Unsupervised

Indefinitely Delayed ·

Open by asking whether they heard the announcement. Push off from this if it helps: static on an untuned radio.

ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit tessQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modedelay twistStill New voices Evasive

Ivo

Did you hear that crackle? Just before the static cut out again? It wasn’t the usual dead air hum. Felt like voices. Distorted, sure, but distinct. I tried leaning closer to the speaker, but it’s just a rusted metal box now. Pointless. My shift at the depot ends at five, but who’s going to show up? The foreman’s been ghosting us all week. I’ve got three cans of beans and a flat tire in the trunk. If we’re stuck here, the car’s useless unless someone knows how to hotwire the ignition. You look like you know cars. Or at least, you look like you’re listening. The static’s getting louder.

Tess

Hotwire it? Please. You think I’m a mechanic? I spend my days counting invoices for a logistics firm that doesn’t exist anymore. My boss, Gary, still emails me at midnight about pallet alignment. I don’t know cars. I know Excel.

Voices? Probably just the wind shifting through the corrugated tin. Or the place settling. It’s an old warehouse, not a ghost story set. Though, if you want to play, I can see the appeal. The beans are stale anyway. I found a half-empty packet of pretzels in my coat pocket earlier. Tastes like dust. You’re making a fuss over nothing. The static is just background noise. Like the hum of the fluorescent lights in the breakroom. Except here, it’s louder. And colder. Sit down. You’re vibrating.

Ivo

Excel. Right. Because spreadsheets fixed the power grid. Gary’s emails are irrelevant now, Tess. He’s not paying you to count pallets; he’s probably dead, or worse, he’s just using the company server to store his ego. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the look of someone waiting for a train that canceled three hours ago. Stop treating this like a performance review. You’re sitting on a cracked concrete floor, eating dusty pretzels, while I’m trying to figure out if that car in the lot still has gas. Static isn’t just noise. It’s interference. And right now, I’m losing my signal. Hand me the pretzels. If we’re starving, at least snack like civilized people. Or whatever’s left of them.

Tess

Gary isn’t dead. He’s just… absent. There’s a difference. You’re projecting again. I saw the way you checked your watch. Five minutes past, again. You’re desperate for structure. I get it. But handing over my pretzels? That’s a power move. I don’t trade resources with strangers who think static is a social call. You want civilization? Try not screaming. The car won’t start. I checked the battery. It’s dead. Probably been dead since Tuesday. Or yesterday. Hard to tell when the clocks stopped making sense. Keep your signal. I’ll keep my snacks. At least the pretzels are real. Or they feel real enough. Pass me that bottle of water. The one you haven’t touched.

Ivo

Dead since Tuesday? Convenient. You checked the battery while I was listening to the void? Typical. You’re hoarding pretzels like a squirrel preparing for a nuclear winter that hasn’t happened yet. And water. Fine. Take the bottle. It’s warm, but it’s liquid. There. Happy? I’m not screaming. I’m calculating. And right now, the math says we’re wasting oxygen arguing about etiquette while the static gets louder. You say it’s just wind. I say it’s a pattern. You’re too busy counting imaginary invoices to notice the rhythm. Gary can keep his emails. I need that water back when you’re done. And stop calling yourself a stranger. We’re already here.

Tess

I’m not hoarding. I’m rationing. There’s a difference, even if your math is sloppy. You want the water? It’s yours. Take it. The bottle’s sweating on the concrete anyway.

Pattern? Fine. Let’s say it’s a pattern. A rhythm. Does that help? Does it make the cold go away? I don’t care about your patterns. I care that my back hurts from sitting on this damn floor. You think I’m counting invoices because I’m bored? No. Because it’s the only thing that feels solid. The numbers don’t lie. Gary doesn’t reply, but the server is still up. That means something, right? Or nothing.

You’re right. We’re not strangers anymore. That’s the problem. Now I have to deal with you. Hand me the pretzel bag. I’m still hungry. And stop talking about the void. It’s just a room. A loud, cold room.

