Meet Midst!

All right, so first let me open.

Let me open by saying I apologize for the cliffhanger at the end of season one.

Okay, how dare you?

I'm not

saying we want to listen to season two.

And I apologize.

Which I'm sure itself does not end with a cliffhanger of any kind either.

Well, there's only one way to find out.

You'll just have to listen to Midnight Burger.

I will say, I will put that in your court, and I will say that there's one or two cliffhangers in your neighborhood.

Okay.

We've been known to hang from a cliff now and then.

Well, I think mutual enjoyers of cliffhangers would enjoy Midnight Burger and Midst.

Maybe if you like cliffhangers, you should enjoy listening to both.

Yes, and that's what.

Yeah, what is going on here?

Should we explain what's happening?

What is going on here?

That was a bit of a cold open, I guess, wasn't it?

So

if you're listening to this on...

On the Midnight Burger feed, then you know who I am.

Hi, I'm Joe.

I'm the creator of Midnight Burger.

And I am here with some friends,

the creators of the Midst podcast.

Hello to all three of you.

Yes, if you're listening to this on the Midst stream, hello.

Then you know our voices.

You know us as your narrators, perhaps as third person, perhaps, perhaps even by our names.

I'm Sarah.

I am Zen.

And I am Matt.

And we are the narrators and co-creators of Midst.

And what a pleasure to be chatting with Joe Fisher, the creator of Midnight Burger today.

Midnight Burger is engrossing, mystifying, fascinating.

Thanks for chatting with us today.

We're excited to share with all of you listeners out there a little Midnight Burger if you're hearing this on the Midst feed.

And if you're on the Midnight Burger feed, a little bit of Midst.

Yes, and if you're on the Midnight Burger feed, we are very excited to bring Midst to you if you have not already heard it.

Following this conversation, there will be, I believe, three episodes of Midst that you can listen to.

And then after you do that, please immediately go subscribe to midst anywhere you get podcasts or you can go to their really amazing YouTube channel.

Yes, there are some visual visuals to look at.

And there's some really great visuals that go along with each episode.

And it's really phenomenal.

That's not how it always was though.

Is that a new sort of iteration of the show?

That is new.

That came along with Critical Role sweeping us up under their glorious banner.

And we've had the opportunity to create, or I I should say, have artwork created by a multitude of talented artists to go along with every single episode.

So, if you're more of a visual person, like something to see in the background while you're listening, you have that option.

But, of course, it was originally podcast, it was designed as an audio experience, and you can listen to it that way as well.

And let's do that.

We're talking about like the current iteration of it, but like, can we like go back?

Can we reel back the tape to the very beginning?

Um, and could you give me some insight into how it all started with Midst?

Oh my goodness, yes.

Well, the three of us have been friends for quite a long time, and we were brought together by our mutual love of writing and sci-fi and fantasy and weird audio stuff, but also tabletop role-playing games, which we used to run and still do to this day run and create with each other quite a bit.

Midst originated as a role-playing game that we were creating for the three of us to run and play together,

but it rapidly transformed into less of a game and more of a show.

And we

started to approach it as a podcast for other audiences other than just the three of us.

Right.

Though, of course, entertaining ourselves has always been pretty close to the top of our priority list.

Yes, very much that.

Yeah, absolutely.

And what about you, Joe?

So, with

Midnight Burger,

it started the way that a lot of podcasts these days have started, which was it was in

the deep, dark heart of the pandemic, you know.

And

the really dark time, like the time back when, like, you know, is there going to be a vaccine?

Is a vaccine even possible?

Are we literally going to be, is this going to be, you know, the new reality just stuck inside forever?

Yeah.

Can I make sourdough bread forever?

Can I make sourdough bread forever?

And

so

what I did, I so I turned to Finlay Stevenson, the co-producer of the show, and I said, let's make something in the face of, you know, know, imminent destruction, you know.

And

so we, you know, she knew a bunch of actors, I knew a bunch of actors, and we just started making a bunch of calls to people.

And luckily, I had, you know, generated enough goodwill with them that they were willing to just say, I don't know what you're talking about, Joe, but sure, I'll do it.

And we ended up with Midnight Burger.

And, you know, it just, we were doing it at first just for the love of it.

And then,

you know, and then a bunch of people started showing up, as I'm sure it was with you all.

So it's been quite a wild ride.

So it really was just a crew of unwitting friends mysteriously trapped in a traveling adventure together, unsure how they got there or where it's going.

So it's a simulation, is what you're saying.

Yeah, exactly.

Yeah, I mean, it does.

And it is kind of strange

the way that it parallels, you know, our lives.

It is this thing that kind of has swept us up.

The show, for those of you who don't know, know, it's about a time-traveling dimension-spanning diner that sort of magically appears once a day anywhere in existence, right?

They open at six.

We open at six.

And

it's funny because I keep hearing from people that the show just kind of appeared in their life and they don't quite remember how it got into their life, you know?

It looked the same way that the diner was

spooky.

So, yeah, there's a lot of weird parallels between the show and the sort of the comportment of the show, too.

We feel as though there are certain vibes in common between Midnight Burger and Mids, which is partly why we are so excited to share these shows with all of you across these feeds.

Midnight Burger and Midst, in some ways, are both set in a

strange and mysterious, awe-inspiring universes, but they also both, I think, tend to focus really on that

the mystery within, the juicy, character-driven drama, humor, and intrigue.

Right.

So if you enjoy that in Midst, you will certainly enjoy it in Midnight Burger, and I would love to think that the same is true for Enjoyers of Midnight Burger as well.

For Midst, let me just read you what it says here on the back of the tin.

Three mischievous and unreliable narrators spin a surreal psi-fantasy space western tale about complicated anti-heroes making bad decisions in a world on the edge of disaster.

That's the best we've been able to come up with.

We've been told midst is kind of hard to describe.

That's, you know, which is what's so great about us having this conversation is because you have spared me having to just, because, you know, if we weren't doing this, I would just be by myself describing here's what midst is like.

And it's really almost nearly impossible.

Like, I was amazed that you just, you know, put it into that nice little description because it

had that pre-written.

That's

we labored over that for hours.

I know, but I'm saying that I would labor for hours and I would still have nothing, you know, because it really is hard to,

it's one of those things where if you try to describe it shortly,

you just keep disappointing yourself because there's so much in it and it is so dense and complex.

Well, likewise with Midnight Burger, I feel like saying that it's about a galaxy hopping or dimension hopping diner, you're only really getting the tip of the iceberg.

Sure, that's in the story, but is it really all that it's about?

Does that give you the full picture?

It's much, much more.

Yeah, it's just these elevator pitches are just,

they're so.

They're hard, man.

They're so hard, aren't they?

You know?

Because it's just like, if that was the whole story, then I wouldn't go any further.

You know, if it could just be described in a sentence.

Well, we'll have to leave it to our dear listeners here to discover the stories for themselves.

We're so excited for you on the Midst side to check out Midnight Burger.

Yes, are we at the end of the day?

Season one, episode one of Midnight Burger.

That's a great one.

Season one, episode one of Midnight Burger.

We'll be following this conversation.

You can subscribe, of course, anywhere you get your podcasts, or just go to weopenat6.com.

