Radio Broadcast: So, I dreamt of eating a marshmallow last night, but it tasted like rubber! And the next day, my wife asked me why I ate the cotton she had in her nose.
Radio Broadcast: I said it's because the air was so dirty that I wanted to block up my throat. And she laughed.
Radio Broadcast: Of course, she says it might be better now that I can't shout and holler whenever someone scores.
A burst of static fills the air as the radio's owner changes the station.
Radio Broadcast: These are the highest level of professional arcanists! Their abilities lie far beyond the limits of our bodies, our perception, and everything else!
Brimley: Arthur, mate, do you know what you're doing?
Mr. Fog: Go on then, be a little louder. May as well let everyone know a trusted servant of His Majesty's Government and his talking hat are hiding out in a pile of litter!
Brimley: Oh, that's what you're worrying about? I guarantee you no person in their right mind will think that a brilliant mind such as yourself would decide to hide in a rubbish pile pretending to be a potato!
Mr. Fog: Ha-ha, since when did you become a comedian?
Brimley: I learned from the "best," mate. Once I'm back in Oz, I hope to be awarded the title of "Duke of Syd-knee-slapper."
Brimley: Not that anyone gives a toss about titles of nobility back home. We've got more important things to worry about in the red lands down under.
Mr. Fog: You know, Brimley, old chap, you don't have to be a duke to be above people. All you need is someone tall enough to wear you on his head.
Brimley: Bloody oath, mate! Like I'd let anyone pop me on their head. I'm an intelligent being, not a bloody accessory.
Mr. Fog: Shh!
A small monocular peeks out from among the garbage.
Mr. Fog: Look at that sailor over there. See the ropes in his hand? That right there is presently the most valuable material in all of London to me.
Brimley: Right, a bit of rope, and what about it, mate?
Mr. Fog: It's essential that I have it for my invention. We'll just wait for him to throw the ropes into the pile here, and then we'll be off, just as simple as that.
Mr. Fog: Come closer, closer. Ready now! He's nearly here!
Mr. Fog: It's no longer useful to you, son. Just throw it down.
A bowl of freshly extracted fish guts is poured over him.
Mr. Fog: BAAAH! coughs
Brimley: coughs Mate, there's a lot of good that's come of being Awakened. I treasure all the adventures we've shared. But I'll tell you right now, I wouldn't have Awakened if I knew I'd end up in a rubbish bin covered in fish guts.
Mr. Fog: Just a little mistake. Just a LITTLE mistake.
Brimley: What are all these for exactly?
Mr. Fog gestures for Brimley to come closer, then, with a proud "whoosh," opens the large sack he's been filling over the last three days.
Mr. Fog: These are my collections so far: a klaxon, a watering can, a fishbowl, and ...
Brimley: A chamber pot?
Despite his lack of facial features, Mr. Fog can sense Brimley's disdain.
Brimley: You've gone full bonkers, mate! You're the Fogwalker! Aren't you ashamed of hiding in rubbish, stealing old junk?
Mr. Fog: It's not junk, old chap. Every piece here will be invaluable to our work.
Mr. Fog's face hardens as he turns his gaze toward Brimley.
Mr. Fog: Each one is a necessary component for my invention.
Brimley: Your invention?
Mr. Fog: For ... Ahoy, sailor. You over there! Please wait!
Mr. Fog's attention is clearly still fixed on the sailor.
Mr. Fog: Would you mind terribly leaving us those old ropes you've got there!
Brimley: Good lord, he's bound for the sanitarium at this rate.
Police Constable I: Move along, move along! No pushing! Everyone will have their chance to vote for their favorite competitor!
Will: Oi, sweeny! You only pushed me out of the queue. Good bloody job, mate.
Neighbor I: I'm voting for number 007! Mulson!
Neighbor II: Mulson, the first timer? Not on your life, mate! I'm down for 005 Bartley. She's the top seed!
The alley is full of stalls for the Uluru Qualifiers. A crowd of people is gathered, their faces painted with Uluru symbols in anticipation of the event.
Vendor: Three days to the qualifiers! Vote while you still can!
Vendor: Sir, oi, you over there with the black brolly, come on over, and vote for the winner!
Vendor: Oi, mister, stop your pushing!
Mr. Fog: panting Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I ...
Brimley: Sorry, mate, we're on patrol!
Police Constable I: Sir, we have a situation over there.
Police Constable II: Let's follow them.
Radio Broadcast: Now introducing the competitors for the Uluru London Qualifiers.
Will: Bartley, Bartley, Bartley!
Neighbor I: Oi! Who pushed me?
Neighbor II: Ouch! Mind your step, will you?
Neighbor I: Me? Was you that pushed me, weren't it! You should be the one minding your own feet!
Brimley: Arthur, I think we're only making things worse trying to move through this crowd.
Police Constable I: Looks like we've found our troublemakers. What do we do?
Police Constable II: Keep up with them, and bring them in!
Police Constable I: Yes sir!
COMBAT
Mr. Fog: panting
Brimley: panting
Brimley: Arthur, next time, don't, don't get me involved. I think I'm feeling sick.
Mr. Fog: Haha, but he gave us the rope after all.
Mr. Fog grins as he looks at the small length of rope in his hand.
Police Constable I: Stop right there!
He turns his head, and there, standing behind him, are two constables.
Police Constable I: Seems you two rough sleepers are wanted in connection with a fight breaking out on Cross Street. I'll ask you to come quietly and cooperate.
Brimley: Mate? Say something!
Mr. Fog: Wonderful! Now I have everything I need for my experiment! The properties of this sea-worn rope should be able to conduct the large particles into the purification vessels.
