For me, this is for my little brother Atticus.”

Narrator 3: Lark sees what’s happening. She sees what’s about to happen, too. She can’t stop it fast enough. She can’t warn them.

Narrator 2: And Meryl plunges a dagger straight into Weepe’s ink-black heart.

[A metallic stabbing sound, followed by profound silence.]

Narrator 1: Weepe looks down. The dagger is buried to the hilt in his chest. He can see it clearly piercing his failing heart. Yep, that’s definitely a fatal wound. He begins to smile. He begins to chuckle. He begins to laugh. [Hue hue hue hue hue.] (Weepe) “Like brother, like sister. You’re so fuckin’ screwed.”

Narrator 2: A flicker of confusion passes over Meryl’s face.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “So long…”

Narrator 3: And with that, he dies.

[A bad sound.]

Narrator 1: Pure ravenous tearror boils out of the knife wound, surges over Meryl Concord, and immediately dissolves her. She doesn’t even have time to begin to comprehend what’s happening to her before she’s melted.

Narrator 2: Like brother, like sister, alas and alack, ashes to ashes, Concord to jelly.

Narrator 3: Let’s take a look at Weepe, or whatever this is, the way that we do.

Narrator 1: Dagger in its chest, a skeletal corpse garbed in broken golden armor, stands in the desert beside Meryl’s remains, swaying like a nightmare marionette possessed by a nimbus of mad convulsing darkness. The dead face turns, eyes fathomless voids, the grinning skull squirming with cursed ichor.

Narrator 2: Weepe is gone. Only tearror remains, and it twists and bends the broken body in its grip, compelling it forward in a gruesome advance.

Narrator 3: The townsfolk fucking run. The desert is eating itself alive, stone and sand collapsing and shattering, ripping apart in a mayhem of blood and teeth and fire and plasma and birds and bones. The body is splintering, warping, expanding. It is too tall, it has too many arms, too many reaching hands. A monstrous fractal spider standing in the web.

Narrator 1: No one and nothing can fight this. No one and nothing, except…for a motherfuckin’ sorceress.

Narrator 2: Lark pulls on her red glove. One last monster to hunt.

Narrator 3: Phineas throws out an arm. (Phineas) “Stay back!” he says to Spahr. “We’ll handle Weepe!”

Narrator 1: Spahr doesn’t need to be told twice. He nods. (Spahr) “Be careful, Phineas.”

Narrator 3: Phineas meets Lark’s gaze and hefts the Consector’s mace.

Narrator 2: Spar, the once-Prime Consector, limps back, positioning one-leggedly, trying to take a defensive position between the townsfolk and the nightmare. Phasing and convolving, the vortexing body bends and claws towards the crowd, the ground boiling and decaying under reaching claws.

Narrator 1: The last vestiges of the Tripotentiary Guard, realizing that their boss literally just turned into a vortexing ghost monster, either make a break for safety or drop their weapons where they stand. Even their loyalty has its limits.

Narrator 2: Good call. Little late, but good call.

Narrator 3: Phineas holds the mace aloft, the mica shining like a beacon in the darkness, light-drunk Fold swarming dangerously around it, stepping in line with Lark, into the path of the oncoming thing.

Narrator 2: Lark loads a cartridge of black ichor into the red glove, the vial she took from her arsenal earlier. And she shakes the web.

Narrator 1: The thing that used to be somebody who used to be Fold Baron Willy Swinzy turns on them, equally goaded by Lark’s call and drawn to the blue-white light of the mace that Phineas holds aloft, like a sea monster lured by a piece of glowing bait.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “That’s it. Right this way, Tripotentiary.”

[Another bad sound.]

Narrator 1: The monster phases incomprehensibly in their direction, away from Spahr and the huddle of townspeople. Lark and Phineas barely have time to dive out of the way as the thing lashes at them with too many hands, too many teeth.

Narrator 2: Being in close proximity with it is hellish. It has a sickening aura that makes you feel like you’re already dying, like it’s already too late. It is a walking despair.

Narrator 3: The three of them — Lark, Phineas, and the tearror-possessed body of somebody who once called himself Weepe — face one another. Phineas looks at Weepe, and in a horrible way feels as though he understands him. Phineas, too, has a monster inside him.

Narrator 2: He doesn’t want that to be true, but it is.

Narrator 3: He’s given into it before. He knows what it is to snap, to drown in his own shadow, to lash out at anything within reach in a desperate attempt to stay afloat.

