Archive number 10

 

Chapter I — The Cell

They taught me to love the electric sun.

It comes on with a throat-clearing hum, strips stuttering toward brightness until the ceiling blooms into seven pale stars. I lie still and count the flickers as if they were prayers, as if the right number might conjure a door. It never does. The light only erases the last film of dream from my eyes—those star-bursts that riot against the dark, that carnival of needles behind the lids. The hum settles into its old hymn and the room remembers itself: steel gate, steel cot, steel desk, the squared geometry of obedience.

The slot opens with the intimacy of a mouth. First the tray, warm and metallic, a smell like rain on iron. Then, after the regulated half hour, the second parcel—the file—arrives with its soft bureaucratic thud. Breakfast, then evidence. Bread for the body, bread for the cult of memory. I murmur thanks to no one in particular. They prefer me murmuring; it is less confrontational than prayer.

The neighbour has already begun. Three knuckle-raps, pause, two knuckle-raps, pause. His language has fewer words than mine, but more conviction. Once I tried to answer—finger bone to steel, a polite conversation—yet found my knuckles speaking treason against my nerves. So I keep to the old liturgy: murmur, take notes, be useful. Somewhere in the vents a fan turns patient circles and carries both of us through another hour.

They say routine makes a man harmless, but that depends on the routine and the man. Mine goes like this: switch on the electric suns, examine the edges of the file—frayed, purposeful—note the date stamp, hold the paper to the light to watch the ghost alphabet of watermarks swim up from the fibres. Every page carries its own resistance. I touch the staples like stingers. When I slide a photograph into the precise centre of the desk, there is a shiver—mine or the building’s I cannot tell.

Names and numbers. Faces at rest and faces mid-gesture, mouths half-open around an unspoken syllable. The first hour is always classification: heights, scars, aliases, the taxonomy of fear. I have become a kind of monk of the secular, copying the gospel of everyone. They trust me to keep the order of their disorder; the trust is a kind of cage, and I am good at being caged.

Sometimes, when the light hiccups—when one of the seven suns loses its nerve—the spiders wake. They live far above me at the seam where wall kisses ceiling, industrious artisans stitching lace from dust. In certain moods their work resolves into skulls, jaunty and ridiculous, pirate flags in miniature. No one believes me when I say this aloud, so I say it quietly: your ornaments are an improvement on ours. I like them because they do not pretend to be anything but hungry.

Thomasine visits after inspection, always at the sanctioned hour, bearing a clipboard like a shield. She is pale as paper and as necessary. I have never seen her blink. “You’re sleeping?” she asks, the way a scientist asks a flame whether it is burning. I give her the numbers: four hours in fragments, two of them contaminated by light. She notes it with her unblinking pen. If she pities me, it is with professional discipline, like a surgeon admiring the tidy margins of a wound.

I want to tell her that sleep is the problem and the cure. That they have softened my brain with their pharmacy and my thoughts now take impressions like wet gold. That the dreams leave fingerprints on my waking and everything smudges. But we have an agreement, Thomasine and I: she will keep me calibrated as long as I keep the archive fed. So I pass her a question from the catalogue instead. “What is the value of a face no one can name?”

She looks up then—there, a blink, the quickest eclipse. “Statistically negligible. Operationally significant.” I adore her for that answer, which is honest in two directions at once. When she leaves, the corridor swallows her in its soft hydraulic punctuation, and the room returns to its true dimension: the span between my eyes and the next photograph.

I have been to the servers. This is either memory or dream, depending on what story you need from me today. They let me pace the old bunkers once, the concrete sweating its history, the cables braided like ship-ropes disappearing into the ground. Halls upon halls, humming—no, breathing—tower after tower of petabytes sleeping in their corsets of coolant. The whole place felt monastic, except the monks were deaf and devoted to a god of ones and zeros. I touched a cabinet and felt a faint animal vibration, as if the metal dreamed of running. “Here,” the handler said, his Ray-Bans reflecting me into infinity, “is the memory of the world.” He said the word memory the way a butcher says tender.

The men in Ray-Bans are multiple or singular, it hardly matters. Some days I think they are clones that have been slightly overcooked or underproofed, polite in identical ways, their politeness ending where my questions begin. Other days I am convinced they are one man divided across numerous corridors. They are ageless in the manner of a brand. The glasses mean: do not ask who I am, ask only what I am preventing you from seeing. I have learned to admire this clarity.

At night, when the suns are asleep and the solitary green diode on the wall keeps vigil, the noise is not silence but white. It gathers like weather at the edges of the room, the way static collects on a wool sleeve in winter. I lie still and listen to it the way you listen at a conch shell for the sea. If you are patient, it starts to speak. Nothing articulate. Just the alphabet of pressure, a soft insistence that understands how humans are built of thresholds.

The file today concerns an ordinary cruelty. A man stands on a curb in a city that pretends to be anonymous. He is holding a newspaper—there, a headline about an election, the text already yellowing in the photo’s chemistry. He is about to step off the curb and into a story that will require me to learn his middle name. I catalogue the particulars: the mole near his left eye, the scar coiled like punctuation behind his ear. Things he has forgotten belong to him. This is what I can do for him: remember on his behalf, in the cold style that protects the living from the poem of their own lives.

The neighbour grows ambitious. Seven knocks now, hurried, then a scrape. I imagine his hand a map of small violences. A thought, shameful and buoyant, arrives: what would it take for me to answer him in full? To abandon the mutter, the inward empire, and let my bones converse with the wall until the wall bruised? I rehearse the first blow in my mind. I imagine the sound like a gavel. I do not raise my hand. Not yet. I cannot risk smudging the photograph.

I keep a ledger of the room’s rituals. The way the suns flare in sequence (two, five, three, one, four, six, seven). The way the slot opens with more ceremony for files than for food. The way the diode sighs once every twenty-three minutes the way a sleeper shifts in bed. The way the spiders rebuild what the janitor’s rag ruins. Every system proves itself by repetition. Every prison is a calendar in disguise.

When the light softens in the late afternoon and the steel remembers its evening chill, I permit myself a single heresy: I ask whether I am the custodian of the archive, or merely its exhibit. The question folds like a paper swan and sits there, attentive. I compare my reflection in the metal to the faces on the desk. I am less handsome than most of them, less sure. Perhaps that is the point. Perhaps I am here to make certainty look expensive.

Thomasine returns for the closing ritual. “Any disturbances?” she asks, eyes steady, pen already poised. I consider telling her about the skull-webs and the whispering diode and the man on the curb who will soon require a middle name. I consider telling her about the server halls and the Ray-Ban handler and the way memory can be made to kneel if you show it enough light. Instead I say, “Only the usual.”

She nods, as if we have agreed on the size of a cloud. “Then you’re fit for file work tomorrow.” The room inhales her absence. The suns settle into their late glow, like coins at the bottom of a shallow fountain.

Before lights-out I practice forgetting. It is the only exercise they permit. I close the photograph album of the day, stack the pages with the humility of a priest returning a relic to its reliquary, square the corners, align the staples, return the whole to the slot. The mouth accepts the offering without comment. The hum climbs the scale once, briefly, a satisfied animal.

Darkness arrives not as mercy, but as policy. The diode takes up its post. Somewhere behind the wall my neighbour sleeps an undivided sleep. I remain awake and attempt the smallest rebellion: to think a thought that cannot be archived. I choose a blankness and polish it until it reflects nothing.

I practice a sentence under my breath, a soft treaty with the night. I am not a door. I am the hinge. Tomorrow the file will arrive and I will open, precise as ever. But for the length of the diode’s slow breath, I believe myself.

Chapter II — The Files

They never arrive singly. Even when the slot gives me one folder, a shoal drifts behind it, pressed into a spine with string. The paper on top has the scent of new coins and rain. I lift it the way a priest lifts a wafer: two fingers, breath held, the old training returning from a life I never lived.

The first page is a cover sheet pretending to be modest. Boxes yield to pen strokes with the compliance of a trained animal. Name. Alias. Height. Distinguishing marks. National ID where applicable. Where applicable has the weary humor of a bureaucrat who has traveled and found the borders are mostly weather. I complete the obvious and then the heresies: Which photographs prefer the shadow? Which signatures look signed by sleep? Which eyes decline to meet the camera and which devour it?

Classification is supposed to be a ladder. Here it is a spiral, well-swept, lit by a bulb that hums. The system prefers numbers because numbers can be herded. So I make numbers: density of scars per square centimeter (approximate); ratio of smile to mouth when unobserved; frequency of leftward glances under fluorescent bias. The forms offer their checkboxes and I give them my quiet apostrophes in the margins: afraid of water, practiced at exits, would empty a room if permitted a minute and a map. The margins are where the living hide.

I have been told—by Thomasine, by the handler with the sunglasses, by the men who are one man—that the work must avoid poetry because poetry corrupts evidence. They say it kindly, as if saving me from a vice. I do not argue. I give them facts that behave like facts when watched. And then, when the room holds its breath, I slide the other ledger open: the one that counts what cannot be tabulated, the tremor at the lip of a photograph where someone nearly changed their mind about being seen.

The second page is a photograph printed on paper with a faint tooth, the kind that accepts light as if it were trusting a stranger. A man stands beside a parking meter. On the post, a sticker: a grinning skull with flowers for eyes. A woman behind him holds a paper cup near her mouth as if warming a small animal. I annotate the man. The scar shaped like a comma tucked behind his ear is still there—my punctuation from yesterday’s thought. His coat is two seasons out of date. He is leaving someplace important without the appropriate expression. I write: He has succeeded and cannot metabolize it.

The third page is the map. The maps are never really maps. They are diagrams of the routes the mind takes when forced. Arrows bend around boxes whose labels are redacted with the thoroughness of zeal. I no longer try to guess the blacked-out words. Guesses are stateful; they entangle the guesser. I confine myself to geometry. The path bends here, goes straight there, loops once where a loop is forbidden. This is a kind of speaking.

The fourth page is always where doubt starts. A timestamp misbehaves. A watermark swims up that belongs to a year that has not yet occurred. A witness states two contradictory locations with the conviction of weather. The stack grows heavy with its own disagreements, and I feel the small joy of friction: the file will not consent to be simple.

I maintain a taxonomy of error. Errors that are children of haste. Errors that have a parent in malice. Errors that bloom from the camera itself, the lens inventing a world appropriate to its glass. I catalogue the ghosts—Xerox phantoms, double exposures, a hand that persists under erasure like a rumor. My favorites are the blanks. A blank page is not blank. It is an invitation to declare what should have been there. The audacity of that silence thrills me. The spiders approve; I can tell by how they lower a thread in slow assent.

