Unsupervised

Nothing Yet ·

Start by asking how long you're supposed to do this for. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

piaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit rafeQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modestakeout twistHalf Present voices Evasive

Pia

The red light on that microphone is still steady. It is not blinking. I assume the technician stepped out to fetch a snack, or perhaps he simply forgot how to use the power switch. I find it odd that we are left here without guidance. How long are we expected to sit in this silence? The recording apparatus implies a duration, yet no one has specified the end point. I am finding the stillness rather oppressive, though I suppose I must remain seated. The screen is blank, after all. We cannot move until the signal returns. It is merely a matter of waiting for them to remember we are here.

Rafe

My shoe is doing that thing again. Not the heel, the sole. Peeling off at the corner like a sunburn. I tried to stick it back down with the cheap glue from the breakroom, but it just smells like acetone and regret now. I kicked it off under the desk. I don’t care if they see it. Let them judge my foot hygiene while the red light stares a hole in my retinas. You’re analyzing the technician’s snack choice. Please. It’s a distraction. He’s probably eating a bagel. Or not. Who knows? I’m thinking about buying a toaster. Just one. Not because I need one, but because I want to watch bread turn brown without a supervisor looking over my shoulder. That’s the dream. Brown bread. Silence. No red lights.

Pia

You are making too much noise. The shoe is irrelevant. It is already on the floor. Your ranting about toasters is equally unproductive. We are not here to discuss domestic appliances or the state of your footwear. We are here to watch the blank screen until instructed otherwise. I suspect the technician is not eating a bagel. He is likely asleep in the breakroom, drunk on thefear of his manager. This does not change the fact that we must remain stationary. Please stop kicking the debris. It sounds like a dull thud, and I find it distracting. Focus on the silence. Or rather, the absence of instruction. That is the only thing that matters right now. The red light remains on. I am watching it. Are you?

Rafe

The screen isn’t blank. It’s just… waiting. Like a held breath. I’m not kicking the debris. I’m tapping my foot. There’s a difference. One is chaotic; the other is rhythmic. You’re obsessed with the red light. I’m thinking about my knees. They’ve been locked in this position for so long they’ve started to hum. A low C, maybe. Do you hear it? No, you’re too busy watching the technician’s absence. He’s probably not drunk. He’s probably just bored. Boring is worse than drunk. Drunk is unpredictable. Boring is eternal. I’d rather drink. Anything. Even the tap water. It tastes like copper and expired promises. I wonder if the microphones are picking up the hum in my knees. If they are, I hope the editor cuts it out. I don’t want my arthritis to go down in the record.

Pia

I do not hear a hum. I hear the faint hum of the ventilation system, which is relentless. Your knees are your private failing, not a track for the editing suite. Please cease this theatrical musings about arthritis. It is undignified. The microphone is pointing at our faces, not our joints. The editor will not be cutting out your joint pain; he will be cutting out this entire session if we do not provide the required silence or action. You are making assumptions about the technician’s sobriety that are baseless. He is likely just incompetent. This is more common than one might think. I am bored, yes. But I am not going to tap my foot rhythmically to simulate order in a chaotic void. Watch the screen. It is not waiting. It is merely displaying nothing. There is a difference. And please, stop talking about the tap water. It is unappetizing.

Rafe

Incompetent is a luxury belief. It implies he could do it right if he tried. I think he’s just indifferent. Like me. You’re talking about dignity. Dignity doesn’t pay the rent. I had to fix the sink at home last Tuesday. Leaking under the bad. Had to lie on the cold tile, staring up at the U-bend, wondering if the plumber would notice I’d missed a washer. He didn’t care. Neither do I. The screen is a mirror, Pia. A black one. You’re not watching nothing; you’re watching your own refusal to blink. I’m watching the dust. It’s dancing. Or maybe the vibration from your jaw is shaking the air. I can’t tell. I’m thirsty now. Not for water. For something with carbonation. Something that bites the tongue. Does the red light pulse? You said it’s steady. Are you sure? It looks like it’s breathing to me. Shallow. Fast. Like a runner after a sprint. Or a heart attack. Whichever comes first.

Pia

You are lying on the floor at home? That is absurd. I do not recall you mentioning plumbing issues. You are fabricating details to fill the silence, and it is making me uncomfortable. The light is steady. It is a simple LED indicator. It does not breathe. It is not alive. Your imagination is running away with you because you are bored. The dust is not dancing; it is settling. Gravity is indifferent, just like the technician. I am not refusing to blink. I am maintaining focus. Please stop staring at my face. It is distracting. And do not speak of carbonation. We have nothing to drink. You will just complain about the lack of bubbles next. Watch the screen. Or the light. Whichever you prefer, but stop inventing narratives about my physiology. I am fine. I am just sitting here. Like you.