Narrator 1: And although his instincts scream at him to run, he knows he has to do everything possible to stop this creature from hurting anyone else. Because it will. Because it’s given up on finding any other way to be.

Narrator 3: With a roar, Phineas rushes forward, taking a swing at what might be a rib cage. Mica shatters bone. Splinters go flying.

Narrator 2: Phineas meets Weepe’s rage blow for blow.

Narrator 3: The Consector’s mace blazes through the monster’s matter like a comet through a dark atmosphere, void pockets of tearror-flesh folding in on themselves and imploding, devouring themselves, overstimulated to the point of obliteration.

Narrator 1: Phineas orbits and dodges and strikes again and again and again, whittling Weepe down piece by piece, tearing white-hot burning holes through him, using the Fold’s reactive nature against him.

Narrator 2: Weepe’s form seems more concentrated now, the vaporous cloud bank condensing around his vestigial body, protecting it from the onslaught of blows, until, with a strike, the cloud breaks, revealing a momentary glimpse of the charred skeleton at its core, collapsed with pain like a limp puppet.

Narrator 3: Phineas looks urgently to Lark. Whatever has to happen next, it’s in her hands. Her…hand. She senses it too. Arm outstretched, she takes the opening that Phineas has created for her, and she dives.

Narrator 2: A black claw is intercepted by a red glove.

[Muffled, deep, liquid ambience.]

Narrator 3: The glove makes contact with its prey, as it has done many times before. It does as it was designed to do: a stream of paralyzing, incapacitating poison released into Weepe’s “body.” There’s a brief localized swirl of sluggishness, Fold that is considering maybe giving up and going to sleep.

Narrator 2: The glove fights against the monster, burning through its meager store of fuel faster than it has with any other quarry.

Narrator 1: Unfortunately, Weepe’s body is where this venom was born, and the larger mass of Weepe’s horrible tearror-vortex rushes at the glove, surging through it, INTO it, and into Lark’s arm.

Narrator 2: The entire left side of Lark’s body erupts in pain. She feels like she’s on fire. The spiderweb is ablaze with poison. She squeezes harder, feeling something like a solid form within the swarming darkness. The seams of the glove burst, the stitches unraveling, the materials fraying apart into ragged useless shreds. Now barehanded, she keeps holding on. The Weepe-thing is howling, thrashing,

Narrator 1: Jerking away, recoiling from Lark’s charcoal fingertips, snarling eye sockets flashing with malice.

Narrator 2: Lark feels the Fold tendrils snap back like steel guitar strings, stinging, howling like a broken chord.

Narrator 3: It tries to break from her, but Phineas is there, mace glowing, keeping its attention here, on Lark, cutting off its escape.

Narrator 2: Lark can sense the Fold within her vibrating with what was once the same simmering essence as the vial within the glove. Her fingers rasp against sharp and twining currents of Fold, some Weepe, some her own. It hurts. She doesn’t let go. The dendritic lines of Fold under her skin are flowing, rippling, coursing like a river. (Lark) “Be still,” Lark thinks, reaching for the threads of the web, knitting them, envisioning an enveloping cocoon, wreathing, wrapping, weakening. A shell, an encasement, a sarcophagus around him, to contain Weepe, as once did the Mothers before.

Narrator 1: Unbeknownst to her, but knownst to you.

Narrator 2: With the same disconcerting muffle, Lark feels the Fold connection slip out of reach as a sharp rime of frosty opalescence shoots up a tree branch, an arcing lance searing down her arm, through her hand…and into Weepe.

Narrator 1: The ethereal form begins to scab over, crackling opalescence solidifying in frosty broken shapes over the impossible warping anatomy of the thing, fighting an ebb and flow battle against the substance of the tearror, shards of broken eggshell where it fossilizes, opalesces. The thing weakens, losing slowly some of its reality-bending incorporeality.

Narrator 3: It does not feel good, for either of them.

Narrator 2: Lark calls out once more along the spiderweb’s threads. (Lark) “Stop,” she says to him, whatever scrap of him might be left in the wretched core of this thing. “Let go. Give in.” She pushes harder, stilling the storm of Fold within him despite the awful deadening feeling it gives her. Ice races up the river current, slowing it, freezing it.

Narrator 3: And there IS something in there that can hear her. Just a ghost, just a miserable flicker. And where she would expect to find rage and hostility, she is surprised to find instead… Exhaustion. Despair. Hopelessness.