At noon the suns dim a fraction, the way the throat clears before a verdict. I drink from the metal cup—water that tastes faintly of its own storage—and open the folder with the bright yellow spine. Yellow always means we require grace.Inside, a scatter of microfilm slips like eels. I lay them on the glass and turn the dial until the negatives bloom into cities of light. Microfilm behaves—obedient, compressed, a convent for data. It is the opposite of me: tidy, dustless, without murmur. I want to resent it, but the truth is I trust it more than I trust any server. Microfilm does not pretend to be immortal. It offers endurance as a contract with decay. We understand each other.

On the microfilm: a ledger of purchases—bread, bus fare, a cheap bouquet—punctuated by opulent absences that look like holidays. The pattern forms a face if you squint: a mouth of weekends, eyes of late nights, a nose of transfers between small accounts. I feel the shape of a person assembling in the numbers, like a figure stepping forward from fog because you said their name correctly.

Names. There are too many. The human surplus of names swarms the margins of my dreams. Here, though, a phenomenon: a person who fails to produce one. Not redacted, not misspelled—simply not present. The database returns a blank that is not an error, only a refusal. I mark it with the notation I invented for this: ∅—not zero, but the set of all not-there. The Anonymous Face again, peering from behind the curtain of the ordinary, modest and miraculous. Thomasine would call it statistically negligible. The handler would say operationally significant. I call it hope, but only internally, as a kind of joke with rules.

I try the old tricks: cross-reference with hospital records, school lists, registrar’s offices that exist solely to put names near lines. The screen declines to be helpful. The diode on the wall winks once, patient as a lighthouse, and I feel the room lean toward the absence like a congregation.

The neighbour knocks—a syncopated pattern I haven’t heard before: one, pause, one, pause, one—little nails tapping a coffin lid to prove the occupant is still curious. The sound slots itself into the file the way a caught breath joins a sentence. I consider answering with my knuckles, just to inch the idea of conversation forward through the pipework. Instead I write the series in the margin beside ∅. Later, I will pretend I discovered a code. Later, I will decide not to tell anyone.

Afternoon brings a visit from the handler. Ray-Bans, immaculate tie, shoes that have never been lost in mud. He enters like a solved equation. “Progress?” The word is gentle, loaded, the way a hospital asks if the pain is manageable.

“The file argues with itself,” I say. I angle the photograph under the light so his reflection lives for a moment in the glass, a ghost twin chewing on his lower lip. He does not remove the glasses. No one removes the glasses. “And this,” I add, tapping the symbol I am not supposed to have invented.

He leans close. The lenses give me back a funhouse of my own face. “A gap,” he says. “Gaps are magnets.”

“Magnets rearrange filings,” I say. “They do not persuade them to be iron.”

A flicker of a smile, too quick to live. “Continue.”

When he leaves, he takes a degree of air with him. The room grows honest again. I make tea the way we were taught: count a slow ten after the first boil, else the leaves turn bitter; pour; wait; accept what arrives. The cup warms my fingers like an animal trying to stay. I imagine bringing it to the neighbour through a hole willing to be drilled. The fantasy is so palpable I glance at the wall to confirm it has not already occurred.

I return to the man by the curb. The middle name surfaces in a footnote I’d overlooked, disguised as a courier’s scrawl. It is common and therefore tender. I say it aloud, very soft, to baptize the photograph with its syllable. The act feels illicit and necessary. If names are chains, then they are also threads; if threads, then sometimes they lead toward a door.

I record the day’s consonants: three signatures that hesitate at their final stroke, two eyes that prefer corners, four instances of left-handedness concealed as right. I chart the weather of the faces: overcast, fair, fair, violent, clearing. I add to the private ledger the things only I witness—the nervous flirtation of a page with fire when it slides too quickly under the lamp; the way a staple, extracted, remembers its curve longer than is reasonable; the brief scent of graphite that makes me think of school, chalk dust, a teacher who said his name as if it were a secret he was reluctant to return.

Evening brings an audit. The suns dim to a civilized amber. Thomasine appears with a cart that squeaks in a manner calibrated to produce contrition. We work side by side without speaking, two surgeons tidying the instruments after a torso. She tallies, I square, she seals, I sign. At the end she asks, because she must, “Any anomalies beyond protocol?”

“Only the usual,” I say, and then, very gently, “and one absence.”

She waits. The silence has the buoyancy of a pool held in place by concrete.

“∅.”

A nod. No blinking. “Document and refrain.”

“I always refrain.”

“That’s why you have the files,” she says, and then she is gone, leaving the scent of paper behind her like a benediction from a secular saint.

Night is a slow elevator. The diode takes up its green guardianship. I arrange the day’s residue in two stacks: what can be proven and what can be borne. The latter is lighter and more unruly. I whisper the common middle name again—once, then once more, to give the air its chance to memorize. I imagine the Anonymous Face hearing me the way a sleeper hears rain: not as information, but as mercy.

Before I close the folder, I take a final inventory. The curl of a paper’s corner where a thumb always turns. A fingerprint ridge in the emulsion that could be mine or anyone’s. A smudge I choose to call deliberate. A blank that refuses, hands in its lap, polite as a revolution. I tuck the pages together and align their edges until the stack behaves like an object. I feed it to the mouth in the wall. It vanishes with the decorum of an oath.

Lights-out is a decision made elsewhere. I lie under the bureaucratic stars and try to recall a day when I did not know the taste of toner. The neighbour sleeps, or pretends, or negotiates quietly with his wall. The spiders reset their skulls. In the Interim—a country between minutes where I hold a second passport—I feel the file reorganizing itself in a place I cannot reach.

I rehearse tomorrow’s opening line: The archive is not memory. It is our alibi for forgetting. I say it once, twice, until it is smooth enough to pass inspection. Then I let the dark write its own report and, as ever, I murmur.

The Fly

 

ACT I — PAGES

EXT. CAIRO PORT – NIGHT

Fog thick as wool swallows the harbour. FLOODLIGHTS rake the water, glancing off a tanker’s black hull.

On the quay, ABDUL and his crew move like ghosts with swagger — fake papers, forced smiles, real pistols under jackets. Debt collection, not for banks.

A WOODEN CRATE sits lashed to a HUMVEE roof rack. Plain. Corners scuffed. Steel straps biting into the grain.

One detail: a CURLING GLYPH carved deep into the wood—a symbol of ancient retribution, scarred like an old wound.

A FLY lands on it.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – NIGHT

Cold blue light. A bunker of monitors and tired people.

ON SCREEN: compound-eye POV of the crate’s surface. A micro-drone “fly” purrs as it digs in, but its feed glitches faintly—battery at 78%, wind shear warning.

LEAD OPERATOR

Visual confirm — asset’s attached. Battery's dipping; we might lose it in high winds.

JULES (OPERATOR #2)

(half-smile, masking worry)

Then let's hope our little spy doesn't get airsick before showtime.

RF TECH

Priorities: plot the route now. Name it if it survives.

The HUMVEE pulls away, swallowed by Cairo’s midnight.

INT. PRINCE KHALID’S PALACE – GULF – NIGHT

Silk, marble, shadow. PRINCE KHALID BIN HAZAR (40s) watches FOUR NEWS FEEDS at once. He traces the GLYPH in condensation on a glass— the same mark that scarred his brother's casket after a U.S. drone strike years ago, a "collateral" error in a forgotten war.

PRINCE

(soft, certain)

One act. One lesson. For what they took.

An AIDE nods from the shadows, handing him a file: redacted CIA reports linking the glyph to his family's vendetta.

INT. OVAL OFFICE – MORNING

The PRESIDENT (60s) stands over a yellow legal pad. The CHIEF OF STAFF waits, glancing at protest alerts on his phone—demonstrations already brewing outside the White House.

PRESIDENT

We open with hope. Always hope.

CHIEF OF STAFF

Hope, then teeth. But the polls are fracturing—unions love the factories, but civil liberties groups are calling for impeachment before you even speak.

PRESIDENT

Troops home. Factories back. Fifty-dollar electric cars. Legal cannabis — districts only.

Beat.

PRESIDENT (CONT’D)

Then we tell them we’re suspending Congress. Live trials. Six months. Clean slate. If they riot, we contain it. No martyrs.

CHIEF OF STAFF

They’ll call it a coup. And the military? Half might stand down; the other half...

PRESIDENT

We bet on the half that remembers why they enlisted.

INT. SUBWAY CAR – MORNING

The PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER (22), book in lap, watches congressionals argue on phones amid commuters muttering about "dictator talk." She texts: “I got a gallery pass.” A bubble appears: Dad: Proud of you. Stay near exits—and watch the crowds.

She rolls her eyes, but her smile fades as she overhears a heated debate nearby: "He's saving us" vs. "He's ending us."

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – NIGHT

Maps crawl with data. The WIRE TRANSFER screen shows anonymized hops — then a flagged alias: KH. HAZAR HOLDINGS.

LEAD OPERATOR

Payment lives. Prince’s shell. Ties back to that drone op in '18—his brother's death.

JULES

Guilt with a grudge. Explains the glyph.

RF TECH

Focus. Wind's picking up—feed's unstable.

ON SCREEN: The fly rides a gust — the image skews, static bursts, battery drops to 62%.

JULES

(tense, no quip)

Stabilize... please.

The image holds, barely.

EXT. BORDER CHECKPOINT – NIGHT

The HUMVEE slows. Guards circle. Abdul keeps his smile fixed.

A GUARD runs a wand along the crate. It crackles — then quiets. He shrugs, waves them through.

The fly shudders but clings.

INT. SENATE CHAMBER – DAY

A hum of anticipation. Cameras on rails. PACKED GALLERIES, with protesters visible outside windows. The DAUGHTER finds her seat, scans for her father, noting extra security.

INT. OVAL OFFICE – CONTINUOUS

The President straightens his tie. A mirror reveals a farmer’s shoulders in a city suit.

CHIEF OF STAFF

Last chance to dial it back. Protests are swelling—Chicago's on edge.

PRESIDENT

I didn't blink plowing forty acres in a dust storm. Won't start now.

MONTAGE — THE ANNOUNCEMENT

— The President at the podium: plain words, big promises.