Tremendous.

And new episodes of Midst are releasing every Wednesday on your favorite podcast streaming platform, also on the Critical Role YouTube channels, and also for subscribers on midst.co.

Two weeks early for subscribers.

Season three of Midst is premiering on February 14th.

Seasons one and two of Midst are already out there in the cosmos for all of you to listen to right away if you're so inclined.

And how many seasons of Midnight Burger are out there at time of recording, Joe?

There are currently three complete seasons of Midnight Burger out right now, and season four will begin in the middle of April of this year for the public feed.

And for subscribers, it begins in the middle of March.

Exciting.

Oh, boy.

It's Midnight Burger time.

And it is also Midst time.

It's Midst Night Burger time.

Midst Night Burger.

That's perfect.

I love it.

Thank you.

We'll be here all night.

Our new crossover series begins next month.

Stay tuned.

Stay tuned.

That's right.

Joe, thanks for chatting today.

We're so excited to share this

showcase with our listeners today.

Everyone, enjoy.

Cheers, Joe.

Cheers to you, too.

I'll see you soon.

It doesn't occur to any of these people that the moon is about to fall out of the sky.

And let's be honest here.

Why would it?

They're distracted.

There's a lot going on.

And moons, obviously, don't usually do anything so dramatic.

The pandemonium we're seeing in the streets right now is totally unrelated.

Word of the big sale got out 30 minutes ago, and everyone in town is jockeying to get inside of the post office and cash in.

This riot is ready to strike it rich.

Except for the obalescent man who already has.

In all the mayhem, no one's even noticing the guy in jagged glassy armor dragging a body out of a side street door, blood fresh and dripping from his spiked fist.

No one sees his panic or determination.

No one notices, except the woman fighting her way against the current of the mob, leading a girl with her.

She sees it, stops, and immediately makes an escape in the opposite direction, pulling the protesting girl with her.

The armored man looks up from the body at his feet.

He almost sees her go.

He would have seen her if he, the woman, the obalescent man, and everyone else hadn't just then looked straight up into the sky, terrified by the sound a moon makes when it falls.

There is nothing this far out in the desert.

Nothing except for one small cabin of sorts.

It's a sort of odd, handmade, patchwork hovel, home to just one person.

The person who lives here doesn't really care about design or coziness.

She cares about utility and function.

Currently, she is trapped in her cabin by a horrible monster.

More on that in a moment.

She's not alone in the cabin.

Her dog companion is here as well.

The dog's name isn't companion.

No, it's landlord.

The dog's name is landlord.

You heard that right.

Now that we're clear on that point.

He's sort of a hound, sort of sitting there on his cushion under the table.

He lets out a little boom.

He's really old.

He's kind of tired of this shit, to be honest.

Lark, that's the woman's name.

She's a kind of rangy, leathery, hawke-eyed Clint Eastwood type.

If Clint Eastwood had dreadlocks and was a woman, so Lark is putting a blindfold on Landlord.

It's not the first time this has happened, and he puts up with it with this kind of resigned tiredness.

It's a safety precaution.

It's in his best interest.

He's been used as bait, he's been used as a guard dog, he's even been used from time to time, though rarely,

as a friend.

Lark doesn't really have many friends.

She would laugh at you if you suggested that Landlord was her friend.

Landlord is her dog.

He's not even her dog.

He's a dog.

He lives in the hut.

She lives in the hut.

They're both here right now, in the dark, both in danger.

And there's a blinding outside.

Off in the distance, in the strange darkness that has texture to it outside the window, there is a creature.

A large grey, possibly beast, lumbering slowly across the plain beyond her house.

It has vaguely the form of a horse, or maybe a really large dog, like a great Dane or something, but with strange, gripping claws on the ends of its legs, not hooves or paws.

And its skin hangs loosely off of its bones.

It really seems rather emaciated, but has this abundance of loose, pebbly, disgusting skin, like elephant skin hanging off of a dying horse.

It's gross, and its head is even worse.

Up a long, sinuous neck that reaches up to peer above the desert is a blooming morning glory-like mantle, a hooded frill.

Flashes of light emit from tiny little barbs that emerge, that jut out from the center of this.

The lights spackle the desert terrain, projecting into the dark, reflecting off of metal edges, sheet metal contours on Lark's shed jack house hut.

It's on the wrong side of the house, she thinks.

Shit.

She has a lantern in one hand, a hooded lantern with a trigger-activated lever.

She's rigged it up herself.

It has a tiny little spraying attached.

She can pop this hood open and shut.

She is currently crouched down back to the wall underneath one of the very few windows that she has in her hut.

She is inside, waiting for the right moment, realizing that the blinding is in the wrong place, carefully keeping her eyes shut to prevent any reflection.

Extend an arm, raises the lantern, clicks the lantern open and shut, creating a flash, attracting the blinding's attention.

The blinding seems to have become fixated on the glass of the window pane on this side of her house, the window that she is currently crouching under.

She should have prepared for that, of course, but well, this is the situation now and she's going to have to deal with it.

She reaches out and giving landlord a reassuring pat, reassuring him.

She's fine.

She doesn't care.

She's done this before.

In fact, she's so practiced at having hunted this particular variety of beast, she has prepared a lavish banquet for it in the front yard.

A cow carcass lying there, awaiting her prey.

A cow is a good word for it.

It may not be a cow in the strictest sense.

It's similar to a cow.

It has things in common with a cow.

Eyes, principally, being the most important in this case.

The eyes are dead, but wide open, staring, and most importantly, still glassy and reflective.

She has attempted to make it extra visible by carving its eyelids off.

If only the blinding could see them.

Anyway, back to the case of getting it around to the other side of the house.

Lark, casting her eyes about the interior of her cabin, sees the small table that landlord is currently crouched beneath, the few belongings that she has meticulously gathered over the course of her years here, small survival materials and so on, and identifies a shelf of some drying glassware hanging outside of the window on her front stoop.

The blinding's lights.

Sort of a visual echolocation.

Photo location, maybe is the right term.

Maybe we'll get lucky and that will be the right term.

Its lights are beaming through the window just above her head, reflecting around in the interior of her cabin.

It is pacing closer and closer through the darkness, across the desert, zeroing in on her position.

And now is her chance.

Its lights are through the window, it is looking inside of her cabin, and she flashes her lantern across the space, not out the window, across the space at the glassware, which glimmers.

The blinding moves with blinding speed.

She instantly feels a change in the blinding's anatomy.

Its musculature going rigid.

There is sort of a small tremor that passes in the intervening space between the blinding and her house.

And as its footpaths come ever closer and begin to skirt round the cabin, she knows that her efforts have paid off.

She also knows she's running out of time.

The darkness inside her hut.

Let's make this very clear.

The darkness is outside because it is dark.

The darkness is also inside.

And we don't mean that in the sense that it is dark in both places.

We mean that literally the darkness is inside of her hut.

The darkness in this desert is not like any darkness you've ever known.

It's more of a fog.

It is a physical presence.

It is dark matter hanging in the air.

And this dark presence, this fog, is starting to retreat.

It is soon to be day.

And the moment it is, the blinding is gone.

She will have lost it.

So there's no time to waste.