[Delicate threads of the Moon Tune.]

Narrator 1: And what remains of Weepe asks Lark a question. (Weepe) “Can you promise me I won’t come back again?”

Narrator 2: And she answers him.

Narrator 1: And he believes her.

Narrator 3: Across the plain, the others watch as the tearror nightmare goes quiet. It gazes across the desert at them, silently taking one last look, and then it crumples and falls like a frost-rimed black flower unblossoming itself. The phantasmal ripples of tearror-substance disappear into Lark’s hand…and vanish.

Narrator 1: The last remains of Weepe’s physical flesh, now as thin and insubstantial as iridescent tissue paper, drift to the ground along with the remnants of the golden Consectorial armor and all of its fathomless wealth of Valor, dissipating as ash on the wind.

Narrator 2: It is over. It is done.

[The music shifts. A transition.]

Narrator 3: Dawn approaches. The Fold is beginning to thin.

Narrator 1: The population of Stationary Hill pick their way around the still-smoking wreckage of the foldmersible.

Narrator 2: Snatches of conversation, of sobs, even some laughter, echo into the night air.

Narrator 3: Saskia, of course, is on everyone’s minds and lips. They’re trying to process what has happened. Everyone has a different fragment of the story, and they’re trying to piece together the whole thing. They have barely had time to begin mourning.

Narrator 1: (Emmet) “She told us she sacrificed a body to take down the Trust,”

Narrator 2: Emmet is explaining to Backpack and Gretel.

Narrator 1: (Emmet) “She told us we should be ready for retaliation. She told us to hide. We had no idea we were about to lose her.”

Narrator 3: She knew she was dying, but she wore a brave face and did not tell them. They can only guess and wonder and try to piece the puzzle together. Her final performance.

Narrator 2: When the coast cleared and the town emerged from hiding to find Saskia in the cabaret, they weren’t expecting to find two of her there, and for not just one of her, but for both of her, to be dead.

Narrator 3: One of her bodies wrapped in a mica-colored shroud inside of a brand-new casket, the other draped on the daybed in the balcony, her lifeless gaze fixed on something no one else could see. Barty and Lloyd standing vigil over both of them. By the time Hieronymous, Gretel, and Backpack arrived, they found a town ready to erupt. It wasn’t clear if Weepe was responsible for Saskia’s death—

Narrator 2: Either of her deaths—

Narrator 3: But close enough. Weepe had become synonymous with the Trust in their minds. He was responsible for plenty of other things.

Narrator 2: Perhaps including the strangled body of Notary Imelda Goldfinch, lying there in the street beneath the abacus tree, not that anyone cares.

Narrator 1: Ettie is sniffling into a handkerchief.

Narrator 2: (Ettie) “She told us she’d come find us once Weepe was gone. But he came and he went, and still no Saskia. Oh, Saskia…she gave everything to protect us…”

Narrator 3: Sherman and Tzila are holding each other tightly, Landlord nosing against Tzila’s hand. Tzila sniffles.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Saskia was a hero.”

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Yeah,”

Narrator 2: Sherman says, eyes shining.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Yeah, she was.”

Narrator 1: The charred remnants of Lark’s cabin smoke atop the hill nearby as the Stationarians set out for home, following the winding road, the road that snakes its way in the direction of Stationary Hill.

Narrator 3: What little remains of the Company has been rounded up, to be dealt with later.

Narrator 2: It wasn’t hard. Their motivation is gone, like their Trust, like their Valor, like their Tripotentiary.

Narrator 3: Sherman leans against the monocycle, watching the crowd, lit here and there with gently undulating lanterns along the length of the road.

Narrator 2: Patricia gratefully takes a seat in an old rusty bocular horse, her ankle sprained but her spirit undeterred.

Narrator 1: Gretel and Backpack are deep in conversation, their thoughts already drifting back towards the Highest Light and all that remains unresolved there.

Narrator 3: Goe and Emmet murmur in astonishment about how little old Meryl Concord was the one to drive a knife into Weepe’s heart.

Narrator 2: Giselle ribbits contemplatively. Fragments of stories everywhere — beginning, ending, splintering, and converging.

Narrator 1: Sherman sighs.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Y’know, Tzila, I’ve been thinking. We should try NOT to get involved in any more cosmic conflicts, for a while at least.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I don’t think I like being told what I’m allowed to do or not. I’m not a kid anymore, Dad.”

