EXTERIOR. A STREET OF LAST HOPE. DAY.

One P’Tonatl moves down the sandy street. His robe is wrinkled right where his body, that ends just below his torso, fits the base of his transport-cylinder. The wheels attached at each end of the transport-cylinder leave a pair pair of grooves that mark the way he came by. His right hand is controlling on the levers of the transport, his left hand is raised in greeting. He smiles and speaks to Champiñongo.

P’TONATL (insincere): WELCOME, OUTSIDER!

WAIT, WE JUST WANT TO CHAT WITH YOU…

THERE IS NO NEED TO RUN AWAY.

…

THERE, THANKS FOR STOPPING.