She is on the move across the hut, heading to the front door.

She slips through it, silently.

She's moving with precision, but speed.

There's not a moment to lose.

She's pulling something out of her pocket.

It's a glove.

A red glove.

There's only one like it.

anywhere.

The blinding's horrible, lithe form towers over the corpse of the cow in the yard, its large mantle frill currently open, the glowing pneumatocysts of its internal sensory organs extended.

A light flashes from the tip of one and reflecting off of the glassy eye of the cow, that same pneumaticist plunges in through the open ocular orbit of the beast.

There's nothing quite like the sound of a blinding's barbs plunging into a dead creature's eyeballs.

Or not necessarily even dead.

Unfortunately, usually not dead.

Lark is still approaching the blinding from behind, walking up to it, calm as you please, pulling on this red glove onto her left hand.

It's a strange glove, definitely hand-made.

Hand-stitched seams running along it.

The blinding eats very quickly.

The cow is already starting to look a bit dried out, a bit desiccated.

And the blinding's frill is wide open.

Since Lark is behind it, she can see through the the translucent flesh the blue-white glimmers of its bioluminescence.

Flashing with pleasure.

She reaches the creature's flank, reaches out, and strokes it as casually as if she were to give her dog a pack.

Instantly, she can feel the skin of the creature attempt to seize up under her hand.

Normally, a blinding, if confronted with violence, will react, its skin hardening into a carapace-like armor, protecting itself.

This causes the creature to not be worth quite as much once it has been processed.

It also makes it near impossible to take down by more conventional means.

In case you were wondering why Lark simply didn't charge up to it with a shotgun, which would be her normal way of doing things.

No, she hunts them with her glove, touching them gently and putting them to sleep.

Already, the blinding's muscles are contracting.

It retracts its barbs from its meal and attempts to turn its head around to attack, but its reflexes are becoming sluggish already.

Her red glove is still firmly in contact with its haunch.

The muscle around that point of contact beginning to seizure and tremor very gently.

The creature's back legs buckle underneath it.

She continues to walk forward, stroking her gloved hand up the blinding's flank.

The front legs fall.

The glowing tips of the barbs are flashing in a sort of chaotic, disorderly pattern, slowly dimming.

And they begin to wink out one by one, going dull.

Within minutes, the blinding is dead, and Lark, wasting no time, cuts it open.

She's mostly interested in the skin.

The meat of a blinding is no good to anyone.

It's disgusting.

It's good to a few people, but she doesn't care about those people.

No, it's the skin with its remarkable, transforming, and protective qualities that is particularly valuable, but only if it is freshly skinned from a recently dead blinding.

Landlord comes wandering out of the door of the house, having somehow extricated himself from his blindfold.

That's bad.

If he'd done that earlier, that might have been a severe problem.

Lark's heart does a tiny somersault.

Not that, no, she doesn't care about the dog.

Whatever.

She does.

She actually, she actually does.

She has a very slightly soft heart.

She would never tell you any of this, which is why we are telling you.

Landlord, coming forward, is delighted to find a pile of blinding viscera and begins snuffling in it joyously.

He's one of the things to which a blinding's meat is not totally disgusting.

Lark wrinkles her nose at the sight and continues with her work.

As Lark works busily with her knife, the gray darkness of the night thins slightly, going hazy and then abruptly is gone.

Instant, brilliant daylight.

This dawn is like arriving in Oz.

Red rocks, green succulents, a bright, vibrant desert.

A vast curtain of obsidian fog slides back, exposing the landscape.

A sheer wall of darkness, retracting laterally, spanning from land to sky, horizon to horizon, like an opaque ocean of ink, draining sideways, translating smoothly.

Its face phasing through plants, rocks, lark's cabin, through lark.

There it goes.

The night.

On the move, gliding silently away.

Lark doesn't even notice.

She's busy carving up a monster.

This happens every day.

She's not the sort to appreciate unrise and unset every day.

From the outside of the darkness, it has a definite reflective edge.

You can't see through it.

It's like obsidian, utterly impenetrable.

Gliding away from her over this incredible landscape dotted with enormous succulent plants the size of trees and huge redstone formations.

Tiny desert critters, lizards slither away.

A couple of odd birds, a few mirror hawks, concerned by the sudden bright light, escaping back into the darkness that they prefer.

There is no sun.

The sky itself is the source of luminance, a bright, pure, dazzling white.

The curtain of darkness, stretching away across the landscape, suddenly passes over a tremendous hill, a glorious summit.

This huge red hill,

a mountain almost, dominates the horizon.

And a rough path trails off from Mark's cabin, connecting with a distant road.

A road snaking toward the hill.

She's already loading up the blinding's carcass onto her vehicle, we'll call it for now.

It's a sort of motorcycle.

It's sort of motorcycle.

Sort of a mono cycle.

It has one large wheel.

It has a small sidecar.

She's throwing the grim heap of blinding flesh into the sidecar.

A gruesome passenger.

Gesturing, she attempts to send landlord back inside.

He doesn't notice.

He doesn't care, so she doesn't care either.

And firing up her cycle, wheels it out from an awning attached to her hut.

She wheels off, cruising down the main road.

Her destination, the craggy mountain in the distance, peppered by buildings.

There's a town there.

That's where she will sell the skin.

And on high, above the mountain, mountain, above Lark on her cycle, there hovers oppressively

the moon.

In the desert, there is a hill.

Almost a mountain.

Officially a hill.

And on the hill, there is a town.

A chaotic assembly of clapboard houses and adobe homes clustered around the spindly metal tower with a cable stretching stretching off into the sky.

A single main road winding along the spine of the mountain, forming the nucleus of the town where the concentration is highest.

People milling about their daily business.

A particular man weaving his way through them.

The man is deft, adroit, sharp-looking.

Bowler hat on the top of his head, briefcase under an arm, shopping bag in his other hand.

He is arriving now at his destination, his purpose clear in his mind.

He has one task and one task only.

Blackmail.

This man is Atticus Concord.

He's a dandy sort of fellow, as we mentioned.

The bowler hat, the suit, the briefcase, the shopping bag.

The shopping bag is unrelated.

He was out getting something for his sister, who he'll he'll be visiting later.

He is a sharp-looking guy.

There's a slight edge of creepiness to him.

Clearly, you already find him creepy because you know his mission now.

As he proceeds down the street, the other residents of Stationary Hill cast their eyes his way.

He sort of sticks out a little bit like a sore thumb, but a sore thumb in a suit.

Let's just be clear about that.

Like a really attractive sore thumb.

Yeah, he has that self-assured, confident, vaguely theatrical, on-stage sort of quality.

There is a slight edge to him, a slight creepiness.

There is something not entirely quite right.

There is more going on than meets the eye, and you would sense that if you talked to him.

He's not talking to anyone now.

He's making a beeline for the front door of his destination, the Black Candle Cabaret.

Ah, what a sight it is amongst these other dusty and sort of worn-down buildings in Stationary Hill.

This place has class.

At least it's trying to have class.

It has class.

It actually does.

Fake it till you make it, right?

This place has done that precisely and has come a long way.

It is today, here in the bright unlight of Stationary Hill, a cool and mysterious venue amongst all these other ramshackle buildings.