Narrator 2: She’s getting Landlord ready for the trip back to town, buckling little safety goggles over his eyes, checking him for injuries. He’s fine, but he did lose his bandana. His tail thumps on the dusty ground as he accepts the show of affection. He’s back to his sleepy old self.

Narrator 1: Sherman sighs in defeat, smiling in spite of everything at his worldly twelve-and-a-half year old.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “I know. You can take care of yourself. But listen. You gotta let me take care of you too, okay? You may not be a kid anymore, but you don’t have to be a grownup yet.”

Narrator 1: Tzila gives her dad a hug. (Tzila) “Okay.”

Narrator 2: Nearby, Phineas is helping Spahr limp along. They’ve managed a simple splint for now, but Spahr’s arm is firmly gripping Phineas’ shoulder as they go.

Narrator 3: The new opalescent scar across Phineas’s neck gleams strangely, a surreal imitation of Valor. An abacus he’ll carry with him forever.

Narrator 1: Spahr leans heavily against him. (Spahr) “What now, Phineas? I have no idea what to do next.”

Narrator 3: Phineas knows what Spahr means. They can’t stay here. This place isn’t for them, not yet, maybe not ever. And returning to the Un right now feels just…inconceivable. (Phineas) “I think, maybe, it would be good to take a break from DOING things. Maybe we could just go somewhere quiet for a while. Just rest. Think. Heal.”

Narrator 1: Wow. Spahr can barely imagine what that would feel like. (Spahr) “You, uh, have a place in mind?”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Yeah, I do actually. If, I mean, that is, if you…”

Narrator 1: (Spahr) “Phineas, whatever is next, the one thing I am sure of right now is that I’d like to go there with you.”

Narrator 3: Like a final crack in a glacier, some long-held tension deep inside of Phineas seems to release. Even after everything that’s happened, this is the thing that stuns him the most.

Narrator 1: Jonas’s gaze flickers over Phineas’s opal-scarred neck. (Spahr) “I lost you twice, Phineas. I’m in no hurry to lose you again.”

Narrator 2: Phineas smiles, using one arm to lift and reposition Jonas. They have been keeping their distance from the Stationarians for the most part, but they are passing very close to Sherman and Tzila now.

Narrator 3: Phineas still feels his old instincts clawing at him. What would be the maximally Valorous thing to do in this situation? What would make him look good? And what would show everyone beyond a shadow of a doubt how deeply he repents? Apologizing feels profoundly inadequate and even selfish somehow, but NOT apologizing feels cowardly.

Narrator 2: He wishes someone else could make the decision. Someone qualified to make the right decision. Someone not him.

Narrator 1: Spahr is slowing down, turning to the Guthries. (Spahr) “Sherman. I’m glad to see you made it out of the city, and I am relieved your daughter’s all right. It’s good to see you back together. I’m…sorry I was so useless in that regard. Took me far too long to figure out what I needed to be doing, and I’m, uh. Well, I’m still figuring it out.”

Narrator 3: Phineas nods. (Phineas) “We’re going to be leaving Midst soon. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, just ask. That goes for you and Tzila.”

Narrator 2: Sherman makes eye contact with Phineas again. As difficult as it is, Phineas holds the gaze. (Sherman) “Getting rid of the Trust was a start,”

Narrator 1: Sherman says.

Narrator 2: (Sherman) “I…acknowledge your part in protecting Midst, but I don’t want favors from you. Wherever you go from here, I hope it gives you what you need. I really do.”

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “So do I,”

Narrator 1: Says Phineas.

Narrator 3: (Phineas) “Goodbye, Guthrie– uh, Sherman. Goodbye, Tzila.”

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Goodbye, Phineas,” says Tzila. “Good luck.”

Narrator 2: And with a small wave and a nod, she turns away.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “I’ll be back in a sec, Dad. I have to go find Landlord’s bandana.”

Narrator 3: Across the darkened desert, Phineas’ gaze alights on Lark.

Narrator 2: She has shed the Company armor. She sits on a blackened stone, quiet and weary, bidding farewell to Goe, just the last of the many townsfolk who have spent the last hours expressing their gratitude to her for her uncanny protection.

Narrator 1: They seem to have gotten over the whole ‘Lark is an infamous murderer’ thing, or they have at least accepted it. Of course, they still don’t know she killed Fuze. And maybe they never will.

Narrator 3: Her eyes meet Phineas’s now. A wordless acknowledgement passes between them. A knowing. A silence that speaks volumes. His salute to her is small, sincere.