Brimley: Mate, shut your gob for a minute and listen!
Mr. Fog: Yes, perfection! But how to measure and screen the size of the particles? We will need more sophisticated equipment. Huh? Why am I being handcuffed?
Police Constable I: Because you're being placed under arrest, sir.
The moment the two constables draw near, they freeze in place.
Police Constable I: Wait a second.
Their eyes widen.
Police Constable I: Mr. Fog? Is that you?
Brimley: Bloody hell! Are you seriously telling me you recognized Fog before me! How many talking hats do you know?
Police Constable II: Terribly sorry, gentlemen. I might not have recognized you through all this fog were it not for that iconic umbrella of yours.
Brimley: Oh, naturally. Just as I've somehow failed to recognize the two ignoramuses that tried to handcuff a hat!
The shorter constable gives a series of subtle eye signals to the other.
Police Constable II: We're sorry again, Mr. Fogwalker and Mr. Brimley.
Police Constable II: But, we do need to ask you some questions, what with you running around disturbing the peace and nicking all these strange things you've got there.
Mr. Fog: Oh, I didn't steal anything! This is all just rubbish, and it's for official business. I'm going to lift the fog from London!
The two constables pause for a moment before their faces break into awkwardly sardonic smiles.
Police Constable II: I see, I see. All just a terrible misunderstanding then!
Police Constable II: Naturally, a bit of old rope, a car horn, unmistakably the latest in technology.
Police Constable II: Anyways, mates. Best we let you go. You've got a city to save.
Police Constable II: We'll be off now.
With the handcuffs removed, Brimley takes a moment to stretch.
Brimley: Glad that's over. I'm no fan of handcuffs, even if I don't have any hands.
Mr. Fog: A little quiet, old chap. I'm just in the middle of a thought. How might I assemble it?
Little Lisa: I-I'm sorry, mister, but I just heard what happened.
Brimley: Huh?
Mr. Fog: Huh?
Neither one of them had noticed the little girl who had appeared before them. She looks only half as old as Flutterpage.
Little Lisa: Did you say "lifting the fog," mister? Are you really going to get rid of the big scary fog monster?
She blinks, her eyes bright and sparkling as she stares at Mr. Fog like a little goldfish in a tank.
Little Lisa: Will that mean you can cure my mummy?
Little Lisa: And bring back the blue sky?
Brimley glances at Mr. Fog.
Little Lisa: Right?
When no one responds, the little girl grows anxious.
Little Lisa: And, and then, we can still have the Uluru Games, right?
Her eyes dart back and forth between Brimley and Mr. Fog, looking for any trace of comfort.
Little Lisa: My mummy said, if the fog keeps sticking around making people sick, then the games won't come.
A faint sob starts to creep into her voice.
Mr. Fog crouches down and shakes his sack of treasures, spreading them out on the ground.
Brimley: Mate, this really isn't the time or place.
Mr. Fog: A klaxon, a probe, a spoon, and a spool of weathered rope ...
Mr. Fog: Assembled like so, perhaps using a large pot or a baby's bathtub ...
He furrows his brow, absorbed in the task at hand.
The girl gets on her knees as she leans in to get a closer look.
Mr. Fog: It will still need a touch of the miraculous.
He gently blows into the base of the glass vessel.
There's a crackling sound as a few sparks of light flash briefly in the glass container.
Before long, a tiny, steady light is glowing within.
Mr. Fog: Voilà!
Little Lisa: It's breathing!
The machine hums as it draws in air, filters it, and releases it through the other side.
Mr. Fog: Yes.
Mr. Fog: The Uluru Qualifiers will not just be fog-free, my little friend. They will be sunny.
Mr. Fog: But I'll need some help. Would you and your friends join me in this project, young lady?
The little girl's face blushes red.
Little Lisa: Y-Yes! I'll help. I'll ask my grandpa, my mummy, and Auntie Martha to help, too!
Mr. Fog: The more, the merrier! We're going to build the largest fog purification machine on earth—The London Air Pollution Auto-Detect Cleaner!
Brimley: That just looks like a great honking big vacuum to me, mate.
Willow: Sulis, Sulis, all life's offerings I bring, as sacrifice to you, from the growing spring.
Willow: The light will sprout within the world's egg lay.
Willow: Your endless quest brings parents' joyful day.
Flutterpage: Parents' joyful day ...
Willow: What are you, a parrot?
After hanging in the upside-down pose of her ribbon dance for an hour, Willow finally decides to break the silence.
Willow: Fine, keep on then. Annoy an old woman to death if you like.
Flutterpage: Another bad mood, eh, Ms. Willow? This one's your worst this week. I counted it up. Every 32 hours, steady as a clock, you start scoldin' me, scoldin' the plants, the ants, even flowers.
Willow: I thought we'd agreed—no more peeking round my house without permission.
Flutterpage: Yeah, but you didn't kick me out, did you? And you gave me some rye bread and lemon jam. Don't quite know why you keep tryin' to act the big meanie, Ms. Willow. I know you're a softie, now—deep down.
*rrrrip—* The ribbon suspending Willow finally gives way, sending her quickly to the ground.
She hits the floor with a heavy thud.
Flutterpage: Ms. Willow!
Willow: Ouch! Ah, it hurts.
???: Are you practicing for the qualifiers?
A distant voice reaches her.
The corner of Willow's mouth twitches.
Flutterpage: Hello again, Ms. Swan.
Willow: ...
A blonde woman stands on the other side of the garden fence, her face half-covered by the curled stems of a carnivorous plant.