The whole building is mostly the facade, at least, painted a kind of glossy black.

In many ways, it imitates the surface of the fold when you're looking at it from the un.

Atticus Concord is not impressed.

He's not here to be impressed.

He is here to do business.

And he opens the door and goes inside.

It's not open right now, but the door was unlocked, and he lets himself in, as though he had every right in the world to be there.

Inside is such a contrast to the dusty, red, blazing street outside.

Immediately, he's engulfed in velvety, cocooning darkness.

An intimate darkness.

Curtains as though the ribs of a giant whale.

A very plush, luxurious whale that had been outfitted by a top-of-the-line interior designer at some point.

So we're inside of a whale, sort of.

The rafters are a kind of luscious backbone, a kind of strange velvet maw going back.

Drapes separating regions of seating.

There are small tables.

This is a nice upscale supper club.

The tables have little candles on them.

Where else are you going to find that in Stationary Hill?

There are actually about two other places, but this is the nightclub, which makes it automatically better.

It's black and navy blue and royal purple, dotted with glimmering little lanterns hung up in the curtains.

Atticus Concord makes his way down the central aisle towards the bar.

There's a sort of receptionist fellow, a major D.

He has no clear job title.

He doesn't even know what his job is.

He just works here and he talks to people.

And he, approaching Atticus, says, Sir, we're not actually open.

I have an appointment.

As a matter of fact, Atticus Concord says, I'm here to see Mr.

Wheep, and I believe it is Saskia?

Saskia?

Yes.

Yes, they should be expecting me.

Of course, your name?

Concord.

Atticus Concorde.

A pleasure to make your acquaintance.

Mr.

Concord, why don't you have a seat at the bar?

I will just go check.

Not that I don't trust you, it's just that, you know, we are not open and we weren't, I wasn't.

He doesn't trust him.

This fellow does not like a man in a suit, even though he sees many every single day.

He hates a lot of people.

He is a hateful and angry person.

He has a drug problem.

We'll get into that.

We're not actually going to get into that.

You know what?

Let's not even talk about that.

Let's just go back to Concord, who is more than happy to sidle over to the bar and occupy himself while this young bastard wanders off to verify his meeting.

The bar occupies the very center of the Black Candle Cabaret.

One side facing the front door, the other side facing the stage, which you can't see from here.

And Concord is, in fact, not the only person to situate himself at the bar.

Not only is there the bartender opposite him, a stately, statuesque sort of man, but also a very young girl sketching just there, sitting at the bar.

There is no drinking age in Stationary Hill.

If there were one, she would surely not meet it.

Why she's hanging out here, Concord does not know.

Concord does not care.

He, addressing the bartender, orders a drink.

Looking from the girl to the bartender, Concord perceives, being a very perceptive fellow, they must be related.

The bartender approaches.

Can I fix you something to drink?

Oh, don't mind if I do.

I would say something a little bit on the light side, a little bit refreshing.

Hot out today, you know.

Just, um,

I don't know.

You have any kind of um something with tonic, perhaps?

Mm-hmm.

Coming right up, the bartender answers amiably.

Whatever you want, I defer to your professional judgment.

The bartender invents something for him, mixes up a light, honey-colored refreshment of some kind, bubbling with tonic water, slides it across the counter to him.

It's all in the house.

Ever heard you're here to meet with Mr.

Weep and Seskia, the bartender says.

Yes, that's correct.

I'm very excited to make their acquaintance.

We've heard rather a lot about them.

Where I'm from.

Oh, and where's that?

Well, you know, my good man.

Not really at liberty to say, Concord says.

Ah, say no more, the bartender says with an understanding nod.

A man of mystery.

I get it.

Eticus Concord, after all, has a theory or two about this place, and locations where people are from is part of that.

The host, descending from the balcony above the bar, beckons to Mr.

Concord.

You're welcome to come up, sir, unless you'd rather finish your drink.

Oh, not at all.

You can bring it up if you want.

Let's get down to business.

Or up.

By this way.

Concord follows the host up the spiral staircase, flanking the bar.

The bartender watches him go.

The girl at the bar looks up and watches him briefly before returning to her sketch.

She's drawing pictures of bottles.

Concord follows the host up the stairs.

The stairs, wrapping around the back of the bar, overlook the stage in the furthest interior of the cabaret.

A small stage.

Atticus notices that the design of the cabaret mimics that of much fancier establishments on more populated islets.

Midst, on the other hand, hasn't been around that long at all, and Stationary Hill is the only city of note on its surface.

This might be the only nightclub on the entire islet.

It is, literally, just for your information.

On the darkened balcony, there is a single green glass lamp lit up over one table.

Two people are sitting there.

They're only silhouettes to Atticus right now.

The table, as you can see, is littered with documents, pieces of paper, ledgers, books, pens, pencils.

The detritus of business.

The other tables up here on the balcony, pristine, untouched, all set for tonight's entertainment.

This one is an anomaly.

A table turned into an office, apparently.

Concord, following the host, begins to approach.

But a figure stands up and comes to meet him.

He's treated to a graceful, curvaceous silhouette approaching him.

An adulset voice greets him.

Ah, Mr.

Atticus Concord, I assume?

Saskia.

She extends her hand.

The pleasure is mine, Atticus says, removing his hat.

He bows slightly, takes her hand.

Two huge, glossy black dogs lounging on a large tuffet across the balcony raise their heads to watch him.

Saskia is a beautiful woman, but not quite there.

She doesn't quite latch onto him with a vivid gaze the way Atticus is accustomed to so many of the women with whom he interacts.

Sayaskia has a way of not quite paying attention to you specifically because she's paying attention to everything all at once.

Her eyes are half-litted, sort of lazy, kind of distracted.

She's one of those women who calls you dear and honey, and it just seems all perfectly natural.

Concorde is actually taken a little bit aback.

He was not prepared to find her so immediately and oddly likable.

He's prepared to blackmail her and yet feels almost just briefly guilty.

Nah, definitely not.

Please come sit down.

She invites him.

She leads Concord through the nest of tables over to her place of business.

The one table occupied here on the balcony overlooking the stage, covered in papers, where her companion sits, and her companion is a weird-looking guy.

Let's pause here for a moment.

So, this is Mock Weep.

He's Saskia's business partner.

And, um, he's a very indescribable sort of man, physically.

We are going to make every effort to describe him to you, because he is one of the primary protagonists of this story.

You have already met at least one other.

We will not tell you whom.

It was Lark.

We will tell you whom.

Now you know.

So, this man, if we were going to be lazy about it, if we were going to use a kind of shorthand, we might say that he was completely opaque white, like a marble statue.

Bald, featureless, pupilless eyes, no variation at all.

But that's not quite true.

It's more like light doesn't interact with him properly.

Light simply does not know what to do with him, and this has the effect of making his entire body, every surface of his body, the interior of his mouth, his eyes, the skin beneath his fingernails, appear a strange, opalescent ivory.

And regarding all of this, Atticus Concord feels...

Well, actually, not much of anything because Atticus Concord is a cool guy and also a professional criminal.

He does not evidence any surprise.

What a champ.

Mr.

Weep, I presume.

Atticus Concord extends a hand.

And Mr.

