Bagwell's gaze was still on Langley. Langley didn't even look back. A click came from the device. Then silence fell.
He slid it into his pocket. As if it had always belonged there.
But at that moment, both of them realized—
The edge of a deep, silent fracture. The silence hadn't descended. It had seeped in.
But it wasn't peace.
It was a warning.
He turned his head once more. Not to look. To remember.
A thin, curling crack. Like a dried vein. Or the shriveled, cracked skin of something dead. The husk of a forgotten scream. It hadn't formed with time. It had always been there.
Spiderwebs hung from the dust, framing the crack like an omen.
Something was inside. Waiting for the right time to come out.
"When?" he asked.
There was no curiosity or anger in his voice. Just a coldness that sought knowledge.
Bagwell tapped his cigarette on his knee. Ash fell.
"Before midnight," he said. "They're waiting beyond God's Hollow."
Bagwell crushed the cigarette. Just turned his head.
Langley, putting on his coat, asked: "And... the Presley fanatics?"
Bagwell let out a quiet laugh, though it wasn't laughter. More like restrained unease.
"They're still rehearsing the final scene. But this time, there's no audience. Lights are warming up, Plisskin. Curtains will open on their own."
Langley narrowed his eyes at Bagwell.
"This time we're not just watching, are we, Dick? Your name's inked into that stage too?"
Bagwell shrugged.
"Here? There's no audience anymore, Langley. The stage has collapsed on all of us."
Langley bowed his head. Thought for a moment—or maybe he didn't.
Because thinking no longer served a purpose.
Sometimes, to live was simply to keep walking.
Aimlessly. Without arms. Without cause.
He pulled out an old syringe from his coat's inner pocket.
The serum inside had dried. The glass was cracked, but intact.
He didn't remember when he used it.
Maybe he never had.
Maybe it had always been with him.
He knelt. Turned the syringe in his hand. Peeled off the tape from his arm where it ended. Pale, veinless skin. But the spot was clear.
Before inserting the needle, he paused. Looked at Bagwell.
"Are the Dockmen still there?"
"After the Collapse, they were the only thing left at the docks. They draw more than just fish now. They draw information. They hold the lock on the canal. They're not a mafia anymore—state's gone, rules are theirs now. Their own laws, their own echoes. They've even spoken with the Presleys."
Langley's gaze froze.
"For what?"
Bagwell looked away.
"A trade. The night Radio Zero went silent... something surfaced. It concerns you."
He injected the syringe.
It wasn't warmth. Nor pain. But a sensation: the feeling of continuing.
He pulled it out, dropped it to the floor.
Langley stood up.
"If I die... don't bury me on that stage. Stop it. Dick."
Bagwell squinted, lit another cigarette. The edge of his lips curled.
"You? Not even a naked priest gets buried there. You're... like a rehearsal for some other kind of crap, Plisskin."
Langley adjusted his collar, like an old reflex.
"If I step on that stage... I'll blow out the lights."
"That's why they chose you."
Langley turned to the door.
Stopped. Turned back.
"They didn't choose me, Dick. They ran out of understudies."
Bagwell nodded, took a step.
"Walk ahead, armless messiah. If the Presleys are praying... it's for your arrival tonight."
Langley opened the door. The hinges resisted, then surrendered.
"God won't answer."
"We're not looking for an answer. We're looking for the echo."
"Then let's find it," he said.
Langley opened the door. The hinges screamed, then sulked. As he stepped into the hallway, the floor gave a little. The ceiling was leaking — but it wasn't water. The building felt like it was rotting from the inside.
Most of the cables were dead. A few still hissed, vomiting into the walls.
Short-circuit noises—like someone humming a song while drowning.
Langley stepped forward slowly. One of the doors to his right was ajar.
Inside, a TV was on. No signal. But the screen burned. A bikini-clad woman. No face. The light gouged the eyes.
Bagwell came up behind him.
"Some still pretend to be alive. They go to the bathroom. Heat food. But they have no eyes. Like broken tapes playing over and over, Plisskin."
They reached the stairs.
On the second floor wall, a framed newspaper clipping hung. The glass cracked from the inside.
The headline was faint, but still legible:
"Columbia Arc: New Compliance Protocol Enacted"
Citizen Scoring System Participation Increases
Subheadline:
"Voluntary Compliance has reached 68%. The remainder will be summoned for reevaluation."
— Federal Obedience Bureau, Internal Memo No. 782-A / 2041
As they descended, the air grew colder and damper. Each step creaked more bitterly than the last. A wire coiled around the railing like the umbilical remnant of a long-dead vacuum.
First floor.
The door to the left apartment was ajar. A voice inside. Not a whisper, not a prayer. Someone repeating a monologue. Over and over. Like a script. To the wall.
Bagwell didn't stop. "Second scene. Same soliloquy, different morning."
Langley turned his head but didn't look inside. Kept walking. His footsteps echoed on the filthy tiles. Each step sounded not like an echo, but like a retch.
They reached the building entrance.
