Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
“How do I feel”, you ask? Isn’t it plain to see?

Arms splayed in the air demonstrably, the once stately and regal Lord Nigel Trickelbush is a hollowed out, seemingly malnourished husk of his former self. Blankets piled atop his lap, the spindly Lord is sans bowler cap, his white hair as thin as ever. Lips crusted and dry, his mad, bloodshot eyes sunken into his skull, there is still something somehow vibrant and alight deep in him. 

A last hungry ember. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
I feel wonderful!

Speaking to an unseen, “off-screen” individual, Nigel adjusts his bony frame in the wheelchair in which he slumps, folding his emaciated hands before him awkwardly.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
When last we met, the future, perhaps, wasn’t so clear. Heartbroken, I was. Cast aside and lost, I was. But not alone. No, never alone.

The camera follows his eyes down to the floor to his immediate right. Curled into a large, sweaty ball and lying on the floor, huge arms clutching huge legs, is Corvo Alpha. He is motionless other than the ragged rise and fall of his breath.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
No, never alone. My boy and I… we have weathered every storm that has raged against us. Every trial, every tribulation, every snare and hook sent to snarl us has only hardened our resolve…  only brought us closer together. Isn’t that right, child?

Nigel glances at the grown man lying on the floor beside him. No answer comes. Nigel’s gaze softens for a moment, hearing words unspoken. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Yes, I suppose that is true. We’ve grown together… and grown stronger. I can’t deny it. And yet…

Turning his attention back to his interviewer, Nigel’s face stretches into a jarring, knowing smile. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
This Masked Man who has plagued us… his persistence is admirable. Even commendable, in a sick, sad, twisted way… yet utterly misplaced and ineffectual. In just a month's time, we will END his story once, for all, and forever. But until then I seek to savor his every final moment. It’s why I watched closely his defeat at the hands of the compelling Arthur Pleasant days ago. It’s why I carry on with this tour around America instead of convalescing in the quiet comfort of my family estate. It’s why I’m sitting here now speaking with you, sharing my innermost thoughts, desires, and fears.

Nigel takes a deep, cleansing, putrid breath.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Life is to be savored, I say. And there should be a lasting record of this tale. A monument built to the perseverance of Corvo Alpha.

He points a thin finger at the still hulk curled on the carpet.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
A monument built to ME. To my SACRIFICE. 

His thin smile melts into melodrama. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
No one knows what I have given up to give him this life… to rebuild him brick by brick. But they should and they WILL. 

The camera drifts to the unmasked violator balled on the floor, his eyes are wide and unblinking behind his dark, wet, stringing hair.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Yes, the path forward is much clearer now and I feel quite splendid. As does my boy. 

Alpha blinks. Once. The camera pans back then forward on Lord Nigel. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
When this looming event is behind us He & I will finally be free to get on with our lives, his conquest can continue and there will be nothing holding him back. No distractions, no chains, no limitations and NO ONE safe. Oh, I hate to sound threatening, it’s against my very nature, but there is a part of me that is truly fearful for what will come after DEFCON. Not scared for me, of course. But scared for every executive, every petulant champion, every white knight, every snowflake, every dreadnought pirate, every firebrand, every rebellious anti-hero, I’m terrified for them all. 

The aged and decaying Mr. Barnaby waddles into frame, placing withering hands on Nigel’s wheelchair. Nigel’s eyes get lost in a glaze of deep pontification.

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
And, well, I suppose… The time will come when they, too, are frightened. Won’t that be something? (noticing his manservants arrival) Ah. Barnaby, yes. Yes, we must be going. 

Reversing his chair at a glacial pace, Barnaby wheels Trickelbush back and swooping out of shot. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
Come along, my boy.

Rolling upright straight away, Corvo Alpha is quick to find his feet. His bare chest caked in old red paint and his torn blue jeans are smeared with the same russet clumps. He seems to regard our unseen “interviewer” for a long, lingering moment before turning to follow his master. 

Lord Nigel Trickelbush:
It’s time to finish what we’ve started.

Fade out.

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