Weep, poring over his ledgers, filling in some figures, removing a

cigarette, a cigar, from his mouth, tapping it in the ashtray, extends a spidery hand toward Concord, not making eye contact, draping it into Concord's embrace, barely making purchase on his hand, simply says, mm-hmm.

Saskia has already reseated herself and inclines her head for Atticus to do the same at the third chair there at the table.

I've almost finished with my paperwork, Mr.

Concord.

Just have a seat.

I'll be with the both of you in just one moment.

Yes, you'll have to excuse the mess.

We were just doing a bit of bookkeeping before you arrived.

I was doing a bit of bookkeeping.

Seskia was merely keeping me company, Mr.

Weep says, still not paying attention, scribbling some conclusion to his math, to his arithmetic.

Oh, well, that's not quite true, Weep.

I was going over the choreography for tonight.

You know that.

He looks up, his strange blank eyes regarding her.

Well, just because I don't have a piece of paper in front of me.

Concord is watching this funky dynamic.

He puts his briefcase down beside him.

He puts his shopping bag down down on the other side of the chair.

Mock Weep's eyes light up.

Well, they do nothing specifically.

It's apparent that Mock Weep is looking at the shopping bag.

Oh,

he says, Mr.

Concorde, you really shouldn't have.

And gliding his bizarre spider grip around, makes purchase upon the shopping bag and, bringing it up onto the table, just plucks it out of Atticus's possession.

Not missing a beat, Concord says.

Of course.

A gift.

Thank you so much for your time.

I tremendously appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.

Please, a gesture of my esteem.

You're a really nice guy, Concorde, Weep says, dumping the contents of the bag unceremoniously and somewhat roughly onto the table.

The contents, of course, being a gift.

Not intended for him, but for Concorde's sister.

Mr.

Weep doesn't know, doesn't care.

Atticus's palms did start to sweat for just a moment as he was considering whether this gift that he purchased for his sister would make an appropriate offering for this very delicate business/slash blackmail meeting.

It is some kind of small, absurd, hand-carved, decorative nutcracker, which, let's be honest, as a gift for Concorde's sister, is pretty shitty.

Mr.

Weep thinks it's terrific, though.

He gasps.

This is a really top-notch item, Concorde.

I don't know how did you know that I really like things like this?

Is this really a nutcracker?

Concorde, please tell us.

I must know.

Mr.

Weep says, gazing avidly with his luminous owl eyes across the table.

Both of them seem breathless with anticipation for Atticus Concorde's answer.

Absolutely.

Do you have any nuts?

You could give it a go.

I don't know.

You know, we used to have all those left over from the wars of the VIP, the

fundraising thing.

Sherman?

Saskia has leaned over the railing to call down to the bar below.

Sherman, have you gotten any of those mixed nuts left from the event the night before last?

The voice comes up from below.

Uh

no, I'm afraid not.

I think we um I didn't he's about to say Mr.

Weep, but he doesn't.

Weren't they all eaten?

Mr.

Weep ate them all.

Mr.

Weep knows he ate them all.

This is all part of a master plan.

Yeah, there no, I just checked.

There's uh there's no more in the cabinet here.

Well, what do we pay you for, Sherman?

Be creative.

Bring me something else crunchy, you know, ice cubes or something.

There's a moment of silence.

Yes, sir.

Ice cubes coming right up.

Hey, thanks.

At least I can crunch some damn thing with this.

Wouldn't want your gift to go to waste, Concorde, now would we?

Mr.

We

says, oscillating the cracker open and shut.

This is pretty good, pretty smooth action.

Anyway, I don't want to get too distracted here with this, though.

I really am very excited.

It's not every day I get an unsolicited present from some nice fella I've only just met.

I'm glad you're excited about it, and I must say thank you again for your time.

I truly appreciate you taking a moment out of your busy schedules to have a quick chat with me.

Well, we appreciate the letter of introduction you sent along ahead.

Yeah, that was really quite informative, Mr.

Concord.

I think we would waste a lot of time with you trying to explain to us why you're here, but I think I got a clear picture.

So why don't you just lay it on us, alright?

Let's not waste any time.

Tell us the story.

Why you're here today?

Absolutely.

Well, as someone involved in the human resources industry, I work with a number of different organizations to help facilitate employees and actually transfer of talent between different institutions.

Yep.

I think I grasp as much from your letter, Mr.

Concord.

Mr.

Weep is puffing on a cigarette and also having a drink of something with his other hand simultaneously while also brandishing the nutcracker.

The girl from the bar comes up the stairs at this point with a basket of ice cubes.

She's got an incredulous look on her face, edges towards the table, puts the ice cubes cubes down, and looks at Mr.

Weep.

Hey, yeah, that's just the thing.

Thanks a bunch.

See you later.

Mr.

Weep waves her off, and he begins forthwith to crunch ice cubes.

They shatter across the table, spewing out over the floor.

He seems supremely satisfied.

He is not distracted.

He continues to listen with attention to Concorde's story.

The Black Candle Cabaret, of all locations on Midst, has a bit of a reputation, a very positive one, I might add.

But really glad to hear that, Concorde, coming from you.

Yes, really.

That's pretty nice.

And principally because of your talent.

Yes, well, we do take pride in our hiring decisions.

I feel as though I would be able to help represent your interests, both in acquiring additional talent and perhaps moving some of those you may currently employ.

I'm not sure if that's something that you're looking for at the current state of your operation here, but I just wanted to present that as an option.

Well, you know, Concorde is a man in your line of work.

I'm sure it's it's very clear to you that any place of business is only

as good

as the people it employs.

And so, therefore, here at the Black Candle Cabaret, Saskia and I are very interested in employing only the best of the best, and that's why we often turn to employment agencies to help us find the right candidates, if you know what I mean.

Yes, there are a few employment agencies that we have established relationships with.

Okay, let's step back for just one moment.

This is not a conversation about employment agencies.

This is not even really a conversation about hiring.

This is a conversation about something entirely more secretive and illegal.

And all of them here at this table right now know this.

Concord is trying to learn what he needs to know to blackmail them later on.

He's just maneuvering right now.

The blackmail, that's not taking place yet.

They carry on their veiled dialogue, proceeding jauntily.

Mr.

Weep cracking ice cube after ice cube.

Saskia smiling lazily, indulgently, never meeting anyone's eye.

Concorde lays out his case.

He represents an organization with quite a few excellent candidates who would be prime for placement here at the Black Candle Cabaret.

The Black Candle Cabaret would, theoretically, if all conditions are met, be interested in employing them.

Mr.

Weep takes all this in, smoking his cigarette, sipping his cognac, cracking the ice cubes.

Saskia listens dreamily, staring off into space as Concord lays out his particulars and then, putting the capstone on his delivery, presents the paperwork.

I've taken the liberty of drawing up a few pieces of general information outlining what I have in mind.

Here, he produces copies, one for Saskia, one for Weep.

Oh, be still, my heart.

First, you bring me presents, then you butter me up with a lot of nice things about my place, and now you brought me legal documents.

This guy, this guy's got a special place in my heart.

Saskia takes both the copies of the document and slides them across the table, positioning one in front of her and one in front of Mr.

Weep, who doesn't look at it.

