Narrator 1: Kozma Laszlo, Baron of the Fold Shallows and all islets therein—

Narrator 3: —except for Midst—

Narrator 1: —has arrived… for dinner!

[Kozma Laszlo’s theme surges.]

Narrator 2: It is a stormy evening here in the palatial Loxlee mansion, hovering at a distance from the urban center of the Highest Light, the distant lights of the city a blurry nimbus through the clouds below.

[Stormy ambiance fades in: raindrops hitting glass windows, occasional thunder.]

Narrator 3: Dense, gray storm cloud formations engulf the private islet, shrouding the estate in an uncharacteristic, eerie dimness.

Narrator 2: Rain whips the windows. Occasional lightning sparks in the clouds directly on the other side of the glass. Front row seats to the storm.

Narrator 1: Rising from their chairs around a long, stupendously-arrayed dining table, the dinner party stands at attention within the lovely glasshouse of the Loxlee Manor dining room.

Narrator 2: Everyone’s dressed in their formal best: Imogen Loxlee herself, Hieronymous Loxlee—

Narrator 3: He’s a busy guy today!

Narrator 1: He really gets around.

Narrator 2: —Senior Notary Milton Fleit, and new Archauditor Imelda Goldfinch. They all turn to witness the arrival of the Baron…

[The Baron’s theme concludes. A hefty door opens.]

Narrator 1: Kozma Laszlo approaches her designated seat at the end of the very long table, while her retinue of guards stand ominously at attention behind her.

Narrator 2: She’s dressed today in an emerald-green velvet jacket and a black brocade dress shirt, carrying a stylish cane and a menacing-looking broach at her throat.

Narrator 3: Imogen Loxlee splays her hands invitingly. (Imogen) “Thank you everyone for coming. Baron Laszlo, thank you for making the long journey all the way from the Fold. Shall we be seated?”

Narrator 1: And all ARE seated, except for the staff in the dining room, standing in rank and file around the table: Kozma’s attendants and the Loxlee’s. It’s very grand. It’s very extra.

Narrator 2: Kozma is brusque. (Kozma) “Are you sure you’d like to sit now, or would you prefer to reschedule again while you have a few more parades and coronations?”

Narrator 1: This dinner has already been delayed at least twice and Kozma is not accustomed to being kept waiting.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “I wouldn’t want to keep you from restructuring your government a few more times.”

Narrator 3: As Imogen sits, an attendant splays the napkin across her lap, and she folds her hands. (Imogen) “My apologies, Baron. It is… a complicated time for the Trust, and we thank you for your patience.”

Narrator 1: Hieronymous, seated beside her, places a hand on his wife’s. (Hieronymous) “And I’m sorry as well for my role in these delays too, Baron. I was away on business and I only just got back recently.”

Narrator 2: Imogen gestures for the first course to be brought in. Everyone is served unidentifiable Trust fripperies by silent staff.

Narrator 1: Silverware clinks, beverages are poured into elaborate glassware.

Narrator 3: Imelda sets her silverware down. (Imelda) “So how were your travels? I recently made the journey from Midst myself and I must say it’s quite a scenic route.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Oh, we’re doing this? Okay, let’s all go around and share a highlight from our weekend. I’ll start. I spent it sitting in a hotel room, having my appointments rescheduled.”

Narrator 1: Imelda beams at this, eyelashes fluttering.

Narrator 3: (Imelda) “Oh, what fun! Me next! This weekend I made the delightful discovery of a new tea blend. I find I’ve developed a taste for delicately-brewed succulents since my foray on Midst.”

Narrator 2: Senior Notary Fleit is tucking his napkin into the neckline of his shirt.

Narrator 1: He fluffs his cravat, he adjusts his sleeves, preparing to dine. (Fleit) “Incidentally, I refamiliarized myself this weekend with the original bill of sale and associated contractual documents from the asset acquisition of the islet of Midst, which is the matter we desire to speak with you about tonight, Baron Laszlo.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Thank you. I’m glad SOMEONE wants to talk business, let’s go.”

