EXTERIOR. A STREET OF LAST HOPE. DAY.

Champiñongo walks along an empty dirt street. There are stone and clay buildings at both sides; their metallic doors are closed. There are four people communicating with each other: one with wheel-extensions rolls on the street, way behind Champiñongo, signing another person on the balcony in front. This one waves his right hand pointing to something. From another balcony, a person waearing a long robe responds and then signals the last one, on the ground, their back against the wall of an alley. All of them wear a metallic helmet with a black fin on top.

CHAMPIÑONGO (thinks): THE CITY IS EMPTY… ALMOST EMPTY.

EVERYONE IS HIDING BEHIND LOCKED DOORS… ALMOST EVERYONE.

THEY WATCH ME… … THE P’TONATLS.

SIGHS… … I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.