If there's anything I like in life, Mr.

Concord.

Weep breathes almost seductively.

It's a little spooky.

It's an airtight contract of business.

I think we'll get to be good friends, you and I.

Oh, yes, Mr.

Concord.

I don't even think.

I think we've jumped straight to the best buddies stage.

Ice cubes go shattering across the floor.

He's almost burned through all of them.

But you know what?

Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, my good buddy.

We're gonna have to read these papers somewhat thoroughly.

Well, I'll be staying in Stationery Hill with my sister for a few days.

If you would like, I could return at some point for a further conversation on this subject.

I think that would be a wonderful idea.

So Saskia

there's a show tonight, in fact, if you come back during business hours, that I think you would enjoy very much.

Yeah, it's pretty nice.

There'd be some there's a lot of music, uh singing.

You might even like the later on there a couple women maybe take off some of their clothes.

It is a cabaret that kind of does happen from time to time.

But you it's been happening a lot less lately, Mr.

Reep, regarding Saskia.

And I think it's been a little bit detrimental to our business practice.

We try to build ourselves ourselves Concord as a sophisticated establishment, which means a little bit less nudity, right?

The nudity is not inherently a classy activity, but anytime we try to tone it down, fewer people show up, our income is reduced, I have all these problems with the papers, so.

It's a delicate balance.

You can't really be a cabaret without the cabaret, but we still have some of that.

So you come by tonight, there will be a long line because of the nudity, right?

Maybe you're going to be able to get in, maybe you're not.

You're not a VIP yet.

You're no kind of business partner.

So, can't give you any sort of preferential treatment.

You can't come in early.

Yeah, there's no side door.

You're gonna have to come in with everybody else.

Yes, tonight would not be a good opportunity for another business discussion, you understand, but I think it's a good idea if you come around as often as you can and see how things work around here, if you're serious about a partnership.

You're gonna ring up business with us, Mr.

Concord?

Mr.

Weath says, again, giving Atticus Concord his strange, full, opaque attention.

You're gonna have to learn to work on our schedule.

If we were coming to you, we would wait for you.

But since you're coming to us, you're gonna wait for us.

And I just want to be clear about one thing, Mr.

Concord.

Mr.

Weep's hand comes spidering across the table, taking Concord's.

That, of course,

if you're fucking with us,

we're gonna fucking kill you.

Saskia blinks dreamily.

Just to be very clear, we're on the same page, a lot of transparency,

mutually beneficial relationship, right?

That's what this is.

That's why you bring the gifts, you button me up, you've even brought the papers, so

I have no concerns.

I think we have an understanding.

Damn straight, we do, Mr.

Concord.

And that being said, we got all this vacuum cleaning to do, and somebody really made a mess up here.

And I think you've said your piece.

Yes, sorry to shoo you along, but we do have to get ready for that show I mentioned.

I look forward to dinner then.

Until later.

Concord stands up, dons his hat, and shows himself back down the stairs.

Thanks again for the nutcracker.

It's pretty cool.

Mr.

Weep hollers after him, waving.

Hope to see you again soon.

Concord departs presently, wasting no time.

He has precisely what he needs.

He has the answer he came looking for.

He's gone, out into the street, making his way somewhere to find a replacement gift for his sister.

And inside the cabaret, Mr.

Weep, Saskia, regard each other.

Well, Mr.

Weep says, God knows how to ask the right questions.

Gonna have to keep an eye on that one, I think.

Well, he'll be back.

I think he's gonna be hanging around quite a bit.

We're gonna be building a pretty nice relationship.

And, you know, if he keeps bringing me all this shit, Mr.

Weep throws the nutcracker on the table.

I think we're gonna get along just fine.

I hope his contacts are everything he says they are.

Be too.

I'd hate to rub him out.

Well,

why don't you go set everything up?

Yes, it's about time.

I'll leave you to it.

She whispers off down the stairs, and Mr.

Weep on the balcony by himself regards the contract, tears up the contract, takes a puff of his cigarette, picks up the nutcracker, and cracks the last ice cube.

Clouds above, clouds below, a twinkling expanse as far as the eye can see, the air glimmering in all directions with fine crystal particulates.

Nothing and no one.

The light blinding and iridescent almost, glowing from each and every chunk of this mica, this white, glassy rock that hangs weightless in the air.

In much the same way that prisms refract light, twinkling sparkles of this omnipresent glow dance across the cloudscape.

There are small crystals and large crystals, and gigantic ones, all floating in the breeze, wafting slowly through the air.

And just there, emerging now from a cloud bank, is one particularly colossal, sharp, brilliant berg of this glassy substance.

This is not a hospitable region for ships, and this berg in particular looks murderous, like it's taken down quite a few ships in its time.

In fact, there's a piece of wreckage stuck to it right now, pinned against the bottom of it, like a helium balloon that's trapped against the ceiling.

In this case, it's more accurate to imagine a cruise ship upside down, trapped.

at the bottom of this berg.

Oh, it has been for years.

Belly up, buoyant, pressing against the underside of the crystalline formation, having risen here and stopped.

Porthole after empty porthole reflecting the gleaming white light outside.

And through one porthole,

a little face looking out.

The face of a boy.

The face

of a hostage.

Here, inside one of the topsy-turvy, destroyed promenades, upper decks of this cruise liner, there is a man and a boy.

The boy's hands are bound in front of him.

He looks forlornly out one of the windows, not having much else to do at the moment.

The man is distracted, pacing back and forth along the length of the promenade, the ballroom, muttering under his breath, fiddling with something in his hands feverishly.

Both of these figures are disheveled, unkempt, dirty.

Smelly, if we're being honest.

They sit here in the midst of all this wreckage.

Tables turned upside down, glassware broken plates.

Shattered shipboard paraphernalia all over the floor, which here in this case is actually the promenade's ceiling.

The man, Ginsburg is his name, looks to be in somewhat rougher shape than the boy, although at least he's not bound.

But he has a bandage wrapped around his head, some dirty browned blood seeping through it, some head wound that hadn't been properly tended to.

Recently.

And he's got an earpiece on.

He's shouldering this little ratty headphones-like thing.

He is twizzling the dials on his contraption, this teletheric transducer in his hand, bats it on the side, trying to get a clear signal, going over closer to the window, shoving the boy out of the way.

Get down, he says.

Someone might see you.

That, of course, is the point.

That's why the boy was in the window in the first place.

He gulps, the boy does, and attempts bravely.

Someone like the consector, you mean?

They'll come for me, you know.

Consectors always win.

Ginsberg is going to say something sarcastic.

He knows damn well the consectors do not always win, but he is interrupted, distracted, by a sudden signal coming through his teletheric.

A booming, bombastic voice.

Carnal, the consector's ship, cuts through the glistening atmosphere of the upper unfold in hot pursuit, doggedly tracking that most foul, that most dangerous, and wicked manservant, Demeric Ginsburg, who, for those who are just tuning in, kidnaps young Milton Flight Jr., grandchild of Milton Flight, the senior major.

And that's all Ginsberg needs to hear.

He shuts that the hell off.

Swears under his breath.

Grabs the boy.

I told you they were coming for me.

Move, he says, dragging him forward.