— Defense analysts side-eying TVs in windowless rooms, murmuring about loyalty oaths.

— A factory floor lighting up; workers cheer, but cut to riots in D.C., tear gas blooming.

— Commentators frothing; markets jitter; online backlash trends: #AmericanCoup.

— Prince watching, unreadable, fingering a photo of his brother.

PRESIDENT (V.O.)

…not a coup. An intermission. Six months. Then you decide who speaks for you. But know this: sabotage from abroad or within ends today.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – NIGHT

LEAD OPERATOR

We hold position. No interdiction until the lid comes off. But if the fly fails...

JULES

Then we pivot to backups. Sat imagery's fuzzy in those mountains.

LEAD OPERATOR

Pray we don't need to.

Jules nods, her smirk gone—real fear now.

EXT. COAST ROAD – DAWN

The HUMVEE knifes along a crumbling cliff road. A crosswind hammers it. The fly shudders, peels—battery at 41%—clings by a thread.

JULES (V.O.)

Hang in there. We've got stakes too high for glitches.

INT. PRESIDENT’S TOWNHOUSE – NIGHT

Quiet. The President sits with a cold coffee, stares at a photo of his DAUGHTER at twelve, missing teeth and holding a science fair ribbon. News plays: protests turning violent in multiple cities.

He dials.

PRESIDENT

(soft)

Be proud. Be careful. And if things go south... trust your gut, not the crowds.

He hangs up without a message.

INT. PRINCE’S PALACE – NIGHT

Prince pulls a slim transmitter from a velvet box. A simple button. He does not press it. He places it near an antique mantel CLOCK, whispering to his aide.

PRINCE

My brother died because they played god with drones. Now they learn: every empire has its clock.

EXT. LEBANESE ROAD – NIGHT

The HUMVEE snakes past militia checkpoints. Abdul keeps receipts like a professional, but glances nervously at the crate.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – NIGHT (LATER)

RF TECH

Supply chain bribes logged. If this goes to court, it’ll be a textbook. But with protests escalating stateside...

JULES

We focus here. No distractions.

LEAD OPERATOR

Eyes front. We break into Two on wheels.

The HUMVEE veers toward a freeway.

SMASH TO BLACK.

— END ACT I —

ACT II — Expanded Connective Scenes

SEQUENCE 6 — PROMISE OF THE PREMISE

(pp. 31–50 — Trials in full swing, political spectacle, operators shadowing Prince’s plan)

INT. SENATE CHAMBER – DAY

GAVEL cracks. The first defendant — a former Senator — shuffles to the witness table. Cameras snap; the air feels like theatre more than justice, with chants audible from outside.

In the gallery, the PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER scribbles notes. She notices: the Senators aren’t looking at the audience — they’re watching the cameras. Her phone buzzes: anonymous tip about "foreign interference in the trials."

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – SAME

Jules flicks through broadcast feeds, cross-referencing with location pings. The fly’s still with the Humvee, now creeping into mountain passes, feed flickering—battery at 29%.

JULES

They're dragging this route. Stalling for the U.S. chaos to peak, or syncing with the Prince's timeline.

LEAD OPERATOR

We monitor both. Cross-check sat pings if the fly drops.

RF TECH

Already on it. But ground truth is thinning—protests are jamming signals stateside too.

MONTAGE — AMERICA WATCHES (AND REACTS)

— Factory workers clustered around a breakroom TV, laughing at a Congressman’s stammer, but one mutters, "This fixes nothing if tanks roll in."

— A classroom where kids hold up “GUILTY” signs like a game show, teacher whispering about potential school shutdowns.

— Protests swelling: signs reading "Hope or Tyranny?" Clashes with police.

— The PRESIDENT in the Oval Office, watching with a straight face. His Chief of Staff glances at polling numbers climbing—but approval dipping in key states.

INT. PRINCE’S PALACE – NIGHT

Prince’s aides present trade forecasts: oil flows shifting from U.S. to China. He barely glances. His eyes are on the Senate broadcast — specifically, the wide shots that include the gallery clock—and news of U.S. unrest.

AIDE

The riots play into your hand, Highness. Their "intermission" fractures them.

PRINCE

Good. But the glyph demands precision. Not just chaos—consequence.

INT. PRESIDENT’S TOWNHOUSE – NIGHT

The President’s DAUGHTER Skypes her father, screen split with protest footage.

DAUGHTER

It’s addictive, Dad. Like a binge-watch. But outside... it's real. People are scared.

PRESIDENT

It's not entertainment. It's surgery. Messy, but necessary. Stay vigilant—intel suggests foreign eyes on the chamber.

DAUGHTER

You mean like that glyph thing from the old files?

PRESIDENT

(hesitant)

Just... be ready.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – NIGHT

The fly shivers as the Humvee pulls into a fuel yard. A diesel rig idles nearby — too close. Heat spike—feed warps, battery drains to 18%.

JULES

Optics frying. If we push harder, it cooks.

LEAD OPERATOR

Ride it out. We've lost assets before; adapt.

SEQUENCE 7 — FIRST PINCH

(pp. 51–55 — Surveillance scare, crate swap)

EXT. BORDER YARD – NIGHT

Floodlights cut through dust. The Humvee noses up beside a flatbed truck. Abdul hops out, greets a MAN IN BLACK. They pull tarps.

Two identical wooden crates appear.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – CONTINUOUS

JULES

Which is ours? Battery's critical—can't afford a misstep.

RF TECH

No trackers. Glyph depth on the original is deeper.

Jules zooms. Confirms.

JULES

That's it. But if they spot the fly...

The crates swap vehicles. The fly transfers—barely. A GUARD idly swats at it. Misses by millimeters. Feed stabilizes at 12%.

INT. PRINCE’S PALACE – SAME

Prince’s eyes narrow at the swap on a mirrored feed.

PRINCE

They cling like insects. Proceed to step two—let their hope blind them.

ACT II → ACT III — INTEGRATED CONTINUUM

INT. DHS LOADING DOCK – DAY (MIDPOINT)

A HUMVEE rolls in under ARMED ESCORT. AGENTS swarm the WOODEN CRATE, crack it open.

Inside: SHIELDED SCRAP METAL. Geiger counters SCREAM… then fall SILENT.

AGENT

It’s junk. Decoy.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – SAME

Banks of monitors. The “fly” feed POPS to life — no open road now, only VENTWORK. Battery at 8%—final warning.

JULES

We're inside. Not the road—the chamber vents.

She zooms: a HEAT BLOOM behind a BRASS GALLERY CLOCK.

LEAD OPERATOR

The real device's planted. He used the decoy to draw eyes away while embedding it during the chaos.

RF TECH

And with protests raging, evacuation would spark nationwide panic.

JULES

Finale time. But our fly's on fumes.

INT. SENATE CHAMBER – DAY

TRIALS in full roar. The PRESIDENT on the floor; DEFENDANTS blanched under giant screens of their own voices. Outside, sirens wail from escalating protests.

In the gallery: the PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER watches, jaw tight, texting her dad: "Something feels off with the clock."

ATLAS, Secret Service, leans in.

ATLAS

(low)

Sir— device located. Behind the gallery clock. Protests are blocking clear evac routes.

The President looks up — one heartbeat only — at the clock.

PRESIDENT

We clear quietly? Without tipping the riots?

ATLAS

Risky. One wrong move, and the streets explode too.

INT. OVAL OFFICE SIDE CORRIDOR – MOMENTS LATER

The PRESIDENT and CHIEF OF STAFF walk fast, hushed, dodging aides with protest updates.

CHIEF OF STAFF

Evacuate and spin it as a drill—or keep going and risk it all. Polls say the trials are winning hearts, but a bomb...

PRESIDENT

My daughter's up there. But if we pull only VIPs, the country sees hypocrisy. We lose the narrative—and the streets.

CHIEF OF STAFF

Then we defuse in place. No other choice.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – SAME

RF bands ripple across screens.

RF TECH

Carrier at twenty-three point five above the audio floor, riding the broadcast. Backup’s the oscillator in the clock. Kill the feed— it arms. Kill the clock— it arms.

JULES

Can't mute the show or stop the ticking. Prince's revenge is poetic.

LEAD OPERATOR

We thread the gap. Engineering over elegance.

INT. CAPITOL — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE – DAY

MARA, bomb tech, kneels by a panel. JOEL hauls a pelican case.

MARA

We feather a null into the carrier. Gentle, or the watchdog bites.

JOEL

And the reed? Fly's barely alive.

MARA

If it holds, we use its wing to short it. Last resort.

INT. SENATE GALLERY – SAME

The DAUGHTER raises her phone, frames the chamber — the CLOCK prominent. She types “Dad, the clock's off-sync?” then deletes. Stays seated, eyes sharp.

INT. PRINCE KHALID’S PALACE – NIGHT

PRINCE watches FOUR FEEDS, including U.S. protest cams. His thumb hovers over a slim TRANSMITTER. The GLYPH inlaid at his feet.

PRINCE

They fracture themselves. Now, the punctuation.

An aide pushes in a wide shot of the chamber; the clock fills the frame.

INT. SENATE CHAMBER – DAY

The President returns to the mic, steady despite distant protest chants.

PRESIDENT

…we’ll not be ruled by money, and we will not bow to shadows from afar.

A faint TICK-TICK swells—or it's the tension.

Atlas’ eyes lock on the clock.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – CONTINUOUS

Thermal POV from the fly slides behind the grille: STEEL CASING, COIN-CELL PACK, a tiny REED SWITCH lacquered to a board. The GLYPH scratched into the backplate.

JULES

Internals acquired. Battery at 5%—this is it.

LEAD OPERATOR

Mara, prep the null. We carve a window.

RF TECH

Soft entry. Drop too sharp, and we're done.

INT. CAPITOL — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE – CONTINUOUS

Mara plugs a compact JAMMER. Thumb over the dial.

MARA

Feathering in. No shoves.

INT. PRINCE’S PALACE – NIGHT

Prince murmurs his brother’s name, eyes on the feed.

PRINCE

For the silence they forced on you.

He waits, patient.

INT. SENATE CHAMBER – CONTINUOUS

The PRESIDENT glances up at the clock—one more time.

ATLAS

We can extract your daughter quietly.

PRESIDENT

If we prioritize family over fairness, we're no better than them. We stand—or fall—together.

He finds his Daughter in the gallery. She meets his gaze, nods firmly.

