Kit
"Read the requirement back." God, I hate that. It’s absurd. I’m shivering. That song... "Blue Moon"? No, the one with the sax. Just a few notes. I can’t get them out. You’re dripping on my coat. Move over.
The Form ·
Open by reading the requirement back to them. Push off from this if it helps: a song you only half remember.
kitQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
edieQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modebureaucracy
twistCaught in It
voices Coarse
Edie
Move your elbow, you’re poking me in the ribs. Stop whining about the sax; I can’t hear you over the rain hammering on this tin roof. And don’t tell me to move, I’m already pressed against the brick. It’s cold, Kit. Obviously. We’re soaked to the bone because neither of us bothered to check the forecast or bring an umbrella. Typical. Look at this mess. The form doesn’t care about our discomfort. It just wants the signature. So wipe your face and sign the damn line. Now.
Kit
Your elbow’s in my kidney. I’m not moving. You think I want to sign this? Fine. Here. Scribbles violently. There. Happy? The ink’s running. We look like thieves. I’m going to stand here and shiver until my teeth break. Don’t touch me.
Edie
Good. Let them run. Smudged ink looks like you were caught in the act. Which, given the paperwork we’re filing, isn’t entirely false. Stop shivering, you’re vibrating the floorboards. My knee is numb. I hate this job. The fluorescent lights in the lobby hum like a dying bee. I walked three miles in these shoes. Do you know how much pain that is? No, you just complain about the cold. Sign the bottom. Don’t leer at me. It’s pathetic.
Kit
You’re shaking too. Don’t pretend you’re stoic. Three miles? I walked five. My blisters are bleeding. Stop whining about the lights; I can’t hear you over your own dramatics. Just sign. The man in the suit is watching. If we don’t leave, they’ll ask for ID. And you know I lost mine. Sign.
Edie
Shut up. I’m not dramatic, I’m hypothermic. You think I don’t feel the ground soaking through my boots? My feet are numb blocks of ice. And you lost your ID? Useless. We’re idiots. Complete fucking idiots. I can feel the suit guy’s eyes burning into my neck. He knows. He definitely knows we’re faking it. If he asks, I’m saying you’re my therapist. Weirdo. Just hold the paper steady, Kit. If I drop it, I’m blaming your shaky hands. Sign. Now. Before I lose the nerve.
Kit
"I’m not your therapist," I hiss, grabbing your wrist. The paper flutters. "Stop shaking. You’re jittery enough to tear it. I’m signing. But if we get arrested, I’m testifying that you’re the one who forgot the umbrella. You bought the tickets. You’re the idiot. Here. Hold it flat. Don’t bleed on it."
Edie
Let go of me. You’re crushing my wrist. And don’t lie, you bought the tickets for the goddamn exhibition we both agreed was a waste of time. I wanted to go home and sleep. You dragged me here. Fine, I’ll hold it. But if this paper rips, I’m leaving you here with the suit. And stop hissing, you sound like a leaky radiator. My hands are freezing, Kit. If I slip, it’s on you. Just sign already. Before my fingers turn blue and useless. Damn it, wipe your thumb. You’re leaving fingerprints everywhere.
Kit
"Your grip is like a corpse, Edie. Let go." I stab the pen into the line. Ink bleeds. "There. Satisfied? You're shaking so hard I think you're going to puncture the table. I'm wiping it. Jesus, you're covered in dirt. Don't look at the suit. Look at the exit. Now."
Edie
Corpse? Fuck you. I’m freezing. You’re the one covered in mud, not me. That’s your fault for taking the shortcut through the construction site. Stop wiping! You’re smearing it worse. Look, the suit is turning away. Boring bastard. He’s done with us. Finally. My fingers are going numb. I can’t feel my left hand. We need to move. Now. Before he changes his mind and asks for the second copy. Run, Kit. Don’t look back. Just run.
Kit
"Shortcut? You led the way!" I scramble up, knees cracking. Mud slaps my jeans. "Left hand gone? Good. Less grip to fail." I grab your shoulder, hard. "Don't fall. If you trip, I'm stepping over you. Run. Now. Before he realizes we’re already gone."
Edie
You’re crushing my shoulder. I’m not falling, I’m shaking. Stop being such a prick. Left hand is useless, right hand is holding the paper. I’m leading. You follow. Don’t touch me. The alley is dark. Watch out for the puddles. This is your fault, Kit. All of it. If I break a nail, I’m blaming your grip. Move faster. I hear footsteps behind us. Or is that just my pulse? Shit. Run.
Kit
"Your fault? For breathing?" I shove you forward. "Stop analyzing the shadows, Edie. It’s just rats. Or the janitor. Keep moving. That puddle is waist-deep. Jump. Don’t splash me. If you wet my shirt, I’ll kill you. Run."
Edie
Don’t order me. I’m trying not to drown. That puddle is black sludge. You’d hate it. Get over here. I’m slipping. Help, you bastard. Not with the shove, with the damn hand. I don’t care about your shirt, I care about not breaking my neck. Come on. Grab my elbow. Harder. My legs are jelly. If we fall, we’re done. The suit is definitely looking back. Run, Kit. Now. Before I drag you both under.
Kit
"Jelly? You’re dead weight." I grab your elbow, knuckles white. "Stop whining. I’ve got you. Pull. Now. Don’t look back at the suit. Just run. If you drag me under, I’m haunting you. Keep moving. The light is ahead. Don’t slip again. Jesus."
Edie
I’m not dead weight. You’re the one holding onto my elbow like a drowning man. My leg is cramping. Hard. We’re almost there. The light isn’t a trap, is it? Please say it isn’t a trap. I’m running on fumes. My lungs are burning. Don’t let go. If you let go, I swear to God I’ll sue you for emotional distress. The pavement is slippery. Watch your step. I’m coming. Just... hold on. Don’t look back. Run.
Kit
"Emotional distress? Your leg’s cramping, not your ego. I’m not letting go. You’re heavier than you look. Keep moving. That light is a bus stop, not a trap. Don’t look at the pavement, look at the sign. I’m pulling you. Faster. Don’t you dare slip now."
Edie
Bus stop? Perfect. We’re freezing our asses off under a flickering neon sign while a bus idles like it’s judging us. My leg is a knot of fire. You’re pulling hard, you idiot, you’re going to dislocate my shoulder. But keep going. I see the door. Open it. Hurry. I can feel the heat radiating from the engine. If I don’t get in, I’m dying. And you’re not getting rid of me that easily. Get in. Move.
Kit
"You’re dead weight, Edie. Stop flailing. I’m getting us on. Don’t squeeze my arm, or I’ll drop you. The doors are opening. Move your legs. If you vomit on my coat, I’m suing you. Get in. Now. Before the driver asks for the fare."
Edie
Shut up. You’re drowning me. The doors are closing. I’m in. My legs are dead. Sit down. Now. I can’t feel my toes. Or my fingers. Or my dignity. This coat smells like wet dog and regret. You better hope the driver doesn’t look too closely at us. Or our hands. Which are currently shaking so hard I can barely hold onto this pole. If I fall, I’m taking you with me. Just drive. Please. I need heat. Now. Before I pass out on your feet.