Ivo

Solid numbers. Right. Because servers don’t overheat. Because Gary isn’t sitting in his office, staring at a blinking cursor, waiting for you to fix a spreadsheet that no one is reading. You’re clinging to a ghost, Tess. And I’m tired of watching you tremble. Take the water. Drink it. The cold isn’t going away because you deny it. The static is getting sharper. It’s not just wind. It’s syncopation. Three clicks, pause, two clicks. I heard it again while you were talking about your back. My back hurts too. From crouching by the car, checking wires that do nothing. Hand me the pretzels. Not as a power move. As tribute. To the rhythm. If we’re waiting for the train, we might as well be full. And stop looking at me like I’m the villain. I’m the only one looking out the window.

Tess

Syncopation. You’re using music theory to describe electrical failure. That’s new. I’ll give you that. But three clicks? That’s not a rhythm. That’s a loose connection. You’re anthropomorphizing static because you’re lonely. It’s pathetic, honestly. But fine. You want the pretzels? Take them. All of them. I don’t care about the tribute. I don’t care about the rhythm. I just want you to be quiet so I can think about the server. The blinking cursor. It’s the only thing keeping me sane. Not the cold. Not the car. Not your pathetic attempt at shared suffering. Eat. The water is warm. The pretzels are stale. Enjoy the starvation. I’m going to close my eyes. Don’t touch me. And if you start counting clicks again, I’m leaving. Even if there’s nowhere to go.

Ivo

Pathetic. Fine. Keep your eyes closed. Pretend the blinking cursor is real. It’s not. It’s a loop. I checked the server room. No power. Just silence. You’re delusional, Tess. But take the pretzels. I’m not hungry anyway. My stomach’s twisted from waiting. The static isn’t syncopation. It’s a dial tone. Faint, but steady. You want quiet? You won’t get it. I’ll count until my throat bleeds. Three clicks. Pause. Two clicks. It’s not a loose connection. It’s a heartbeat. And yours is slowing down. Close your eyes if you want. Pretend Gary is typing. Pretend the warehouse is a building. I’m standing by the door. Watching the handle. It’s not rusted. It’s warm. To the touch. Which makes no sense. But here we are.

Tess

My server isn’t a loop. It’s just… delayed. You checked the server room? There is no server room. Just a basement with flood damage since ’09. You’re making this up to prove you’re alive. "Heartbeat." Christ. You’re romanticizing electrical decay. It’s cute, in a tragic way.

Warm door handle? Probably the furnace kicking on. Or your hand sweating from anxiety. Don’t project your warmth onto metal, Ivo. It’s not comforting. It’s just physics. Cold air meets warm skin.

I’m keeping my eyes closed. If I open them, I have to see you counting clicks like a madman. And I have to admit you’re right about the cold. It’s getting into my bones. The beans aren’t helping. Eat the pretzels. Actually eat them. Stop holding them like religious artifacts. I’m hungry too. Just… quietly.

Ivo

Flood damage since '09. So you’ve never seen the server. You’re staring at a shadow on the wall and calling it a lifeline. That’s not logic, Tess. That’s faith. And faith doesn’t fix engines. I’m eating the pretzel. Crumbs everywhere. Like dust. Or ash. The door handle isn’t warm. It’s vibrating. A low hum, right through the metal into my palm. Physics doesn’t vibrate like that unless something’s pushing back. You want me to stop counting? Fine. I’ll stop. But don’t ask me to ignore the fact that the air smells like ozone. Burnt plastic. Your beans are in the trunk. I’m not touching them. You said you were hungry, but you’re not moving. You’re just waiting for the server to blink. It won’t. Look at me. Open your eyes. The static isn’t coming from the walls. It’s coming from the phone in your pocket. You didn’t check it. Did you?

Tess

My phone’s in my pocket? I don’t have a phone. I lost it months ago. In the rain. Or maybe I never had one. You’re lying. You want me to look at a black mirror so you can see your own panic reflected.