INT. OPERATIONS ROOM – CONTINUOUS

LEAD OPERATOR

All stations— set condition COUNTDOWN.

TITLE CARD: THREE MINUTES

ACT III — FINALE (MINUTE-BY-MINUTE)

T-03:00 — SENATE CHAMBER (LIVE)

The room hums amid muffled outside chaos. The brass CLOCK presides. The President speaks; the nation leans in, split between support and fury.

ATLAS gets the whisper from his sleeve: device confirmed, behind clock.

T-02:52 — OPERATIONS ROOM

Spectrums bloom.

RF TECH

Carrier locked. Heartbeat code active.

LEAD OPERATOR

Mara, feather on three… two… one—now.

T-02:40 — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE

MARA

Engaging.

The spike wavers, steadies.

RF TECH (FILTERED)

Solid. Let it settle.

T-02:31 — PRINCE’S PALACE

Prince’s gaze sharpens on protest feeds merging with the chamber.

PRINCE

Deliver your defiance.

Thumb steady.

T-02:18 — SENATE CHAMBER

PRESIDENT

…we pause the rot, but not the people. Not the promise.

The clock’s second hand hitches faintly.

Atlas tenses.

T-01:59 — OPERATIONS ROOM

LEAD OPERATOR

Fly team—scrape the lacquer. Touch the reed lightly.

JULES

Threading it. Battery flickering—hurry.

ON SCREEN: the fly’s CARBON WING edges toward the REED SWITCH.

T-01:44 — VENT / CLOCK

SKRRK—a contact whisper. SPARK. ARMED light wavers.

JULES

It's noticing.

RF TECH

Push once more. Controlled.

T-01:30 — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE

MARA

Backup oscillator heating up.

RF TECH (FILTERED)

If carrier fails, clock takes over.

MARA

Then we steal its rhythm.

T-01:22 — PRINCE’S PALACE

The Prince presses the transmitter.

Pilot light IGNITES—ARMED.

PRINCE

Begin.

T-01:15 — SENATE CHAMBER

Gallery ripples with unease—protest noise leaking in. The DAUGHTER grips the rail. President steady.

PRESIDENT

(quiet, to Atlas)

Her first. Then the rest.

ATLAS

We'll get everyone.

T-01:06 — OPERATIONS ROOM

RF TECH

Arming live. Oscillator pristine.

LEAD OPERATOR

Mara—gas ready. Jules—reed again.

JULES

One last nudge. For all of us.

Fly presses.

T-00:59 — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE

MARA

Mark.

Hand on RED LEVER.

T-00:53 — PRINCE’S PALACE

Prince smiles at captions: “…suspend these institutions…”

T-00:49 — VENT / CLOCK

SCRAPE. SPARK. ARMED light stutters.

RF TECH (FILTERED)

Reed's unstable. Gate faltering.

LEAD OPERATOR

Keep it erratic.

T-00:41 — SENATE CHAMBER

President slows his words.

PRESIDENT

Saboteurs don't dictate our fate. Not with bombs, not with division.

Atlas' hand inches to his sidearm.

T-00:34 — OPERATIONS ROOM

RF TECH

Carrier dipping. Backup imminent.

LEAD OPERATOR

Heavy null in five.

T-00:27 — PRINCE’S PALACE

Prince taps transmitter redundantly.

PRINCE

Your choice ends here.

T-00:22 — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE

LEAD OPERATOR (FILTERED)

Heavy now.

MARA

Dialing up.

Carrier flattens—OSCILLATOR spikes.

RF TECH (FILTERED)

On backup. Clock's in play.

MARA

Breaking it.

T-00:18 — SENATE CHAMBER

INERT GAS whispers from vents. Murmurs rise. DAUGHTER scans, meets her father's eyes—stays composed.

T-00:15 — MAINTENANCE ALCOVE

MARA

Sprinklers in ten. Chaos beats crater.

JOEL

Ready.

T-00:12 — VENT / CLOCK

Fly GRINDS. Reed CHATTERS. ARMED blinks wildly.

JULES

(whisper)

Hold together...

T-00:10 — SENATE CHAMBER

PRESIDENT

To those watching abroad: your vendetta stops at our door.

Sprinklers THUNK. Water cascades. Gas veils.

T-00:06 — OPERATIONS ROOM

LEAD OPERATOR

Atlas—wait for signal.

ATLAS (FILTERED)

Affirm.

RF TECH

Timer hunting clean ticks.

LEAD OPERATOR

Deny them.

T-00:05 — SENATE CHAMBER

President unmoved by the deluge.

PRESIDENT

We write our own endings.

Nods—go.

T-00:03 — SENATE CHAMBER

ATLAS draws, fires TWO ROUNDS into the CLOCK.

CRACK. CRACK.

Glass SHATTERS. Gears GRIND to halt at XII.

Panic surges—shouts, lurching bodies.

T-00:02 — VENT / OPERATIONS ROOM

Oscillator STALLS. Logic LOOPS.

RF TECH

Holding... holding...

JULES

You did it.

T-00:01 — PRINCE’S PALACE

Prince mashes transmitter. Blank.

PRINCE

Impossible—

T-00:00 — EVERYWHERE

SILENCE.

Gas lingers. Sprinklers drip. President stands drenched, resolute.

LEAD OPERATOR (FILTERED)

Negative detonation. Device inert.

Ops Room exhales—relief, no cheers.

T+00:12 — SENATE CHAMBER

President at mic.

PRESIDENT

We're unbroken.

Points to shattered clock.

PRESIDENT (CONT’D)

Question every mechanism—every ritual—that claims to define us.

Finds DAUGHTER—alive, resolute. She nods.

PRESIDENT (CONT’D)

Clear the room. And the streets—we rebuild together.

Atlas escorts.

T+00:40 — OPERATIONS ROOM

Freeze on backplate GLYPH. Overlay: OLD CASE FILE, brother's drone strike.

LEAD OPERATOR

No boom, but he got his rehearsal. Protests as cover—next lesson's coming.

Hallway clocks quietly removed.

INT. PRINCE’S PALACE – NIGHT (LATER)

Prince opens window. REAL FLY escapes.

Sets transmitter down.

PRINCE

Lesson two: resilience is fleeting.

FADE OUT.

Claude

THE GRAND KAISER AUGUSTUS VICTORIA

A Tragedy in the Style of Shakespeare

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

AUGUSTUS VICTORIA - Grand Kaiser, consumed by tyrannical ambition
ANCIENT KING OF BABYLON - An exiled prophet, bearer of dark visions
KING OF MU - Ancient ruler in exile, serene and wise
KING OF ATLANTIS - Fallen sovereign, eyes heavy with lost glory
CONVIVILIATYICUM - The Kaiser's serpentine advisor
GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN - A conflicted military commander
BROTHER INVICTA - A conspirator in the shadows
VOLUPTASUEVIUS - Voluptuous figure of allure and cunning
SURVIVOR BEGGAR - Voice of the oppressed masses
SURVIVOR LABORER - Worker risen in rebellion
SURVIVOR MATRON - Prophetic voice of the people
COMMANDERS, SOLDIERS, GUARDS, NYMPHS, FRIENDS OF THE KINGS, and THE MOB - Voices of the oppressed and corrupted

Scene: A storm-lashed palace built upon ancient pyramids

---

ACT I, SCENE I

Thunder crashes. Lightning splits the darkness. Enter AUGUSTUS VICTORIA, crown askew, flanked by trembling COMMANDERS. A restless MOB presses at the gates.

AUGUSTUS
[To the heavens] O Ancient spirits of sunken Mu! What spectral voices whisper in the storm? The earth herself bore me in thunder's marriage—Grand Kaiser, devourer of realms!

[Turning to the mob] Behold them—that ravenous beast that fills our coffers yet hammers nails in our coffin! They bleed the nation dry, yet without them we are nothing. Draw all unto me, like iron to the magnet!

[Soliloquy, pacing] One supreme bastard over a legion of bastards! We'll crown the fool Solomon in his ignorance. Brother Invicta whispers—they'll never see the trap. Let them strike first at this skull—I'll shatter their hands like empires past!

Enter the ANCIENT KING OF BABYLON from the shadows, wild-haired, eyes hollow with centuries of exile.

ANCIENT KING
[Voice like cracking stone] Five hundred years in jungle exile—and still Babylon burns in my dreams! These walls I clawed from primeval depths to witness time etched in pyramids' mockery. Must I bow to society's chains?

The years devour me. My mind feeds the reptile in my breast. This nation, gorged on false visions, chases salvation at train stations while spirits dance in unholy rites beneath the ocean's veil!

[Clutching his head] 'Twas the day I cast aside the Green—O torment! Fling off regimentation's yoke! Not charity's weak crutch, but the anvil of true strength! Who trusts the tinker with his slobbering maw? What dark thoughts brew in thy imperial mind, O Kaiser?

AUGUSTUS
[Drawing close] Behold this watch—its gears unwind like fate itself! In Siberian skies, dragons cleave the clouds where once mammoths roamed. We camp in treetops thick as conspiracies, bound for horizons where wolves sing dirges to the bloody dawn!

To Atlantis we'll soar, to kneel before the Morning Star—tilt Earth upon her axis, banish night eternal! The filthy mob hungers for my dragon-hoarded gold, but reptilian pulse denies them. I cannot feed the void.

Enter CONVIVILIATYICUM, gliding like shadow, maps clutched like weapons.

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[With oily grandeur] Hail, Grand Kaiser! Plans infernal I offer—great works shall rise like thunderheads, our armies span oceans vast! Steel limbs where wooden walls once stood, to crush the globe in destiny's vise!

[Unfurling maps] This barren desolation holds souls scarce and unworthy. Hail Jupiter's bolt! Hail Victoria's eternal flame!

AUGUSTUS
[Roaring] Commanders! To me, ye craven hounds!

They assemble in terror. AUGUSTUS draws his dagger and slays three in a whirlwind of blood.

AUGUSTUS
[Enraged soliloquy] What would Stalin's iron ghost command? These maps of blood and gold—this wasteland clutches power as our final hold! Riches rot without the masses' beggary.

When the mob erupts like Vesuvius, they'll ravage like famished wolves. Unleash the demons at the brink—is it our lash breeds this chaos, or sin's black root in their cravings?

[Voice rising to thunder] I am god-enthroned—my roar drowns the people's whimper and Senate's bleat! Mere barnyard filth they be—heap hay upon their troughs! They'll gorge and bellow like castrated bulls. Grand Kaiser floods them with fodder, and obedience kneels!

