It sat there, under the light. The Egg. Huge, murky and amber. It seemed firm, but still sagged just a bit where it sat. Whatever was inside—if there was anything inside at all—wasn’t clear. The golden casing and yellow-red liquid inside were too opaque to see through.

--Written by Anthony Botelho and performed by Liz Der.

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I knew then that it didn’t matter that the black mask gave no indication, no inkling of any emotion. The Harlequin was aware of my presence and, in some way, its attention was entirely directed at me. The thing was performing, but not for my... entertainment.

--Written by Jacob Duarte Spiel

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We've got sad ghost, mad ghost, not-a-child, big-ass skeleton, and *horrible* German man. Everything you need at this time of year. And nothing you want.

--Written by Alexander Saxton, Anthony Botelho, and Jacob Duarte Spiel.

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He held up a jar containing a chunk of stone the colour of yellow pollen. Out of it grew a crystal like sunset or ruby grapefruit; striking in colour, yet… repulsive to look at in some way. It was small enough to hold in your hand, but heavy enough that it made his feeble hand shake.

--Written by Alexander Saxton and performed by Rae Bernakevitch.

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One of those nights, huh? Sorry to pry; it just looks like there’s a lot on your mind. And typically when someone’s sitting at the end of the bar—at this bar, this time of night—staring into their drink the way you are, well… that’s usually a sign too.

--Written by Anthony Botelho.

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It didn't have to be like this—we could have gotten the big old Wrong ball rolling with Season 6 right away—but you vultures just couldn't leave well enough alone.

So here you have it, you jackals, you cretinous imps, you rancid simpletons. Here are your responses to your properly filed FOIA requests.

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Something strange happened during this rewatch. I started to cry. And it wasn’t for the sake of the man in the video. Like I told you: I’d seen him die before. I’d done my part, borne witness. But this time I was crying out of relief. I was crying because the algorithm had served me up something I could handle; something that couldn’t hurt me any more than it already had.

--Written by Alexander Saxton and performed by Anthony Botelho

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He told me he was a type of Latin called a Frank, and that he had sworn his life to the Knights Hospitaller, and within them, to the Order of St. Lazarus.

I noticed he did not eat or drink anything, and that when the wind died away, he had a faint, unpleasant smell of rotten sweetness.

“The Order of Saint Lazarus…” I began.

“Indeed,” he said. “It is composed of lepers.”

--Written by Alexander Saxton.

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It was morning when we got there, barely past dawn, and we had a little surprise waiting for us right there on the road into town. Now, they said that there had been killings happening. But the Agency had spared the details. Or maybe the mining company had—who knows? But this was a little more than just killing.

--Written by Anthony Botelho.

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“You mean a contest,” he said. A slow, crazed smile spread across Practical’s yellowed teeth. He glanced around the room, as if to reassure himself this was not a dream; it must have been the exact scenario he had fantasized about a thousand times. “Very well then, you have yourself a bet. And may the greatest Artist win.”

--Written by Alexander Saxton.

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