Narrator 1: Imogen Loxlee sits up in her chair.

Narrator 3: (Imogen) “Very well. Let’s discuss the reason we’ve gathered here. As we all know, Baron Laszlo recently sold us the property known as Midst. Not so long after the closure of this transaction, the property rapidly… depreciated in value when the moon, ah…”

Narrator 1: There is a silence. Laszlo is waiting, mildly.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Yes? When the moon… what?”

Narrator 3: Imelda jumps in. (Imelda) “Well, when an abrupt destabilization caused a decrease in altitude to a hazardous degree, well…”

Narrator 1: She trails off as well. This is a tricky one. How do you— [laughs] How do you broach THIS subject?

Narrator 2: Kozma is very much enjoying their discomfort. (Kozma) “Oh, you mean when the moon blew up and created a huge tearror storm that killed a bunch of people, forced the evacuation of the entire islet, wildly transformed the only significant settlement on the Mediun, and completely fucked up your economy?”

Narrator 1: The clinking of silverware has ceased. Hieronymous Loxlee takes a tense, challenging sip of wine.

Narrator 3: (Imogen) “Yes, well… that,” concedes Imogen Loxlee.

Narrator 1: Milton Fleit is a champion and is unconcerned and unruffled. (Fleit) “The fact is, the timing, Baron Laszlo, is curious. We would not be doing our due diligence if we did not investigate the possibility of—”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Oh, that I did this on purpose?”

Narrator 3: She chomps a stem of seared laurel.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “That I sold you faulty merchandise? Or sabotaged it?”

Narrator 1: Another long pause.

Narrator 2: Boy. This is a dinner full of long pauses.

Narrator 3: (Imogen) “Not in so many words,”

Narrator 1: says Imogen Loxlee delicately.

Narrator 2: Kozma wipes her mouth with a napkin, deliberately staining it with her dark, rich burgundy lipstick, and sets it down. (Kozma) “Neat. Okay, I’M gonna talk for a while now, since you are all so bad at it.”

Narrator 1: Here it comes. The Upper Trust sit forward attentively,

Narrator 3: Wine glasses held in suspension before them.

Narrator 2: Kozma steeples her fingers — you gotta, when you’re giving a speech like this, you kind of have to. (Kozma) “I didn’t come all this way so you could ask me questions about the moon. I’ve got bigger problems with you than you have with me. The Trust has been too big for its britches for a while now, and it’s only getting worse as time goes on. You are a creepy cult that spreads like poison through everything you touch, and I’m here to draw a line with you. That line is the Mediun. You will not cross the Mediun. All this downward expansion you’ve been trying to do with Midst? It’s over.”

Narrator 1: One of the Loxlee’s attendants sees that Imogen’s glass of water is running a little bit low, but fearfully declines to take action to remedy that particular situation.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Second thing: the Breach. If people want to quit you, you let them quit. Let them live their lives and stop chasing them up and down the cosmos. They don’t belong to you. They belong to me. I AM the Breach.”

[Thunder echoes distantly.]

Narrator 3: The silence is loud.

Narrator 2: So many different flavors and textures of silence.

Narrator 3: First course plates are awkwardly removed before soup bowls are delivered to the diners. Small florets of delicate fungi gently melt into the broth, yet no one reaches for their spoons. This is an awkward dinner.

Narrator 1: And Kozma Laszlo is far from finished.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Since you were asking, or TRYING to get the words out: did I blow up your moon?”

[The wind howls outside.]

Narrator 1: Rain rattles the windows. Kozma takes a sip of wine. Hieronymous Loxlee sweats.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Yes. I did.”

[An ominous version of the Midst theme.]

Narrator 3: Hieronymous Loxlee looks aghast.

Narrator 1: Imogen raises a sculptural eyebrow.

Narrator 2: The guards in the room, both the Trust’s and the Baron’s, have been increasingly at the ready as the tension ratchets up, and now they’re poised for something to go DOWN in a major way.