Behold the sands: wealth entombed for five hundred years! Strike now while foes lie prostrate! The mob worships sacrifice—offer them to our greater glory!

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Quavering but defiant] Where, dread lord? Over what shadowed realm?

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Triumphant] Precisely! Even thy generals bow—it must be done! From Montezuma's halls to Mediterranean's flow, lend me your fractured minds! What deed demands our hand?

AUGUSTUS
[Sword clashing on stone] No jest in this! I am fate's hammer—this ambush must blind them all! Carthage shall burn, her treasures plundered!

Generals, proclaim to the legions: bread for the wretched this eve, wine to thaw their veins! For cripples and beggars, grant one night of bliss—let them drink to oblivion and hymn thanks to their merciful Kaiser!

Exit AUGUSTUS amid crashing thunder.

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Aside, with venom] What plague worse: ignorance or apathy? O Brother Invicta, we've birthed a monster—stupidity's crown, egotism's throne! I clamp my tongue lest laughter rend me at his cretinous convulsions. Even carnival grotesques spout wiser folly—these Kaisers are a race apart from gods and men!

Thunder. Exeunt all.

---

ACT I, SCENE II

A desolate courtyard beneath storm clouds. Torches flicker, casting dancing shadows. Enter BROTHER INVICTA, cloaked and restless, joined by GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN. The MOB's distant cries rise like a tide.

BROTHER INVICTA
[With venomous whisper] O night, shroud of bold treasons! What madness reigns where Augustus struts like Jove yet stumbles as a fool? His epileptic rages mock the throne—a spastic godling spitting froth and fire!

Randstandafarian, stalwart blade—doth loyalty chain thee still, or doth thy heart incline to freedom's call?

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Voice torn, clutching sword] O shadow of rebellion, my soul is rent! I swore to serve this Kaiser's will, yet every bellowed edict scalds like molten lead. His mind—a shattered helm clashing with dreams of dragons and hoarded gold.

He speaks of Stalin's shade, of Montezuma's halls, yet knows not where his armies should tread! The mob hungers—their bread tonight, their wine, mere fleeting bribes. Come dawn, their knives shall seek his throat.

BROTHER INVICTA
[Eyes gleaming] This Augustus, puffed with vainglory's wind, proclaims himself magneto to the world, yet draws but rust! The mob is not his strength but his undoing. The sands he covets shall be his pyre.

We must be wolves, not sheep—let his own folly be the noose we tie!

Enter CONVIVILIATYICUM from shadows, eavesdropping.

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Anguished] His maps are madness, scrawled in fever's grip! What king decrees such chaos—jet-skis, sweet apples, dragon-flight? I saw him slay three captains with a blade, invoking Stalin's ghost to bless his cause.

The mob will rise—shall we stand guard or join their righteous roar?

BROTHER INVICTA
[Seizing his arm] Join, brave general! The Kaiser's crown is but paper, his throne crumbling lies and bones. He'd tilt Earth to bask in endless light, yet cannot see shadows at his feet!

Release the jails, he cries—but who shall wield the blade when chaos reigns? We'll raise a new dawn where reason reigns!

CONVIVILIATYICUM steps forth from shadows.

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Mocking bow] What seditious airs echo in this haunted gloom? Speak ye of treason 'neath the Kaiser's roof? His ears, though mad, are sharp, and I do hear venom dripping from thy tongues.

Beware—one word to Augustus, and your heads shall roll!

BROTHER INVICTA
[Undaunted] Scorn thy threats, fawning parasite! Thy maps are scribblings of a knave, thy loyalty a cloak for private gain. The Kaiser's dreams are fevered phantasms—dragons, Atlantis, apples sweeter than roses!

Join us or stand aside—when the tide of wrathful voices breaks, no map shall save thee!

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Cold laugh] Join thee in madness equal to his own? I'll weave my webs where power lies, and power shifts like storm-blown sands. The Kaiser's rage is but a tool—his gold, his armies, all shall bend to me.

The mob ye court is but a mindless beast; I'll ride its back while ye are trampled low.

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Half-drawing sword] Enough! My heart's a battlefield, torn between honor's oath and reason's cry. The Kaiser's edicts ring like clanging chains—bread for beggars, blood for barren lands!

Yet treason's path is steep, and death its toll. Can we trust the mob to crown a king, or will they burn the world in unbridled lust?

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Sly smile] Foe or friend? The wind decides my course. I serve the Kaiser's will—till better comes. But mark this truth: the mob's a fickle flame. Today they feast, tomorrow they devour the hand that feeds.

Distant MOB roars grow louder, mingled with clashing steel. Storm intensifies.

BROTHER INVICTA
[Defiant, raising fist] Let tempests rage and mobs unleash their might! This Kaiser's reign shall end in fire and night. Randstandafarian, cast thy doubts to wind—join me, and we'll forge a dawn anew!

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Agonized] O heavens, guide my faltering steps! I'll weigh thy words against my soul, but till dawn, I serve—yet watch, and wait.

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Departing] Then watch, and wait, and pray the storm abates. For Augustus' wrath is but the spark—the mob's the blaze that burns the world to ash.

Exit CONVIVILIATYICUM. MOB's cries swell: "Bread! Wine! Kaiser!" Lightning splits the sky.

BROTHER INVICTA
[Softly] The hour is near. Choose thou the side of fate.

Exeunt as storm roars.

---

ACT I, SCENE III

The squalid streets beneath the palace. Torches illuminate ragged CITIZENS huddled in clusters. The air reeks of stale bread and spilled wine from the Kaiser's "gift." Enter the MOB: a BEGGAR, a LABORER, a DISGRUNTLED MATRON, and others clutching loaves and flagons, eyes burning with hunger deeper than food.

BEGGAR
[Waving a crust like a scepter] O cursed night! What mockery from yon Grand Kaiser? A crumb of bread, a draught of sour wine—to warm our bones one fleeting eve, then cast us back to shadows!

We, the mob, the lice upon his throne, who swell his coffers with our sweat yet craft his coffin in our secret hearts. Why do we stir? 'Tis not mere belly's growl—the gold he hoards like dragons while we conjure coin from broken walks!

LABORER
[Slamming fist to palm] Aye, brother! We've forgotten freedom's cry, lost in false visions and trainyard haze. The feckless rich, self-righteous in their towers, dance upon our backs—no more, I say!

We're not mindless—we're wolves awake, herded into cities like tame beasts, but now we scent the blood of tyrants foul! His hoard, his lies—decimation in our ranks while he swims in gold!

DISGRUNTLED MATRON
[Eyes wild with fervor] The Ancients whisper still—from jungle exile comes the Babylon king, proclaiming empires' fall! We are the flare that strikes in lightning's moment!

We've clawed from primeval walls to claim what's ours: the wealth beneath barren sands, five hundred years denied! Why bow to Augustus' fits while we queue for cabbage soup, thin and glorious poor?

BEGGAR
[Laughing bitterly, swaying] Yet mark how fickle we, the faceless throng! One speech sways us to noble cause, then tears turn us to bloody rage. Like winds we shift—are we but programmed sharks, or rational flames in protest's blaze?

History's mobs burn with fear and zealotry, yet grievances true. We crave sacrifice—the Kaiser's head for greater cause we claim!

LABORER
[Voice rising to roar] Then let us be organized in wrath, leaderless yet one! No more hiding in basements while assassins plot his end. We'll turn the tide ourselves—reflect on crimes done in his name!

The sky caves not, but empires do! Our hearts may be reptilian, but we hoard naught—we seek the Morning Star, paradise from forgotten ground!

DISGRUNTLED MATRON
[Ominous] Beware our swarm's psychology—mass manias that drive markets and thrones to ruin's edge. We are the dirty horde, bent on destruction if bread turns to stone.

Yet in this bent, a beauty: denied no more! Hail the mob—for we fill coffers, fashion coffins, furnish tombs!

The MOB erupts: "Down with the Kaiser! Gold for the mob!" Thunder cracks as SOLDIERS' shadows approach. A palace spy lurks in the gloom.

BEGGAR
[Aside, with dark irony] Ignorance or apathy? Who knows, who cares? We are the storm—rational, yet wild as beasts. Let Augustus quake; our motivations burn!

---

ACT I, SCENE IV

The palace gates, battered by storm's fury. The MOB surges forward with torches, chanting "Down with the Kaiser! Gold for the mob!" Guards falter. Enter AUGUSTUS from within, flanked by COMMANDERS and CONVIVILIATYICUM. From shadows emerge BROTHER INVICTA and GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN. The ANCIENT KING lurks as spectral observer. Swords drawn, voices clash like thunder.

AUGUSTUS
[From battlements, voice booming] What howling tempest dares assault my throne? Ye filthy curs, ye lice-infested horde! I am Grand Kaiser, magneto divine, whose will bends nations to my forge!

One night of bread and wine I grant in grace—yet ye repay with torches' baleful gleam? Begone, ye zombies of soulless desire! Who stirs this chaos? Speak, or feel my wrath!

BEGGAR
[Leading the MOB, torch aloft] O tyrant bloated on our sweat and tears! Thy bread is bitter, wine a poisoned jest—we starve while thy coffers swell with gold!

We are the mob who fill thy vaults yet fashion coffins for thy fall! Thy reptilian heart denies our needs while we conjure coin from broken walks. Cast off thy chains—we rise for freedom forgot!

LABORER
[Axe in hand] Aye, Kaiser fool! Thy epileptic fits mock the throne—demented spastic, cretin crowned! We heed no more thy maps of barren waste, thy dreams of dragons sweeping o'er the dawn!

The dirty mob craves justice, not thy alms. Release the jails? Nay, we'll storm them first!

DISGRUNTLED MATRON
[Rallying cry] From Babylon's exile, the king returns—proclaiming empires crumble, as shall thine! Thy voice drowns only Senate's braying fools. We are wolves no longer chained—assassins prowl thy door!

The MOB surges closer, clashing with guards. AUGUSTUS draws his dagger.

AUGUSTUS
[Enraged, spitting fury] Traitors all! Conviviliatyicum, summon legions! Randstandafarian, crush this rabble—or join them in the grave!

What would great Stalin do? Slay three for sport, as I did generals past? This Carthage must burn, its riches mine! Ye demand more gold while I swim in hoarded wealth?

