276: We've been trying to raise children 
again...for the process, but a lot of the 
townspeople haven't been able to have 
children anymore. No matter how much they 
try, none of the women can get pregnant. Well, 
some can, but... 


(276 sighs and pauses for 5 seconds) 


276: The babies...they come out all wrong. 
I've heard of some with too many eyes, and 
not enough skin, others that look like they had 
been dead long before they exited the womb. 
They don't live past a few days at most. We 
thought we could find a cure if we searched 
your labs. | originally thought my wife and | 
were Safe, after we had a perfectly healthy 
child...but then... 


(276 is silent for 8 seconds) 
Dr. : Please continue, [REDACTED] 


276: ...My most recent child always seemed 
uncomfortable around me and my wife, always 
preferring to be alone. | didn't think too much 
of it, but then the time came when my child 
could speak properly, when she was around 
four years old...l've kept her locked in the 
basement ever since. 


Dr. __: What was it that your daughter said? 


276: ...She said, "Papa, why did you do that to 
me? Why did you [DATA EXPUNGED}] I...1 


stretched up to some far off ceiling, and Bright recognized it 
as a deep storage facility, one of those places where records 
and collections went forever. 


Narrator 2: Before them stood three individuals, custodial 
workers and labourers, all part of the Foundation's grinding 
gears and endless machinery. They were part of the inner 
workings of the Foundation, and knew nothing but their work 
and the food it put on their tables. 


Kestrel: 'Nother load come through. 
Falcon: Still from Site-19? 
Kestrel: By the look of it. This is the last, | think. 


Vulture: What is it? That crate there? It's got a name on the 
side of it. 


They all see it, but the name is on the side of the crate away 
from the AUDIENCE. Bright cranes his neck, but cannot see. 


Kestrel: Dunno. Let's have a look, aye? Can't imagine 
anyone would notice something gone missing from all of this 
junk. 


Falcon: Say, look here. This is fancy, in'it? Some kind of gold 
pen, see. For writing. 


Vulture: I'd say. | like this one a bit, too. Fancy top hat. Weird 
monkey statue. 


Kestrel: Papers, papers, stapler... this is all office supplies, 
gents. 


Vulture: Fanciest office supplies I've ever seen. 
Falcon: Must've been a big wig, this fellow. 
Vulture: Foundation, or GOC? 


Kestrel: Must've been Foundation. All the GOC lot have 


moved to that fortress they built in Ukraine. Not a one of them 
at Site-19 before they tore it down. 


Falcon: Hah! Look at this! A pair of tiny shoes. What a 
strange shape. 


Vulture: Say, Kes. You don't think this stuff belonged to that 
old fellow who snuffed out when they tore the site down, do 
you? 


Kestrel: Don't know much about the man. That was his name, 
though, there's no doubt about that. 


Vulture: It's true, then. He's gone and kicked the great 
heavenly bucket. 


Falcon: Might as well. They say he couldn't be bothered to 
leave, even as they were decommissioning it. Couldn't get 
him out the door. 


Kestrel: Good riddance, then. That kind of attitude won't gel 
well with the GOC types. 


Vulture: Don't know if any kind of attitude gels with the GOC 
types, mate. 


They ALL laugh. The three of them load the crate onto a 
moving dolly and wheel it away. Bright takes a step to look 
inside the box, but the room around him dissolves. 


Narrator 1: Bright looked through the darkness around him 
and saw a hill in the distance. On its crest, as familiar in the 
dark as it had ever been to Bright in the day, was the 
smoldering wreckage of what had at one point no doubt been 
Site-19. The pungent aroma of burning steel and ash hung in 
the air, singeing his nostrils and filling his lungs with acrid 
smoke. 


Bright: Spirit, please. | Know this place, or rather, | once did. | 
know that the man they spoke of may as well had been like |, 
should | not change my ways. God almighty, what is this. How 
could this have happened. 


Narrator 2: Bright recoiled, for the scene had changed 
suddenly. They stood now at what had been an entrance, a 
grand and glorious marble gateway into the Foundation's 
most premier facility. All that remained was a single dark 
corridor, and devastation on all sides. Bright went to step 
away from it, but stopped upon seeing the outstretched hand 
of the Spirit pointing down the ruined hall. 


Bright: Famine, this is a fearful place. In leaving it, | won't 
forget its lesson, | promise. Please, let us go. 


FAMINE remains still, pointing into the building. 


Bright: | understand you, friend, and | would if | could. But | 
do not have the strength. Spirit, | do not have the power within 
me to walk down that corridor. Please, maybe... if there is any 
person, anyone at all, who feels any sadness over the death 
of the poor man they spoke of, or the ruination of this site... 
show me that person, Spirit. | beseech you. 


Narrator 4: The darkness folded back over them again, and 
when it retreated they were standing outside of a tiny home 
that Bright had seen once before. It was the house of poor 
Django Bridge, and they entered it silently. 


