Matere pulled the rolled-down steel door of Temple Pizza up, echoing a metallic clatter along the Tenderloin district streets. He unlocked the front door, slamming it open with a flat, hollow clang, and stumped in. Betel followed close behind.

Matere walked into the dining room. He took a chair off the tabletop and set it upright on the floor. Betel stepped up to the table and took the remaining chairs down. Matere tossed a hand-held device onto the table. It clattered as it bounced.

“Careful with that,” said Betel. “Wouldn’t want a Plaxi to light up accidentally.”

Matere plunked himself in the chair and crossed his arms. He sighed. “What are we going to do Betel?”

“About?”

“About them.”

Betel locked her cool, gray eyes onto Matere’s. “I’m afraid there’s not much more we can do. If Opal and the others are already here, then the time has probably come.”

Matere stood up and slammed his fists on the table. “It can’t be over yet, not like this!” he shouted.

“It’s not for you to decide, Matere.”

Matere sighed deeply. “I came here, hoping I could do something, if somehow I could stop them from seeing through to their final decision.”

Betel stepped around the table and stood next to Matere. She crouched down on one knee and took Matere’s cheek in her hand. Matere gazed into her cool, gray eyes. “The ultimate outcome was inevitable,” she said. “There is not much we can do, especially here,” she said, looking around the dilapidated, dusty dining room.

Matere sighed again. “I just thought, if we could somehow infiltrate this world, if more people could see the Vérkatrae, then the Council would have to change its decision.”

“You know as I, Matere, the Council is incapable of change. The Slipshot is the heart of our economy, our world, our very existence. If a Var is able to thrive on its own, without help from Griddish, then that threatens our very soul. Ultimately, it removes our purpose.”

“Purpose,” said Matere as he gazed distractedly at the dusty table. “What is our purpose, Betel? Do we even know anymore?”