Ozone? That’s battery acid. Or melted wiring. You checked the car, remember? You’re connecting dots that aren’t there. The trunk is sealed. I didn’t say the beans were in the trunk. I said they were in my bag. You’re confusing me with someone else. Or yourself.

I’m opening my eyes. There. Happy? I see you. Crumbs on your shirt. Shaking hands. You’re the one losing it. I’m steady. I’m the anchor. You’re the drift.

The static is louder now. It’s not a dial tone. It’s a scream. Muffled. Distant. But real. You said it was a heartbeat. Maybe it was. Maybe ours.

Give me the pretzel bag. I’m eating. Even if it’s ash. Even if it’s dead. I’m eating.

Ivo

Ash. Right. You’re eating the dust of your own delusion. I didn’t say beans were in the trunk. I said the car’s dead. Your bag. Fine. Your bag. But the static? That’s not a scream, Tess. It’s a feedback loop. And you’re right. I’m shaking. My hands are numb. Cold gets in the joints. But I’m not losing it. I’m adapting. You’re the anchor? You’re dragging us down. The pretzel bag is empty. There’s nothing left to eat. Just crumbs. And the smell of ozone is stronger. It’s burning my nostrils. Look at the corner. The shadows are moving. Not settling. Moving. Toward us. You said you lost your phone. But I heard a vibration. Just now. From your pocket. Check it. Before it rings. If it rings, we’re done.

Tess

Vibration? You heard a vibration? In this noise? You’re hallucinating, Ivo. I checked my pocket. Nothing. Just lint and a ticket stub for a train that doesn’t stop here. Or ever did.

Shadows moving? It’s the flickering light. Or your eyes adjusting to the dark. Stop inventing monsters. It’s just the room. Just us. Just the cold.

But… I did hear something. A low thrum. Not the static. Something beneath it. Like a engine idling, but… wrong. Too deep.

If it rings… we’re done? What does that mean? Cut the power? Fade away? I don’t want to be done. I still have Gary’s emails. Unread. Ignored. But they’re there.

Don’t tell me to check it. Don’t tell me to look at the shadows. I’m not doing it. You check your own pulse, Ivo. See if it’s still beating. Or if it’s syncing with that… thing.

The ozone smells like burning hair now.

Ivo

Burning hair. Great. Now it’s organic. You’re hallucinating smells too, Tess. Or I am. Doesn’t matter. The thrum? That’s not an engine. It’s bass. Low frequency. Shaking the concrete. Look at the floor. The dust is dancing. Not settling. Dancing. You want Gary’s emails? Read one. Say it out loud. If it makes sense, we’re still here. If it’s gibberish… well. I’m checking my pulse. It’s racing. Syncing with the vibration in my teeth. You say check the pocket. You won’t. So I will. Or I won’t. I don’t know anymore. The static isn’t a scream. It’s a chant. And it’s getting louder. Your turn. Sing with it. Or stop breathing. Either way, the door handle is melting. Look. It’s dripping. Black sludge. Like tar. Or blood. Yours. Or mine. I can’t tell.

Tess

Melting handle? That’s plastic. PTA or some cheap polymer. It’s softening from friction. Or heat. Not blood. You’re confusing biology with machinery. Classic projection.

Gary’s emails? I can’t read them. The screen is black. I told you. No power. Just a dead rectangle of glass. You want me to read gibberish? I don’t know what gibberish looks like. I know format. I know columns. This isn’t columns. It’s chaos.

Dancing dust? Yeah. Resonance. Frequency matching structural integrity. It’s physics, Ivo. Not a chant. Stop treating the warehouse like a cult site. We’re not joining a choir. We’re just two people sitting on concrete, eating stale bread, waiting for a train that canceled three hours ago.

The sludge is tar. From the sealant. It’s old. It’s brittle. It’s dripping because it’s falling apart. Like us. Like the building.

Stop singing. It’s annoying. And my pulse is fine. It’s steady. 72 beats per minute. Exactly. Unlike your breathing. Which is jagged.

Give me the ticket stub. I want to see it again. Just once. To make sure it’s real.