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Aside to AUGUSTUS] My lord, thy plans divine shall crush this storm—steel arms across oceans!
[To the MOB, slyly] Peace, good folk! The Kaiser hears thy pleas—more bread, more wine!

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Stepping forward, sword half-drawn] O Kaiser, thy rage blinds thee to the tide! The mob's not mindless—their grievances burn true. Thy edicts mad, thy slayings folly's mark—I serve, yet doubt devours my loyal breast!

BROTHER INVICTA
[Emerging boldly] Enough of shadows! Augustus, face thy doom! Thy throne's a jest, thy crown a dimwit's guise. The mob and I unite—Brother Invicta strikes true!

ANCIENT KING OF BABYLON
[From shadows, prophetic] From jungle's exile, five hundred years of woe, I proclaim: Babylon crumbles, as doth this! The years obsess with reptile ghosts—too young for epiphany, yet truth dawns harsh.

'Tis desiccation of the soul—lust denied, we are but frost! The nation forgotten, gazing over Ocean's mist!

Confrontation escalates: MOB clashes with guards, swords ring, torches fly. AUGUSTUS roars commands, CONVIVILIATYICUM schemes retreat, RANDSTANDAFARIAN wavers, INVICTA charges. Lightning strikes as chaos reigns.

AUGUSTUS
[Final bellow] Treason's tide shall break on my iron will! Generals, to arms! This night, we crush the beasts!

Thunder crashes. Battle erupts in earnest as curtain falls amid the storm's fury.

---

ACT II, SCENE I

An opulent palace chamber, dimly lit by flickering candles. Gold coins spill across the floor like a dragon's hoard. AUGUSTUS VICTORIA lounges upon a throne of velvet and bone, robes disheveled, goblet in hand. The storm has subsided to brooding drizzle, but thunder echoes faintly. He soliloquizes, voice mixing bombast with weary disdain.

AUGUSTUS
[With manic glee, then gravity] O dawn's delight in base pleasures crude—fine mutton for my feast, with custard-smeared follies piled like muddied pies! Yet cast this sullied garb to rubbish heap—I buy anew, and thee, thy towns, whole cities if I will!

[Laughing] Ha! I jest, for power's thrill I crave. They flood my coffers, begging horrors foul—what sin, when basest urges rule? A storm of mad deconstruction, inconsolable!

Where bounds my joy? I am Augustus grand, sky-bearer on shoulders broad—if I but shrug, all tumbles down! Better in my grasp than thine—sweet Stanistan, soon my Staniland, rich beyond dreams!

[Voice rising] How wise Augustus, victorious Kaiser sent to serve by being folk's will—like Stalin great, Big Brother's love denies thee naught. The rest? Thou buy'st, gorge on trinkets vain!

I'd laugh to see thee starve on streets, toss coin for bread—come, dine on paper scraps! Thou claim'st I hoard? Naught wrong nor right, mere acceptance's creed.

[Contemplative] We count our billions in cold halls—I am good man, yet trust not power, nor liars like me. Four hundred generations, lifetimes void—no soul of worth I've met! Such joys, yet same faces weary me.

Trust me—I am the people's will! Defy all voices, even mother's plea, or Great Father's ghost who forged this realm at cost. Is morality in shining deeds, or actions as need demands for greater cause?

Enter VOLUPTASUEVIUS, voluptuous figure of allure and cunning, clad in silks. She approaches with graceful menace.

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[With honeyed venom, circling throne] All day thou grumbl'st, gnawing bones like cur—what delight in rule o'er Babylon's hordes? Slaves thine, soldiers loyal to thy whim?

Behold my form, exceptional and chosen. Dost tire of women? Crave confession? Do past deeds haunt thy sleep? What's done is stone, unchangeable as fate.

[Voice hardening] Victoria arrives this very breath, Augustus—eternal in its grasp! Thou know'st not jealousy's bite, nor rage that gnaws thy flesh. I'd laugh to see them grovel, eating scraps, devouring kin ere doom.

A selfishness reptilian drives thy acts! Thou art their will—insanity's crown! Cast superstition's yoke aside; brain's logic feeds the ego, heart's the dart to wickedness.

They deem us fallen angels, yet sell their wives for crusts! Hope dwells where hearts unite—no place like home, simple life's true right. How many broken in this race 'gainst foreign folk?

AUGUSTUS
[Leering, then with absurd flattery] Thou look'st gorgeous this day! 'Tis indeed a morn of rare sensibilities.

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Archly] What's that?

AUGUSTUS
[Grinning foolishly] That's this!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Teasing] Nice...

AUGUSTUS
[Petulant] Only nice? Call me Ronaldo!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Mocking] Why?

AUGUSTUS
[Boastful] I am the Grand Kaiser!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Wry smile] Thou said'st Ronaldo but a moment past.

AUGUSTUS
[Sulking] Thou always demean'st me!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Innocently] I wasn't doing anything.

AUGUSTUS
[Accusing] I could tell by how thou look'dst at me!

---

ACT II, SCENE II

A lavish banquet hall within the palace, aglow with torches. Tables groan under exotic feasts: roasted veal, mutton, exotic delicacies. Gold coins scatter the floor amid writhing NYMPHS OF BABYLON in silken garb, dancing in debauched revelry. Wine flows freely. Outside, through barred windows, the courtyard echoes with the MOB's agonized cries and clashing steel as guards beat them mercilessly.

Enter AUGUSTUS VICTORIA, flushed and crowned, reclining on cushioned throne, goblet in hand. VOLUPTASUEVIUS attends him. SERVANTS scurry with platters while NYMPHS cavort. Faint screams pierce the revelry from without.

AUGUSTUS
[With gluttonous roar, tearing into food] O rapture of the morn! Fine mutton upon my tongue, with veal's tender kiss! Heap delicacies high like earthen pies—away with sullied robes, I buy anew!

[Laughing maniacally as a NYMPH approaches] Care I? Nay! For power's fire I crave when Babylon's nymphs entwine my throne—though now those curs meet steel in courtyard's bloody fray!

What mortal sin, when kin we are in urges base? Here I feast, sky-bearer supreme—better in my grasp, this hoard, this flesh divine! Sweet Stanistan mine, riches untold!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Feeding him morsels while caressing] Wise Augustus, people's will incarnate—like Stalin great, denying thee naught! When causes fade, beliefs fail, they buy, they gorge—yet I'd see them starve on streets!

[Voice hardening] Naught wrong nor right—acceptance's creed alone. We count billions in cold halls while conspiring. Thou good man, yet trust not power's liars like thee.

Four hundred generations void—no soul of worth! Same faces weary; crave the fresh! Trust thee—defy all, even mother's plea. Morality in deeds, or needs for greater cause?

A NYMPH entwines with AUGUSTUS in explicit embrace. Outside, a piercing scream: "Mercy, Kaiser!" followed by brutal thuds.

AUGUSTUS
[Amid revelry, gesturing to window] Hark! The mob's sweet symphony—beaten to dust! Filthy curs, lice of my realm, now crushed beneath boot! They filled my coffers, fashioned coffins—now tombs await!

[To VOLUPTASUEVIUS] Tire I of women? Past haunts? What's done is stone; future inevitable—Victoria eternal! Jealousy I know not, yet rage gnaws at them on all fours, devouring kin in logic cold!

They sell wives for bread, deem us fallen angels! Hope in hearts united? How many broken against foreign folk afar?

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Sultry amid writhing bodies] Thou look'st gorgeous this feast! Special sensibilities for this excellent fray.

AUGUSTUS
[Grinning lewdly] What's that?

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Teasing] That's this!

AUGUSTUS
[Petulant] Nice... only nice? Call me Ronaldo!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Mocking] Why?

AUGUSTUS
[Boastful] I am the Grand Kaiser!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Wry] Thou said'st Ronaldo but a breath ago.

AUGUSTUS
[Sulking, then laughing wildly] Thou demean'st me ever!

---

ACT II, SCENE III

The palace dungeons, dank and shadowed, where chains rattle like ghosts' lament. Flickering torchlight reveals bloodied survivors of the MOB—prisoners huddled in despair, guarded by grim SENTINELS. Enter BROTHER INVICTA, cloaked and furtive, slipping past shadows with a bribed guard. GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN follows hesitantly, face etched with guilt. The air reeks of defeat and brewing vengeance. Distant echoes of the orgy's moans filter through stone walls, cruel counterpoint to prisoners' groans.

BROTHER INVICTA
[Whispering fiercely, rallying the chained] O wretched kin, ye battered souls! The Kaiser's feast devours our brothers' cries—while nymphs entwine in debauched ecstasy, our blood stains courtyards red!

Hark to their moans above, wine-splashed and vile, as Augustus gorges on mutton's yield! He jests of throats slit at dawn, hurls carcasses from heights—yet claims the people's will!

We, the mob, once filled his coffers—now fashion coffins for his fall! Though chains bind flesh, our hearts ignite. The sky he bears shall tumble if we shrug! This greater cause demands his blood!

SURVIVOR BEGGAR
[Weakly, yet with fire] Aye, Invicta! We clawed from primeval walls to claim the buried gold—five hundred years denied! While he swims in hoarded wealth, we starve thin, dining on paper scraps he tosses!

He'd devour all, but we object with blades! Trust not his liars—four hundred generations void, no worth! Break these chains, storm the feast above!

SURVIVOR LABORER
[Rising painfully, voice a growl] The nymphs debase for his delight—yet we, coerced innocents, penetrate no more! He shrugs not the sky, lest all tumble—but we shall shrug his empire to dust!

Sweet Stanistan his? Nay, our land free! We buy no more—we'd see him starve on streets, devour his own kin!

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Stepping forward, torn] O Invicta, thy words pierce loyalty's veil—I heard the thuds, the cries midst orgy's din, as Kaiser's laughter drowned the dying gasps.

He, good man with wife? Yet nymphs entwine, Voluptasuevius whispers temptations sly. They sell wives for bread—yet deem him fallen angel? Hope in hearts united is simple life's right!

I waver, brothers—serve I this madness still, or join thy cause? The future inevitable—Victoria eternal, or doom's dark tide?

BROTHER INVICTA
[Seizing RANDSTANDAFARIAN's arm, eyes ablaze] Join, general! What's doubt but revolt's sharp blade? For thou art the people's true will now! Storm the halls above, end the feast in blood—his throat slit at dawn!

A distant alarm echoes. The survivors rattle chains, eyes fierce.

SURVIVOR MATRON
[With ominous chant] Arise, ye chained! The age of cant cast aside—no place like his crumbling throne!