TILDA MOOSE, her little CHILDREN, and the older FRITZ are 
within. FRITZ stands silently by the window, while his mother 
quietly writes reports on their couch. 


Bright: It's so quiet, Famine. This house was so full of life, 
and now— 


Moose: Where could your father be, Fritz? It must be time for 
him to get home. 


Fritz: Past time, mother. But | think he's walked a little slower 
than he used to, these last few evenings. 


TILDA responds, her usually cheerful voice steady, faltering 
only once. 


Moose: | have known him to walk with... | have known him to 


walk with Tiny Zyn upon his shoulder. He would walk so fast, 
and she would squeal the whole way home. 


Fritz: So have |. Often. 


Moose: But she was so light to carry, and your father loved 
her so much. For him, it was no trouble... no trouble at all. Ah, 
there's your father at the door. 


Narrator 3: She hurried to meet him, poor little Django in his 
threadbare shirt and thin coat. She had a tea ready for him, 
and the little children brought it to him. As he bent to take it 
from them, they each laid a tiny kiss upon his cheek, as if to 
say "Don't cry, father. Don't be grieved." 


Moose: It's Sunday. You went today? 


Django: Yes, my dear. | wish you could've seen it. It's such a 
green place, such a beautiful place. But you'll see it often. | 
promised her that |... that | would walk there on a Sunday. My 
little girl. My little, little child. Oh god, my little girl. 


Narrator 4: He broke down all at once, then. He couldn't help 
it. He left the room and went up to his study, which his young 
children had decorated with Christmas cheer. He was gone 
but a moment, just long enough to reconcile to what had 
happened, and soon returned to his family quite happy. 


DJANGO seats himself with his family. They look to him, and 
he gazes off wistfully. He smiles in spite of the tears on his 
face. 


Django: | met the most pleasant man I've ever met today, 
Tilda. | was at the new engineer depot, dropping off an 
application, when | saw a gentleman | had seen before at the 
office but never met proper. He introduced himself as Mr. 
Ralph Roget, who works with the GOC, and who was the 
adopted nephew of old Jack Bright. Seeing that | looked... a 
little down, you know, he inquired as to what was bothering 
me. 


He inhales deeply before continuing. 


Django: And because he was so pleasant, | told him. And he 
says to me, "| am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Bridge, and so 
sorry for your good wife and your family. So very sorry indeed. 
If there is any way | can be of service to you," and he hands 
me his card, "that's where | live. Please come and visit me, 
and come by my office sometime. We could use more men 
like you, Mr. Bridge." It really seemed as if he had known our 
little Zyn, and had felt the hurt with us. 


Moose: He sounds like a fine man, and a good soul. 


Django: But... whenever we leave each other, all of us, |am 
sure that none of us will forget poor Tiny Zyn, or this first loss 
we had among us. | know that— that we will recollect on how 
patient and mild she was, even though she was a little, little 
child... and we will not fight so readily among ourselves, and 
forget our little Zyn in doing so. 


All: No, never father. 
Django: | am very happy... very happy. 
The FAMILY embraces as BRIGHT and FAMINE look on. 


Bright: Spectre... | feel as if our parting moment is at hand. | 
know it, but | don't know how | know it. Tell me... tell me who 
that man was they spoke of. Tell me what was down that dark 
corridor. 


Narrator 3: The darkness swallowed them, and as they 
moved slowly through the hallways of distant sites and down 
the roads of small Foundation towns, Bright looked for any 
sign of himself, but found none. 


Narrator 5: Finally they arrived again outside of the 
smoldering wreckage of Site-19. Off to his right, Bright could 
faintly see the outline of the staff housing, somehow 
untouched by the ruin. 


Bright: There, Spirit, down there. That would be my home, | 


know this way very well. Let me go and behold what | will be, 
in the days to come. 


FAMINE stops. BRIGHT notices its hand is pointed into the 
corridor. 


Bright: My house is down there, Spirit. Why do you point 
away? 


Narrator 2: The inexorable finger underwent no change. 
Bright hurried down the hillside to the lodgings, many of which 
he found were empty, though there were those who remained, 
still packing their belongings and managing their affairs. But 
when he came to his own home, he found it empty, cleared 
out, as if no one had ever been there. He turned back to the 
site on the hill, and saw the Phantom still standing, its finger 
outstretched. 


Narrator 1: Bright returned to the Spirit, and together they 
entered the dark building. "Here," he thought, "here it must be 
that the wretched man of whom the other had spoken, buried 
somewhere beneath the rubble." 


Narrator 3: "It was a worthy place for such a man," thought 
Bright, "a worthy place indeed." 


Narrator 5: Still the Spectre's finger stretched down, further 
and further into the maze of decay and destruction. It was not 
until they reached a place that Jack knew very well, a place 
that caused his heart to seize with fear, did the Spirit come to 
a halt, its finger pointed at a lone doorway. 


Bright: No, no no, Spirit, please. It cannot be. 