Outside the cruise ship.

Way off across the sky, just barely visible from one of the cruise liners' portholes,

there comes

a craft

swimming through the air, hundreds of oars fanning the wind.

Like a glittering golden sea urchin, the Consector's flagship.

Aboard this ship, the third major protagonist of our story.

Tall,

dignified, darkly handsome.

Lustrous hair flowing over his shoulders, a trim beard, a steely gaze, gold armor coating his person, commanding respect and admiration from everyone around him.

Consector Jonas Sparr.

And beside him, in slightly less impressive armor, the protagonist in question, Phineas Thatch, Ad Sekla to the consector.

His second in command, if you like.

Let's take a look at him, shall we?

He's smaller, for sure.

Less dignified, less dramatic and commanding.

Much younger, much less experienced.

No beard.

Short, dirty blonde hair.

His armor silver, where the consectors is gold.

An impressive mica mace at his hip.

The pair of them, these two men, walking and talking down the corridors of their craft, accompanied by an entire company of soldiers, they make an impressive and striking duo.

That is largely thanks to Consector's spar.

Phineas doesn't add very much to the equation.

They walk and talk, discussing the strategy to come.

And every one of their actions is narrated attentively by Jedediah Palm, who follows them.

Jedediah Palm, the voice of the teletheric.

The narrator we heard just moments ago.

Familiar and beloved by those listeners at home, far away, tuned into the airwaves from their living rooms in the distant crystalline cities of the Un.

Palm, known so well, so intimately, having narrated the adventures of a dozen consectors previous to Jonas Sparr.

This man, Jedediah Palm, large and red-faced, he's sort of like a cross between

like a circus ringmaster and a radio shock jockey.

All bluster, all outrageous performance.

All he cares about is that you keep listening.

He speaks ceaselessly into a microphone being held for him by an attendant.

More on that later.

An almost unstoppable stream of narration coming poetically from his lips.

He never has to stop to think about it, and it is perfectly exaggerated, perfectly calculated to ensnare and entrap the interest of those audiences at home clustered around their teletheric devices.

Sound familiar.

Waiting breathlessly for the next step in the adventure of the consector.

Oh, and what an adventure it is.

Spar walking now.

They are headed down a deck towards the airlock, the company members in step behind them.

Turning to Phineas.

This will be a simple operation, Finn.

In and out.

Just gotta pick up Ginsburg and get out of there.

I don't personally believe he's that much of a danger to young flight.

Do you?

Well, no, sir.

I...

I imagine not.

He's been with the family for years and took care of the boy, from what I understand.

You did read his file, I hope.

Oh, of course.

If you've known Ginsburg as long as I have, Finn, you would know that Ginsburg is a weak-willed individual.

Frankly, I'm astonished that he even got this far.

Oh, you've met him?

I've met him a number of times.

Of course, you know me.

Rubbing shoulders with all these big wigs, as it were.

Anyway, Ginsburg, frankly, does not strike me as a rebel.

And I am astonished that he even made it this far.

He should be no challenge to us.

Spar, the benevolent consector, apparently deigns to even speak to the help of the glamorous families that he works for.

They descend into a marshalling room, where perhaps a hundred or so soldiers, this, the Consector's company, have assembled for this operation.

I'm going to let you take the lead on this one, Phineas.

Are you ready?

Sure thing, sir.

You take the lead, the company will follow.

I will stay back just a bit.

I'll keep an eye on things.

Phineas hasn't led any company operation solo before.

He's always been there to support Spar, to do whatever Spar asked of him.

He's a little bit nervous to be put in charge, but this should be well within his abilities.

After all, they have a hundred or so company members, and they're only up against one man.

Tired from days of running,

exhausted, hungry, probably.

Sparr pats Phineas on the back.

Take it away, Phineas.

The company members listen attentively.

Even Palm silences his bombastic narration for a moment.

And the intern turns the microphone to Phineas.

All right, company.

This should be a a pretty easy mission.

Just kind of an in-and-out.

There are only so many places where he could hide, but we're gonna go in.

We're gonna get him.

He mutters a few things about Team 1 going towards the stern, team two going port.

They're going to fan out, make formajita.

He, you know, it's the lingo.

A slightly disappointed look flits across Jedediah Palm's face just for a moment, before he effortlessly offers up his own interpretation of what Phineas has just said.

His delivery is drowned out by a sudden explosion of wind.

The airlock door has just been opened.

The vast void howls, yawning emptiness above and below, just outside the threshold.

In a practiced and fluid motion, each member of the company, including Jonas Sparr and Phineas Thatch, flick down face guards, masks, protection against the elements of the unfold.

Outside the airlock, across that windblown expanse of empty air, there is hovering distantly, a few hundred feet away, a vast butte of mica.

Pinioned underneath it, a cruise ship.

Out come the harpoons.

They wait for Phineas' mark.

And Phineas, realizing that they're waiting for his mark, points emphatically.

He points a couple extra times, just to be sure, and the harpoons are loosed.

Deployed.

We shriek through the air.

They spurt forth trailing guidelines, shooting across the emptiness, plunging into the cruise ship, snapping taut, whizzing and twanging in the air.

The thick metal cords singing in the void.

Moments like this, oh, Phineas' hair just stands on end just a little bit.

It feels so cool.

No one gets into the consector's company if they have vertigo, and it's a good thing.

As the company members begin to zip line from one ship to the other, the endless white void yawns beneath their feet.

If they were to fall, they would keep falling.

It's a long way down.

Phineas is out the hatch and the media contingent is on their way to the dinghy.

They will be coming across slowly.

None of this for Jededi Apollo.

He considers himself quite adventurous enough coming along on missions like this without having to join the young folks in their adventurous ziplining and bungeeing and rock climbing.

Phineas whizzes across the expanse, ziplining along this cable.

Micah shards fizzing on his armor, sparking and glittering as they contact him.

Feeling only the slightest of flips in his stomach as he goes over the vast expanse.

And soon he is through a broken wall of the cruise liner, shooting into an upside-down corridor.

Light fixtures, loose chandeliers lying slack on the ceiling floor.

His armored boots land solidly.

Already his company members are speeding out before him, fanning, taking positions.

Phineas takes the lead.

Jonas Sparr ziplines into the corridor behind him, watching quietly.

The company is being entirely professional, of course, but compared to some other recent missions they've been on, their energy this time is a little bit lackadaisical.

A little bit relaxed.

The stakes are not as high.

Outside the window, through the porthole, through the shattered wall, the cruise liner, the dinghy is already detaching from the Consector's ship, wheeling over.

It'll probably reunite with the company a little bit further ahead in the ship.

And that's precisely where the company heads.

With Phineas leading them, they proceed to do a quick, practiced, professional sweep of the ruined cruise ship, working their way from one end to the other, by process of elimination, working their way closer and closer to the inevitable location of the fugitive and his hostage.

Shattered staterooms, decommissioned kitchens, broken dining rooms, each one fading into a montage of ruin and decrepit luxury as they search forward.

A lot of this search is killing time.

Ginsburg has left a pretty distinct trail.

Phineas has no trouble following it.

But he has been told to wait for the media to arrive, and they're not here quite yet.