Narrator 1: Interestingly, Kozma’s own people look as surprised as anyone else to hear her confession, expressions of shock, confusion, breaking through their stony facades as they dart glances at one another. But they’re professionals, it’s not stopping them from doing their jobs right now.

Narrator 2: The Loxlee’s personal bodyguards have stepped discreetly into protective positions. Imelda has clapped her hands to her mouth.

Narrator 1: Senior Notary Milton Fleit, uh, actually looks pretty much the same. He’s a stone-cold guy.

Narrator 2: Maybe a little more dour than usual.

Narrator 3: Point is, he’s kind of a dour guy, but—

Narrator 1: Kozma Laszlo, on the other hand, looks mighty pleased.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Every part of this has been my plan to put you back in your place. You should be grateful. I could destroy you if I wanted, but I’m nice enough to let you keep existing if you stay away from my territory.”

[Thunder rumbles.]

Narrator 1: Hieronymous Loxlee is still holding his wife’s hand firmly. He gives it a little squeeze for reassurance. (Hieronymous) “What do you mean by THAT, precisely, Baron?”

Narrator 3: Imogen gazes at Laszlo. (Imogen) “Yes, Baron, I would hope that is not perhaps a threat?”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) [Laughs.] “The Breach isn’t just out there. It’s in here: inside the Trust, inside the Company, inside this city. Maybe inside this very room.”

Narrator 1: Everyone looks at everyone.

Narrator 2: Guards look at guards.

Narrator 3: The Loxlees look at the notaries.

Narrator 2: Notaries look at guards.

Narrator 1: It’s kind of like that Spider-Man meme.

Narrator 2: It’s exactly like that. No one moves. Everyone points.

Narrator 3: Hieronymous especially looks very tense, but only YOU notice that. No one else here seems to think he looks particularly amiss.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “You think everyone who hates the Trust runs away from it? Plenty of them stay right where they are. My people are everywhere, and they have instructions to follow if I am apprehended or harmed in any way. Instructions… you really won’t like.”

Narrator 1: She drains her wine glass in one smooth slurp.

[A thunder crack.]

Narrator 3: Lightning flashes across Kozmas numerous and massive rings, twinkling against the cut crystal of the glass.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “You have one day to formally agree to my demands. If you instead use this day to, I dunno, figure out how you’re gonna fuck with me, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you. God, this soup tastes bad.”

[Silverware clatters.]

Narrator 1: All of the Trustees’ soups remain untouched, in fact. Everyone’s somewhat lost their appetite.

Narrator 3: Everyone’s dining on Kozma’s words.

Narrator 2: What a gift her presence is.

Narrator 1: Imogen clears her throat, impressively well put together, given what’s going on here tonight.

Narrator 3: (Imogen) “The soup IS better warm. Well, that’s all very interesting. What I’m hearing is that you are frustrated with the Trust. While I appreciate you going to this level of detail, we are in a bit of an awkward situation.”

Narrator 1: Senior Notary Fleit nods. (Fleit) “You see, Baron Laszlo, neither myself nor Mrs. Loxlee have the authority we did just a few days ago to make decisions on behalf of the Trust. Not even our new Archauditor Goldfinch can do that. All of your grievances really must be brought to the attention of—”

[Dishes clatter as the table is slammed.]

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “To whomst?? Oh, now I see where this is going. You’re about to tell me that that small time strip club owner from Midst you ordained two days ago is—”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Your new King Triangle? Yep.”

[Weepe’s theme emerges, along with a continuous mechanical pump sound.]

Narrator 3: A languid, wrecked voice emanates from the doorway.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Sorry I’m late. I got lost in my new mansion again. Oh god, not these soup again. Now I’m sorry I’m not more late. Oh well, the burdens of public service.”

Narrator 2: The Loxlee staff immediately clear the offensive soup course away and replace it with some steaming flanks of what conceivably could be seared and seasoned cabbage, if cabbage existed.