Narrator 4: The name on the door read "Jack Bright and 
Everett Mann, Directors", as Jack had never troubled himself 
with having his old partner's name removed. From within the 
doorway before them, he could just make out a tiny, flickering 
light. 


BRIGHT moves towards the door and, his hand shaking, 


opens it. Within is a man, face down on a metal desk, impaled 
upon a protruding piece of support that had fallen from the 
ceiling. BRIGHT approaches, just enough to glimpse a dirty 
red and gold medallion hung around the man's neck. The man 
is JACK BRIGHT. 


Bright: NO! It cannot be! No no, no, please, Spirit, hear me 
now. | am not the man | was. | will not be the man of whom 
they spoke, the man | must have been. Why— why show me 
this, if | am beyond all hope? 


The FAMINE'S hand begins to shake. 


Bright: Good, spirit, your nature shows pity on me. Tell me, 
tell me that | may yet cast different shadows than these you 
have shown me. Tell me that | can change! 


Narrator 1: The cold hand of the Spectre trembled, and from 
all around him Bright heard the sound of creaking beams, 
laden supports, crumbling masonry and collapsed walls. 


Bright: | will honour Christmas in my heart, | swear it. | will 
keep it all the year long. | will live in the past, the present, and 
the future. The Spirits of all three will live within me, and | will 
not shut out the lessons that they teach, goddammit! Tell me 
spirit, please, tell me that | may not become that man! 


Narrator 2: In his agony, Bright caught the hand in front of 
him. As he did, the world around him, burst into flames and 
imploded. The ceiling above him roared as it crashed down, 
the floors below moaned as they gave way, until it all was 
tumbling down into the nothingness below. Jack clung to the 
hand of the Spectre for his own life, even as the Spirit tried to 
pull away from him. 


Narrator 5: In a last prayer to have his own fate reversed, 
Jack released the hand of the Phantom and threw his own up 
in towards the heavens, begging for mercy. As he did, he saw 
a light within the Spirit's dark hood, growing brighter and 
brighter, so much so that he had to shield his eyes. 


Narrator 3: When he opened them again, he was sitting on 
his own bed, in his own room, as the sun poured through the 
window blinds. 


Act VI 


The End 


Bright: This is my room. 
He gets up quickly. His eyes dart around wildly. 
Bright: Yes! This is my room! That is my bed! This— 


He runs down to his front door. Flinging it open, he inspects 
the outside and, seeing it noticeably free of the face of MANN, 
goes back inside. 


Bright: The Spirits of Christmas, bless them! And bless you 
Mann, you old piece of shit. Bless you for this chance you 
have given me! A chance to make it all right— and | must 
make it right! 


He skips across his living room, gleefully making joyful 
monkey-sounds as he does. 


Bright: It's all here! There's the door that Mann came 
through, and over there was where Troy was sitting, that 
drunken bastard. It's all right, it's all true! It all happened! 
Hahaha! 


Narrator 1: Bright was aware that he was unaware what day 
it was. 


Bright: | don't know what day of the month it is. | don't know 
how long the Spirits kept me. | don't— | don't know anything! | 
really am quite a baby. Never mind that, | don't care. I'd rather 
be a baby. Whoop whoop! Hallo! Hallo hallo! 


He runs up to his bedroom window and, throwing it open to 
take a deep breath of the rich morning air, calls out to a doctor 
passing by his home. 


Bright: Say there, fine young fellow! What's today? 
Heiden: Eh? 

Bright: What is today, my fine lad, what's the day? 
Heiden: Today? Why, it's Christmas Day, sir. 


Bright: It's— it's Christmas day! | haven't missed it! The 
Spirits did it all in one night. Of course they did, they can do 
anything they like. Oh goodness, of course they can. 


Heiden: What are you going on about there, strange ape- 
man? 


Bright: Hallo, you wonderful young man. Do you know the 
Poulterer's, not on the next street, but the one past that, at the 
corner? 


Heiden: ...yeah? Why? 


Bright: Ah, an intelligent boy, a brilliant, remarkable boy. Do 
you know whether or not they've sold that giant, anomalous 
turkey that was hanging up there? Not the little prized turkey, 
fuck that. | mean the big hoss, the one there on the wall? 


Heiden: What, you mean the one as big as | am? 


Bright: What a delightful lad, a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, 
my buck, that's the one. 


Heiden: It's hanging there now. 
Bright: Is it, wonderful. Go and buy it. 
Heiden: (Laughs.) Hah. Alright. Sure thing. 


Bright: No no, | am in earnest! Go and buy it, and tell them to 


bring it here, so | can tell them where to take it. Come back 
with the man, and I'll give you two hundred dollars. Come 
back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you half a 
grand! 


Heiden: Half a grand! | could buy so many pedicures with that 
money. Yes sir, absolutely! (He takes off like a shot.) 


Bright: (Rubbing his hands, cackling like a madman.) \'ll send 
it to old Django's place. He won't know who sent it. God, it's 
about five times the size of Tiny Zyn!