Ginsburg was obviously panicked and in somewhat of a rush.

And injured, judging by the drops of blood and the scuffling marks left in the dusty ground, which, as you recall, is the ceiling.

The dinghy is pulling up outside.

Phineas, glancing over his shoulder, looks to Sparr.

Spar gives him a nod.

It's time.

They can hear the media approaching.

Palm's unmistakable tones growing louder and closer.

The dinghy pulling toward a shattered crevice in one wall, one outer wall.

Secure the crevice, Phineas directs, and with a snigger, a couple of the company move to do so.

Pom is bombastically aboard, gibbering away, and Phineas moves ahead.

In no time at all, they come to that grand promenade at the prow of the ship.

Through a door, there's Ginsburg.

Easy.

He hasn't really attempted to hide, it seems.

Or if he did, he did a very bad job.

But he does have one tactic up his sleeve, and only one.

The boy, who he has roughly grabbed around the neck.

A knife pressed to his flesh.

The knife is a bit of a surprise.

Even Sparr is visibly taken a bit aback.

Ginsburg.

Ginsburg.

Dutiful servant to his employers for countless years.

Always gentle, always obedient.

A knife, though?

This is extreme.

This is different.

Spar almost looks like he's going to take the lead, but Phineas holds up a hand.

He directs the company to fan out around the circumference of the ballroom.

They obey instantly, their energy now subtly sharpened.

And Phineas, holding his hands away from the mace at his hip, takes a tentative step into the room.

Stop, Ginsberg says.

He seems like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't.

He doesn't know quite what he's trying to do here.

That's clear.

He has no real objective.

The boy senses his captor's hesitation.

Consector, help!

Ginsberg squeezes the kid.

The kid shuts up.

Ginsberg looks upset at having squeezed the kid.

He relaxes his grip on the kid.

He's not really a very good kidnapper.

His face is a mask of tortured, conflicting emotions.

This guy has seen some shit recently.

Phineas Phineas can tell that Ginsburg doesn't really want to be doing this.

Well, this exact thing with the boy and the knife and the whole thing.

Maybe he can use that.

Ginsburg, let's talk.

You just stay right there, okay?

Don't

don't come any closer.

I can stay here.

I just want to talk.

What are you trying to do here?

I was trying to avoid this kind of thing, Thatch.

What kind of thing?

This standoff.

I don't want this to be happening any more than you do.

You can just let me go.

I'll give him back to you, but just let me go.

Ginsburg knows this isn't going to work.

If Thatch were here by himself, it might.

Maybe?

One man to one man?

But the entire company is here, and the media is there, and the media has just heard him say that.

The look that comes over his face makes that abundantly clear.

Ginsburg readjusts his grip on the boy.

His palms are sweaty.

His eyes are darting nervously from window to window, back and forth across the room, as though he's contemplating making a break for it, hurling himself out into the void.

That's one form of escape.

He looks suddenly unspeakably frustrated, so sick of all of this.

He miserably drops the knife, lets go of the boy.

Fuck it, he says.

Palm splutters in the background.

The sensors will have to take care of that one at home.

You must know we can't just let you go, Ginsberg.

I know that, Ginsberg says.

The boy has already been taken safely into custody.

He immediately went running towards the few of the nearest company members.

I know there's nothing I can do.

Fine.

I see.

I understand.

He looks absolutely dead.

He has resigned himself to this.

He has been beaten.

Whatever it is he wanted, he cannot have.

Wherever it was, he was going, he will never go.

There is no way out of this for him.

Phineas feels a pang of sympathy.

Sparr is watching him.

Ginsburg turns.

He walks to the windows nearby, the portholes, looking out of them into the expanse.

And Phineas closes the distance between Ginsburg and himself.

He takes up a position just a few feet behind Ginsburg.

The boy, Bilton Flight Jr., is being escorted from the chamber by the company.

Sparr has sauntered just a little bit closer, keeping an eye on the situation, watching.

And as Palm interviews the boy, Phineas tries a slightly different tack with Ginsburg.

You're not completely lost, Ginsberg.

No, I know exactly where I'm going, Ginsburg says.

He turns, looking Phineas square in the face.

Back to the city with you.

Into a cell.

Even those of us who

were unlifts...

Who...

started with debts so deep, it seemed impossible that that you could ever climb out.

There is always hope.

What are you talking about, kid?

You're an Edzekla.

I'm a servant.

I have nothing.

I'm going nowhere.

Whatever debt I may have had is now irreversibly quintupled.

I'm swimming in it, drowning in kind.

I will, I will never break even.

I can't believe what I've done.

And he sits on the ground.

And Phineas, taking a step closer and laying a silver gauntleted hand on the manservant's shoulder.

Sparr is watching.

We are none of us irredeemable in the eyes of the trust.

Then Ginsberg looks up at him, inspecting him, trying to see into him.

Do you really believe that?

Ginsberg says, getting slowly to his feet, brushing himself off.

Do you really,

honestly believe that?

The company men are closing in.

Tell me.

You believe that, Thatch.

Tell me.

And I'll believe it, too.

Phineas takes a breath.

And the company swoops in and arrests Ginsburg.

Nicely done, Phineas.

Consector Sparr says, patting Phineas on the back.

Reasonably well handled and swiftly, too.

Why, I don't think Palm has even expended a full reel yet.

We had packed at least two.

Well, thanks, sir, and thank you for the opportunity.

I tremendously appreciate the opportunity.

Of course, an easy one, but little steps, Phineas, little steps.

Next time, it'll be more important still.

We will raise the stakes for you next time.

I'm

pleased, though I must say, he takes Phineas confidentially aside as they begin to circle back out of the chamber.

You need to dial it up just a little bit for the media.

You aren't aware they're listening.

Little too much chit-chat there with Ginsberg.

A little more directed towards the microphone in the future, you understand?

Sure thing, sir.

My mistake.

Fantastic.

And the Consector's team exit the ballroom.

They're restless and jovial, high energy, the way they always are after the close of a successful mission.

Looking forward to getting back someplace where they can have a nice drink and a meal.

Company members ziplining back across towards the ship.

Jedediah Palm climbing back aboard his dinghy with his backpack associate, narrating all the while.

And the case has been closed most substantially, ladies and gentlemen.

The criminal Ginsburg Ginsburg apprehended, clapped in irons, being escorted now back to his cell for secure incarceration and return to the city for trial and questioning.

The dinghy, the companymen, the ship turn.

The harpoons break free, drop, shed into the air, whispering down, disappearing into the clouds.

The consector's vessel turns, oars fanning, and whispers away into the clouds, and it is quiet once again.

It's quiet for a good long while until the Consector's ship disappears completely into the distance.

Then, a flicker of movement.

It looks as though a piece of the mica berg detaches itself from the face of the rock.

Just above the prow of the cruise liner.

A shard of rock, splitting, sloughing off, but it skirts out into the air, strangely, almost like a living thing, turning, revealing a secret underside.

Some oars of its own emerge and begin to flit against the cloudscape.

A tiny stealth craft.

A strange, limpet-like ship, separating from the rock, floating off into the air, turning and whispering off in the opposite direction away from the consector's ship, going forth to its own destination.

Having missed its opportunity here,

having failed its mission.