---

ACT II, SCENE IV

A hidden cloister beneath the palace, where flickering lanterns cast eerie shadows on damp stone walls. The air is heavy with mold and conspiracy. BROTHER INVICTA, GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN, SURVIVOR BEGGAR, SURVIVOR LABORER, and SURVIVOR MATRON gather in secret, faces taut with resolve. Above, the orgy's echoes have faded, but distant groans of the beaten MOB linger. A single SENTINEL, bribed and uneasy, stands watch. Thunder grumbles, signaling storm's return.

BROTHER INVICTA
[With fervent whisper] O ye bruised remnants of the mob's fierce heart, gather close in this shadowed womb! Above, the Kaiser gorges on his lusts—nymphs writhe, wine stains the gold, while our kin's blood crusts the courtyard stones!

His jests of throats slit at dawn mock our pain—yet we are not base beasts, no rats in scorched mazes! We filled his coffers, forged his coffin's nails—now carve his tomb with vengeance swift!

The people's will he claims, yet spies only to sell our souls. He'd see us starve on paper scraps while hoarding our Staniland's wealth! What motivates this fire? Emancipation lost, dehumanization's sting! We are wolves awake, our hearts aflame with lust for justice!

SURVIVOR BEGGAR
[Clutching stolen dagger] Aye! His feast of mutton and piled delicacies insults our want! He buys cities while we gnaw dregs. Four hundred generations void—no worth he sees, yet we are molecules of fire!

His nymphs debase for coin while innocents weep. We'd shrug his sky to ruin! Truth's veil rent by our blades—trust not his lies nor power's guise!

SURVIVOR LABORER
[Rising, fists clenched] Morality in deeds? Nay, needs for cause! His delicate affairs are lunacy's plea, not empire's might! Sweet Staniland ours, not his to hoard!

Let him choke on custard while we storm halls where wine and flesh entwine! The mob's not fickle—rational flames we burn, leaderless yet one, for greater cause united!

SURVIVOR MATRON
[With prophetic zeal] From Babylon's exile, we rise as kings! His orgy's din drowns our brothers' cries, yet we hear the Morning Star's call!

Cast cant aside—no place like his crumbling throne! Hope dwells where hearts unite—abundance's age, not struggle's infernal race! We sell not our souls for bread—fallen angels no more!

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Stepping forward, trembling with resolve] O comrades, thy words sear my wavering soul! I saw the courtyard's slaughter—blood like rain, while Kaiser's laughter mingled with nymphs' moans.

Voluptasuevius, serpent fair, urged his sins—yet regrets gnaw him not! I tire of loyalty's chain to this madness. Join I this cause, for Victoria's tide turns—eternal doom, or freedom's dawn?

Enter VOLUPTASUEVIUS, gliding silently from hidden passage, silks shimmering like predator's scales. The SENTINEL gasps.

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[With icy allure] What whispers echo in this cloister's gloom? O Brother Invicta, Randstandafarian bold—ye plot where Kaiser's gold outshines the stars?

His feast above—mutton, veal, and lust—yet here ye scheme to slit his throat at dawn! I see all, and deem thee fools to think this throne shall break. The mob's a flame, but Kaiser's fire burns fierce!

BROTHER INVICTA
[Undaunted, stepping toward her] Away, thou siren of the Kaiser's bed! Thy form tempts not our righteous steel! His past haunts not, but ours shall haunt his dreams!

Future inevitable—Victoria's fall, not rise! Join, or slink back to orgy's dregs where wine and flesh mock our pain! The mob's united—abundance's dawn!

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Mocking laugh] Join thy doomed cause? Nay, I dance where power lies. His lunacy's my stage—delicate deeds I weave.

Yet I'll hold silence, for now—plot on, ye fools, but know the Kaiser shrugs not sky alone. Thy rebellion's weight may crush thee first!

Thunder cracks louder. Conspirators draw closer, daggers gleaming, as MOB's distant wails rise anew.

SURVIVOR LABORER
[Roaring] Enough! We storm the feast—his throat our prize! Let nymphs and gold drown in our righteous flood!

Exeunt, shadows merging with storm's roar, lanterns flickering out.

---

ACT III, SCENE I

A barren wasteland on the empire's fringes, where winds howl like mournful spirits. Ancient ruins crumble under stormy sky, and meager fires flicker amid hovels of rags and stone. Here dwell the ANCIENT KINGS OF THE LAND—exiled sovereigns stripped of crowns and realms, living in humble poverty, kind and fair to all who cross their path. Enter the ANCIENT KINGS: KING OF BABYLON, gaunt and wise; KING OF MU, serene in rags; and KING OF ATLANTIS, eyes heavy with lost glory. Their FRIENDS—loyal retainers in tatters—gather round, weeping openly. Thunder rolls as if heaven itself laments.

KING OF BABYLON
[Voice cracked by exile's woe, kneeling on barren earth] O ye Ancients of forgotten realms, behold this poverty's embrace—our crowns dissolved, our lands devoured by tyrants' greedy maw!

Yet in this dearth, we harbor kindness pure, fair to all souls, from beggar low to bird aloft. No hoard we clutch, no gold like dragons vile; we share the crust, the cloak, the fleeting fire.

But hark! The slaughter's cry pierces the night—the poor, our kin, beaten to death's cold gate, while Kaiser's orgy mocks their dying breath! Friends true, weep on; your tears are heaven's dew. What is sovereignty without the just?

KING OF MU
[Raising hands to stormy heavens] Kind and fair we stand, though landless ghosts, exiled from Mu's sunken halls of light. No pyramids we claim, no fertile fields; yet mercy flows from hearts unscarred by greed.

The mob's brave surge—crushed beneath boot and blade—their blood cries out from courtyards soaked in red! O friends, ye weep as rivers for the slain, the poor who filled his coffers, now entombed.

We pray to God above, whose justice sleeps—awake, O Lord! Redeem these broken souls, smite the reptile throne with thunder's righteous bolt! For in our poverty, we see truth's gleam.

KING OF ATLANTIS
[Embracing a sobbing FRIEND] Fair to all, we kings in rags proclaim—no barbed walls fence our humble, open hearths. Our friends, ye weep bitter floods o'er slaughter's grim tableau: the poor laid low, their lust for justice quenched in gore!

While Augustus feasts on mutton's sin and nymphs' debased delight, the courtyard echoes with their final gasps—beaten to death, like lice beneath heedless heel!

O God of redemption, hear our fervent plea: justice descend like rain on parched despair! Tilt Earth's axis anew, flood his gilded halls, as Atlantis sank for hubris' heavy toll. We, poverty's kings, pray for the slain—may their souls find repose!

FRIEND OF THE KINGS
[Weeping, falling to knees] O noble kings, ye paragons of grace, landless yet lords of virtue's boundless realm! We bewail the poor's cruel fate—slaughtered like beasts while Kaiser's laughter rings!

Their freedom lost, voting in vain against oppression's chain. We pray with thee to God for swift redress: redeem the innocent, bring justice's dawn! May retribution turn on him who wields it!

KING OF BABYLON
[Joining hands in prayer, all kneeling as thunder booms] United in poverty's kind embrace, we weep, we pray—O Lord, grant redemption pure! For slaughter's shadow veils the land in night, yet justice's light shall pierce the tyrant's heart.

Amen, amen—let hope from ashes rise!

The group bows in solemn prayer as winds whip fiercer, lightning flashing like divine wrath. Distant palace bells toll ominously.

---

ACT III, SCENE II

A desolate plain before the palace, lit by a turbulent sky where comets blaze like divine torches, streaking in fiery arcs. Thunder rumbles, and spectral glow bathes the scene. The ANCIENT KINGS OF THE LAND—KING OF BABYLON, KING OF MU, and KING OF ATLANTIS—march with resolute steps, clad in tattered robes yet radiant with humble majesty. Their FRIENDS, loyal retainers, and a swelling tide of the PEOPLE—survivors of the mob, ragged and fierce—join their ranks, wielding makeshift weapons and torches. Above, an ethereal host of ANGELS, faintly visible through storm clouds, marches in celestial synchrony. The palace looms ahead, gates barred, as AUGUSTUS's guards brace for conflict.

KING OF BABYLON
[With voice like rolling thunder, raising staff] Onward, ye exiled kings and people wronged! From poverty's embrace we march as one, kind and fair, though landless, crowned by truth!

No hoard we clutch, no gold like dragons vile—our wealth is justice, pure and unbesmirched. Behold the comets' blaze, heaven's fiery script, proclaiming favor for our righteous cause!

The slaughtered poor, their blood yet warm on stones, cry out for redemption—God hath heard their wail! With angels' host above, we storm the palace where the Kaiser feasts, his orgy's din a mockery of our grief!

KING OF MU
[Pointing to sky, eyes alight] See how the heavens join our tread! Angels of Mu, lost in sunken tides, now soar, their wings a beacon through this storm-wracked night!

Comets streak like lances of divine wrath, blessing our path to smite the tyrant's throne. In poverty we dwelt, yet kind to all, sharing crust and cloak with beggars' kin.

But now the people swell our humble ranks—no illusions cloud their sight, no chains bind their hearts! We march to end oppression's sting, to break the bonds of despair!

KING OF ATLANTIS
[Brandishing broken scepter] Fair to all, we kings in rags proclaim—no barbed walls fence our souls! The people join, their torches rival stars, as angels march in heaven's vaulted host!

The slaughtered poor, beaten to death's cold gate, weep not alone—our tears with theirs entwine. Augustus gorges while blood pools red where once our brothers stood.

O Lord of light, whose favor streaks the sky, tilt Earth anew—let his empire drown in shame! We pray for justice, for the meek's redress!

FRIEND OF THE KINGS
[Rallying the PEOPLE] O noble kings, ye beacons of the just! In poverty ye shone, kind to every soul—now lead us forth where comets light the way!

The angels' march above, their wings a hymn, echoes our resolve to end this reign! The Kaiser's feast mocks our kin's slaughter. We, the people, rise with ye, no longer divided mob, but unified in fire!

SURVIVOR BEGGAR
[Brandishing torch] We filled his coffers, fashioned coffins dire—now tombs we'll carve with vengeance's sharp blade! His jests of throats slit at dawn, his orgy's din—nymphs debased for coin—are sins against our kin!

Comets blaze to bless our righteous curse—guide us to reclaim our land, not his vile hoard! No more chains, nor lies of false love taping our every move!