Narrator 2: And so is hers in return, as Phineas Thatch turns away.

Narrator 3: Repositioning Spahr beside him, Phineas takes a deliberate step into the future. And then another. And he and Spahr slowly make their way toward an indeterminate absolution. Together.

[With four familiar notes, the music swells and fades away.]

Narrator 2: As Sherman is prepping for departure, Lark heavily gets to her feet and walks over. (Lark) “Thanks for bringing her back.”

Narrator 1: She gestures ahead to where the trusty motorcycle sits across the ravine.

Narrator 3: Can we say “trusty”? That’s kind of a loaded word in this context.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Take it. Tzila always wanted to learn to drive it, anyway.”

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Are you sure?” Sherman looks with concern at Lark’s ruined cabin, wondering if she intends to stay here. “Won’t you need it?”

Narrator 2: (Lark) “If I do, I’ll let you know. Just…hang on to it. For me.”

Narrator 3: There really aren’t any other words. So Sherman pulls her into a hug.

Narrator 2: And with a lingering look, the two part ways. Sherman heads over in the direction of the motorcycle, HIS motorcycle, where Hieronymous Loxlee waits for him, chewing on his lip thoughtfully.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “I still can’t believe you’re here,”

Narrator 2: Sherman says to Hieronymous.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “I hope you’ll stay a while. We have a lot to catch up on. Maybe even to…catch Tzila up on.”

Narrator 1: (Hieronymous) “We do,”

Narrator 2: Says Hieronymous quietly.

Narrator 1: (Hieronymous) “We really, really do.”

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for us. For everything you’ve done to help protect Midst.”

Narrator 1: And at THIS, Loxlee’s gaze is deep. Labyrinthine. He is silent. He does not know what to say, or if he will ever be able to say what truly weighs on his conscience.

Narrator 3: Sherman takes a seat on the motorcycle. (Sherman) “Tzila should be back in a minute. You can ride to town with us.”

Narrator 1: (Hieronymous) “Thank you, Sherman. I’d like that.”

[A transition. The music fades, leaving only a peaceful desert ambience.]

Narrator 2: Tzila is standing in the desert, Landlord at her side, quietly watching the Fold grow thin as Lark comes over to join her. The good old boy’s bandana has been found and neatly retied around his neck.

Narrator 3: Lark gives Landlord’s ears a rustle, and Tzila peers at the woman’s face.

Narrator 2: Lark looks…deeply changed. One gold eye, one solid black like the Grandmother’s, pupil, iris, and sclera. The entire left side of her body is completely consumed in Fold. The scar is actually still spreading. It’s expanding fast enough now that Tzila can see little tendrils of it reaching and bleeding together right before her eyes. Watercolor seeping through paper.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Lark…are you gonna be okay?”

Narrator 3: Lark just looks at the girl, reaches out, and holds Tzila’s hand palm-up between them.

Narrator 2: (Lark) “Wanna give you something.” Lark places a worn leather pouch in Tzila’s waiting hand. It looks old, well-handled, lovingly and often repaired. Tzila recognizes it at once. Lark’s divination set.

[A gentle acoustic version of Lark’s theme.]

Narrator 3: Tzila looks up, confused and yet painfully not confused, eyes filling with tears as her heart begins to understand what her brain hasn’t yet caught up on.

Narrator 1: (Tzila) “Thank you. But…why?”

Narrator 2: Lark does something Tzila has never seen her do before. She smiles.

Narrator 3: And in that instant, the Fold wipes over them both, and Tzila is blinking in the sudden dazzling light of the Un.

Narrator 1: Tzila watches as the wall of Fold continues to slide away from her, translating across the landscape, revealing the desert of Midst in its full brilliant beauty.

Narrator 2: Tzila is standing there alone, holding the pouch, facing the curtain of darkness as it glides away. Lark is gone, the ghost of a blackened hand trailing after the Fold like smoke.

Narrator 3: (Sherman) “Tzila, come along!”

Narrator 1: calls Sherman, distantly.

Narrator 2: With a last glance toward the retreating Fold, Tzila clutches the pouch to her chest, turns, and runs to catch up with her dad, Landlord trotting at her heels, heading for home.

Narrator 3: And once again, all is quiet.

Narrator 1: There is nothing this far out in the desert.

[Four notes of the Midst main theme.]

Narrator 2: And now… not even us.