Narrator 1: It’s kind of LIKE cabbage. 

Narrator 3: Sort of. 

Narrator 1: It’s one of THOSE things again. You’re a pro now, you know what to do.

Narrator 3: As Weepe arrives, a new roster of staff process in behind him.

Narrator 2: Clearly his minions.

Narrator 1: They release large blackout curtains from their pinions as a fat lightning strike beams brilliant luminance through the ghastly silhouette of a skeleton wrapped in a translucent jello skin, clad in the glorious vestments of the Tripotentiary.

Narrator 3: Beside him, connected to him, on a little wheeled contraption, Weepe is pulling along a miniature portable version of the big medical device he has at home. The machine wheezes rhythmically, coaxing a constant flow of black ichor from his veins.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Whoa. You don’t look at all how I pictured you.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Well, they say I got a face for the teletheric. How you doin’, Kozma Laszlo. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. How funny it is though, that our very first meeting should be under these circumstances. I hope I did not annoy you too much with all my letters back when I used to be workin’ at that cabaret.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Not at all. Barely remember them to be honest.”

Narrator 1: Weepe’s grim Company guard stand behind his chair, ever watchful. These are again, as you may remember, the specialized Tripotentiary Guard, decked out in unique livery reflecting their special assignment to Weepe.

Narrator 3: At his arrival, Imelda leans in just as Weepe is taking stock of his place setting,

Narrator 2: Eyeing all the weird food.

Narrator 3: (Imelda) “Hello, Tripotentiary. Baron Laszlo here was just informing us that she is in charge of the entire Breach, ah, that she blew up Midst’s moon, and seeks to bring ruin to the Trust unless we meet her demands.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Oh nice, could you pass me some of that wine?”

Narrator 2: He glugs himself a nice glassful, lights a cigarette.

Narrator 3: Oh, you can actually see the smoke slide into his pulsing, translucent trachea and lungs—

Narrator 2: Ew!

Narrator 3: —through the open V of his tunic.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Mmm, I like this one.” He turns around with his new glass of wine in hand. (Weepe) “Yeah don’t worry about filling me in, Imelda, I got the Baron herself right here.”

Narrator 2: He turns in his chair, fixing Kozma once again with his ink-stained gaze.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Madam Laszlo, if you could please repeat everything you just said to everybody here, thanks.”

Narrator 2: To Weepe’s credit, Kozma is briefly dumbfounded. (Kozma) “Ha. I don’t have time for this. You all can fill in your weird new mascot yourselves. I’ll only repeat one thing: You have one day to give me your formal agreement in writing. I’m done here. I’m gonna go get dinner.”

[Chair squeaks against the floor.]

Narrator 1: And with that, Kozma Laszlo stands from her chair, turns with a whirl of her jacket, a click of her cane, and processes crisply out of the room with her retinue at her heels.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “There’s gotta be someplace in this city you can find some REAL food.”

Narrator 1: It is a testament to how seriously her threats have been taken that no one moves to stop her.

Narrator 2: And as dramatically as she made her entrance, Laszlo is gone.

[The hefty door opens and slams.]

Narrator 1: Imelda attempts decorously to break the ensuing silence.

Narrator 3: (Imelda) “Somebody’s got to get you up to speed, Tripotentiary, and I’m happy to do so as your Archauditor. When the Baron arrived, we started by talking about our weekends. I had tried a new tea, Milton here was revisiting some of the original sale details, and Kozma was very frustrated about her situation—” [Imelda’s voice recedes into the background, continuing indistinctly. Blah, blah, blah.]

Narrator 2: Imelda carries on with a grand retelling of the evening’s antics. But while that’s going on, let’s just zoom in on Weepe’s horrible see-through head and straight into his horrible see-through thoughts.

Narrator 1: He is in high spirits, enjoying dinner with a healthy gusto, completely disregarding every single word Imelda is telling him. This is going great. Kozma didn’t even recognize him. She still believes… that he’s Moc Weepe.