SURVIVOR LABORER
[Axe raised, roaring] Morality in needs, not shining deeds! His delicate affairs—wine, flesh, and gold—are lunacy's plea, not empire's might!

Angels above, comets' holy fire—ye sanctify our wrath to storm his gates! The people join—leaderless, yet one—to end his zenith's peak in our crescendo!

The PEOPLE surge forward, chanting: "Justice! Redemption! Down with the Kaiser!" ANGELS' faint hymns blend with comets' fiery streaks. GUARDS atop walls shout alarms, drawing swords.

KING OF ATLANTIS
[With final, thunderous call] O heaven's host, march with us, radiant throng! Comets, blaze on—God's favor seals our vow! No longer landless, we reclaim our right—to freedom's boundless light!

Forward, ye just, with angels at our side—let Augustus' throne in blood and ruin bide!

The ANCIENT KINGS lead the PEOPLE in relentless march, torches flaring, as comets illuminate their path. ANGELS' silhouettes pulse brighter, and thunder shakes the earth as the palace braces for siege.

---

ACT III, SCENE III

The palace throne room, breached and violated. Shattered stained glass windows frame comets blazing across a storm-torn sky. Ethereal light streams through the gaps, casting prismatic shadows that dance with each lightning flash. The ANCIENT KINGS—BABYLON, MU, and ATLANTIS—enter with measured dignity, their tattered robes somehow more regal than Augustus's gilt. Behind them surge the PEOPLE: BROTHER INVICTA with drawn steel, GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN torn between oaths, the SURVIVORS bearing scars and fury. AUGUSTUS VICTORIA sprawls upon his throne like a bloated spider, VOLUPTASUEVIUS coiled beside him, CONVIVILIATYICUM clutching his maps like shields. GUARDS tremble at the margins. Above, barely visible through the storm, ANGELS' wings beat in celestial rhythm.

KING OF BABYLON
[Voice like distant thunder, each word weighted with centuries]
Augustus. Self-anointed prince of fools.
We come—not as conquerors drunk on blood,
But shepherds seeking one lost, maddened ram.

[Gesture encompassing the wreckage]
Behold thy kingdom's virtue: broken glass,
Thy people's bones ground into mortar-paste
To build thy pleasure-dome of wine and flesh.
What king devours his own children's hearts
Then calls it love?

AUGUSTUS
[Lurching upright, wine-cup shattering on marble]
Love? LOVE? I am their god incarnate!
Every breath they draw—my gift! Every coin
They clutch with trembling fingers—from my hoard!
I am the axis 'round which this world spins—
Remove me, and chaos swallows all!

[Voice rising to shriek]
Ye moldering relics of forgotten realms,
What power had your "virtue"? Where are your thrones?
Sunk beneath waves! Buried in jungle rot!
While I—I swim in oceans of their gold!

KING OF MU
[Serene as stone, gesturing to the comets]
Mark heaven's testimony—those burning stars
Write judgment in the sky's eternal book.
Not gold, but grace; not hoards, but open hands—
These lift a king above mere mortal clay.

[To the People]
We ruled in poverty, yet none went bare.
We shared the crust, the cloak, the dying flame,
Till kingdoms fell—but virtue never dies.

VOLUPTASUEVIUS
[Writhing closer to Augustus, voice honeyed poison]
Virtue? [Laughing] How sweetly they deceive themselves!
My lord's true virtue pulses hot as blood—
He takes what lesser men dare only dream.
Power is appetite—all else, pretense.

[To the Ancient Kings]
Your "kindness" was your weakness, toothless fools.
You fed your enemies; he feeds upon them.

KING OF ATLANTIS
[Eyes blazing with prophetic fire]
We fed—and lived! He devours—and dies!
For every throat he slits at crimson dawn,
A thousand more shall rise from blood-soaked earth.
The comets bear witness—this, thy final hour.

[Thunder crescendos]
Atlantis drowned for hubris less than thine;
What flood shall claim this palace built on bones?

AUGUSTUS
[Maniacal, dancing on his throne]
Let Heaven weep its tears of molten fire!
I am the storm—I am the flood itself!
Stalin's iron ghost walks at my right hand,
And on my left, sweet Lucifer's bright star!

[To the People]
See how they crawl, these "virtuous" ancient kings?
Begging scraps of mercy from their betters?
I offer gold—they offer empty prayers!

BROTHER INVICTA
[Blade singing as he draws it]
Enough! The hour of judgment tolls at last—
No more shall virtue bow to vicious might!

[To the Ancient Kings]
Stand with us, ye noble ghosts of realms—
Together we shall birth a world reborn!

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[Casting down his sword at Augustus's feet]
My oath to thee lies shattered with thy realm.
I follow virtue's banner, not thy gold.

SURVIVOR BEGGAR
[Weeping, yet fierce]
They speak the tongue of angels—we, of men
Who starve while tyrants feast on children's tears!

SURVIVOR LABORER
[Axe gleaming]
Let Heaven's lightning be our battle-cry!
For justice strikes with more than mortal steel!

SURVIVOR MATRON
[Prophetic]
The wheel turns—beggar becomes king,
And kings discover how the gutters taste!

CONVIVILIATYICUM
[Desperate, unfurling maps]
My lord! My plans—my gorgeous, bloody plans!
Steel across oceans! Empires built on—

AUGUSTUS
[Silencing him with savage gesture]
Silence, fool! Can maps hold back the tide?
Can schemes make angels flee?

[To all, voice cracking]
But I am AUGUSTUS! Grand Kaiser! I am—
I am...

[Pause, looking around at the encroaching crowd]
I am alone.

The chamber fills with ominous silence. Comets blaze brighter. Angels' wings beat like approaching thunder. The PEOPLE surge forward as AUGUSTUS staggers, crown slipping from his brow. VOLUPTASUEVIUS shrinks away. Lightning splits the sky, illuminating all in stark relief—the moment before the storm breaks.

KING OF BABYLON
[With infinite sadness]
Even now, repent—and live.

AUGUSTUS
[One final roar of defiance]
NEVER!

Thunder crashes. The final confrontation begins.

---

ACT III, SCENE IV

The throne room convulses in chaos. Steel rings against steel as comet-fire streams through shattered windows, casting everything in hellish, shifting light. The ANGELS' hymns swell to a crescendo of otherworldly beauty. AUGUSTUS VICTORIA stumbles backward, his golden throne toppling with a crash that echoes like thunder. GUARDS flee like rats from a sinking ship. VOLUPTASUEVIUS clings to shadows, CONVIVILIATYICUM clutches his useless maps. The ANCIENT KINGS stand unmoved amid the storm, their presence a calm eye in the hurricane.

Through the melee, the SURVIVOR BEGGAR moves with terrible purpose, a hidden blade gleaming in his weathered fist.

AUGUSTUS
[Blood seeping through his robes, voice cracking between rage and terror]
What... what is this? My throne... my golden throne...
The sky I bore upon my shoulders broad—
It falls! It FALLS! O Stalin's iron ghost,
Where art thou now? Where is thy promised strength?

[Clutching at empty air]
My billions counted in these cold, cold halls...
The people's will I was... I AM... I...

SURVIVOR BEGGAR
[Advancing like Death itself, voice raw with years of suffering]
For every child who died upon thy stones.
For every mother's tears that fed thy gold.
For all who starved while thou didst swim in blood—

[Strikes swift and true, blade finding its mark]

This blade speaks justice louder than thy roar!

AUGUSTUS
[Gasping, staring at the spreading crimson]
The wound... the wound that will not heal...
My hoard... my precious, glittering hoard...
Who... who will count my billions when I'm gone?

[Falling, voice fading to whisper]
The sky... I cannot... hold it anymore...

[Dies with a sound like wind through autumn leaves]

Silence falls like a curtain. Even the storm seems to pause. VOLUPTASUEVIUS flees shrieking into the night. CONVIVILIATYICUM slinks away, his grand schemes crumbling to ash. The PEOPLE stand transfixed, hardly believing the tyrant truly lies still.

KING OF BABYLON
[Stepping forward, voice heavy with the weight of ages]
So ends the reign of appetite unbound.
Yet mark us well, ye who have won this day—
The throne stands empty, waiting for its king.

[Removes his tattered crown, places it gently on the ground]

We who have ruled, who knew dominion's weight,
Choose now a different path. No crown we claim,
No scepter's burden shall we bear again.

KING OF MU
[Joining his voice to Babylon's]
Let power flow like water to the sea—
Not hoarded in one vessel, cracked and stained,
But shared among the many, pure and free.
We fade to shadows, nameless as the wind.

KING OF ATLANTIS
[With quiet finality]
The ocean called our empire to its depths
For this same sin—believing gods we were.
Choose better, ye who follow in our wake.

The ANCIENT KINGS begin to retreat, melting into the crowd like mist before dawn.

BROTHER INVICTA
[Reaching toward them]
Stay! Rule with wisdom earned through exile's pain!

KING OF BABYLON
[Pausing, with gentle smile]
Wisdom lies not in crowns, but in the choice
To lay them down. Live well. Rule yourselves.

The ANCIENT KINGS vanish into the crowd, becoming indistinguishable from the common people.

GENERAL RANDSTANDAFARIAN
[In wonder]
They... they simply walked away from power.

SURVIVOR BEGGAR
[Still holding the bloody blade, voice breaking]
Then what... what do we do now?

A moment of profound uncertainty. Then, slowly, the PEOPLE begin to move. Tables are righted, food appears—not hoarded, but shared. Wine flows, but to celebrate, not to numb. Music rises, but it is the music of community, not conquest.

SURVIVOR LABORER
[Laughing with disbelief]
We feast as equals—none above, none below!

SURVIVOR MATRON
[Embracing former enemies]
The work begins now—harder than the war.

BROTHER INVICTA
[Looking around the transformed room]
No emperor's crown... but perhaps something better.

The celebration that follows is not the frenzied orgy of Augustus's reign, but something deeper—a communion of souls who have found their way back to each other. The comets fade as natural dawn breaks through the windows. The ANGELS' voices soften to a whisper, then to silence, their work complete.

THE PEOPLE
[In a voices that harmonize rather than chant]
Let justice flow like rivers to the sea,
And mercy bloom in every human heart.
The crown is cast aside—we choose to be
Not subjects, but the authors of our art.

The curtain falls on a transformed world—not perfect, but possible.

FINIS

---