The door creaked. In the dim hallway, someone stood. A woman, leaning against the wall, cigarette ash on her knee. Bare legs. Toes on the concrete. Her robe fluttered in the wind. Eyes hidden in shadow, but her voice clear:
"Two years, eight months, fourteen days. I counted. And yeah, I knew you'd come back. Because you always do, Bagwell."
Bagwell stopped. Lowered his head. Their silence said more than their words.
"Marla!"
She laughed—hoarse and mocking.
"Even hearing your voice causes point deductions now."
Langley said nothing. Just looked. The woman's eyes drifted to his missing arm.
"Nice arm... the missing one. Still sells, as long as you keep the balance."
Langley pulled a crumpled digital slip from his pocket. Offered it.
"You're generous for the end of the world," Marla said. "But I still expect a tip."
Bagwell passed her without turning his head.
"Are the lights still on, Marla?"
"They are... but no one closes the curtain anymore."
Langley pushed the door. Her voice behind him, a whisper:
"Say hi to the Presleys. They still call me for the final scene."
Langley didn't even flinch.
"The stage has collapsed, Marla. We're all in the debris now."
Langley reached for the door handle. Her voice came again, tired but sharp:
"Thought someone would leave you again... but you carry yourself. Always did."
Langley stopped. Didn't turn his head. Didn't reply. Because replying meant admitting he still felt something. That luxury was long gone.
Marla stepped forward. Reached toward his severed arm, but couldn't break the air between them. Just looked.
"You walk with your missing piece... still like you're heading out. It's indecent."
Langley bowed his head slightly. Not a smile, but a hint of fatigue.
"And you, still here... you've wasted too many lines on background extras."
Marla laughed, ash falling from her fingers.
"Curtain's down, Plisskin. No lines left. We're ad-libbing now."
Langley pushed the door. Mumbled before stepping out:
"That stage is over, Marla. We're just props rotting in the light now."
Outside was more suffocating than inside.
The sky was gray, but there was no rain. Just waiting. The asphalt like a skin stained with oil. Cracked, but still breathing. Most streetlights were dead. Those that flickered seemed to blink—at the wrong person.
A building on the left corner had burned. No one had put it out. Still black. On the wall in white paint:
"WELCOME TO THE CLEANSING OF SOULS."
Bagwell lit his cigarette, started walking down the street. His shoes squished on damp cardboard.
Langley stopped. Looked around.
Faceless men stood outside a market. Some held shopping bags—but they were empty. They didn't turn their heads. But it felt like Langley already lived in their pupils.
Bagwell spoke:
"We're here."
Langley turned to him.
"This is it?"
Bagwell put on his glasses. Looked ahead without squinting.
"Liberty Falls. The last pit freedom forgot."
Langley narrowed his eyes.
"If this is freedom... what do chains look like?"
Bagwell smiled. A movement his face wasn't used to.
"Here, the chains are invisible, Plisskin. Here, everyone wears them by choice."
A scream rang out from the building behind them. Sharp, short—but familiar. Like a memory trying to remind. Then silence returned.
In Liberty Falls, time didn't move.
It regenerated.
Each street corner revealed another face of the same decaying building. The cracks in the wall spoke like stone memory. Each one forgot a different name.
The wind changed. First quiet, then rising from below.
Something wasn't approaching — it was passing over.
Langley looked up.
The sky was gray. Then it cracked. Opened like an eye. Literally.
First came a sound. But not a sound—a pressure. Like someone pried open a heavy lid above. The lid of silence, not air.
Then warmth descended. A metallic scent mixed with rust. Like torture soaked into flesh.
Bagwell stepped forward.
But his foot didn't touch the ground.
The ground seemed to lift.
Then it came.
Not a helicopter. A memory.
An EWA VTOL: black, angular, symmetrical. No searchlights beneath. But it dimmed the world.
It didn't pass. It weighed down. Pressed on everyone's shoulders.
A woman held her breath. Her knees buckled. Like someone pulled a string inside her.
No one ran. Because it wasn't death.
It was a breath whispering: "I'm still here."
And it passed.
No shot. No order. No scream.
Just passed.
The woman's jaw trembled, but her eyes stayed still. A child flinched—not at a toy, but the sound. A taught fear.
But no one spoke. Because words left traces now. And everyone wanted to erase theirs.
Langley didn't blink. Bagwell bit his lip, but didn't bleed.
Langley didn't take his eyes off the sky. Afraid everything might begin again if he did.
But the sky stayed open—not a witness, but a wound. It leaked not time, but memory.
Bagwell took off his glasses. Pulled out an old cloth. Wiped the lenses. His eyes locked on a point.
"When Radio Zero went silent... the first thing that arrived wasn't sound," he said. "Nor a scent. It was emptiness."
Langley asked without turning:
"What pulled us here, Dick?"
Bagwell dropped his cigarette. Didn't crush it. Let it burn.
"The signal," he said. "But this time, we won't send it. This time... we'll just listen to the echo."
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