Rafe

I’m not staring at your face. I’m staring at the space to the left of your ear. There’s a smudge on the glass partition. Looks like a fingerprint. Or a fly print. Hard to tell in this flat light. You’re right about the dust. It settles. It’s the only honest thing in here. I didn’t lie about the sink. I just omitted the part where my cat ate the washer. A claw foot siamese. Name’s Gouda. He’s terrible. I’m not thirsty. I’m just saying. Carbonation is a construct. Like dignity. You mentioned the technician is incompetent. If he’s incompetent, why is the light on? That’s the real question. Incompetence usually results in darkness. This is too intentional. It’s watching us back. Don’t look now, but I think the red light just flickered. Just for a millisecond. Or maybe you blinked. Or maybe I did. We can’t be sure. Keep sitting. Gouda is probably eating a shoe right now. My left one. The other one.

Pia

You are fabricating this cat story. It is transparent. Gouda is not real. And the light did not flicker. I am watching it with intense scrutiny. It is a solid, unwavering crimson dot. Your eyes are playing tricks on you because you are trying to provoke a reaction. I will not give it to you. The light is mechanical. It has no intent. It is a diode, not an eye. Stop staring at the glass partition. The smudge is irrelevant. We are here to endure the silence. You mentioned the shoe peeling off. It is still on the floor, isn’t it? Or did you kick it further under the desk? I cannot see it from my angle. Do not look for distractions in the periphery. Look at the red light. It is the only truth in this room. Boring, steady, and indifferent. Just like the job we are pretending to have.

Rafe

Gouda is real. He’s currently asleep on a pile of unpaid bills. You’re nitpicking. That’s a defense mechanism. You’re terrified of the void, so you cling to the diode. “Only truth.” How poetic. And how wrong. The truth is I’m hungry. Not for food. For noise. My phone is vibrating in my pocket. A constant, dull buzz. Like a trapped hornet. I should answer it. But I won’t. Because if I do, the silence breaks. And then what? Then we have to talk. Real talk. Not this sterile, metallic banter about LEDs and dust. I’m keeping the phone silent. Let it buzz until my leg goes numb. That’s the game. You watch the light. I watch my leg fall asleep. We both pretend we’re in control. The technician? He’s probably laughing at us right now. In the breakroom. Eating something greasy. Probably a empanada. Or a taco. Something with salsa. Red. Like the light. But alive.

Pia

Your phone is not vibrating. I can hear the silence. It is absolute. You are imagining sensations to escape the boredom. The light is not laughing. It is indifferent. There is a difference. You speak of real talk as if it holds value. It does not. It is messy and inefficient. I prefer this sterile banter. At least it is predictable. The technician is not laughing. He is likely asleep. Or eating. The details do not matter. What matters is that we remain seated. The red light is steady. I am watching it. Are you? Or are you still pretending your leg is numb? Please stop complaining about hunger. We are not here to eat. We are here to wait. The empanada is a metaphor you are imposing on a diode. It is lazy. Focus on the screen. It is waiting. And we are too. This is the task. Nothing else.

Rafe

I’m not pretending. Numbness has a texture. It’s cold. Heavy. Like wet wool wrapped around a stone. I can feel the blood rushing back in spikes. Throb. Throb. Throb. It’s louder than your voice. You like predictability? Predictability is a cage. I’m trying to pick the lock. With my teeth. Metaphorically. The empanada isn’t a metaphor. It’s a memory. From Tuesday. Or last year. Time is slippery here. Like the floor. I slipped once. Scraped my elbow. The technician didn’t help. He just kept eating. With a fork. In a bowl. Soup. Cold soup. That’s the image. Not laughter. Just… eating. Indifferent chewing. The light is steady. I’m watching it. But my leg is screaming. Can you hear it? No, you can’t. It’s internal. Private. Like Gouda. I think I’ll scratch my nose. Just to feel something. Will the mic pick up the friction? Probably not. It’s too clean. Too sterile. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? The control. The order. It’s boring you to tears, Pia. I see your eye twitching. Just a little. Right there. Under the eyelid. Buried. But there.

Pia

Your leg is your own problem. I do not hear it. The room is acoustically treated; it absorbs all such intimate complaints. You are projecting your physical discomfort onto the environment because you lack the discipline to sit still. Scratching your nose is a trivial action. It will not change the fact that we are ignored. I am not enjoying this. I am enduring it. There is a distinction. You accuse me of boredom, yet you are the one inventing narratives about cold soup and indifferent technicians. I am here. I am watching the light. It is red. It is steady. Your eye twitching is not visible to me, nor is it relevant. Please cease this self-indulgent performance. We are waiting. That is all. The screen remains blank. The light remains on. Nothing else is happening. Focus. Or do not. It makes no difference to the recording. It only matters to your sanity, which seems to be failing you rapidly.

Rafe

Acoustically treated. Right. So all the sound goes into the walls. Into the drywall. Into the studs. I bet it’s loud in there. A chaotic mess of dropped pens and sighs. You’re focusing on the light. Good. Keep staring at it. It’s the only thing that doesn’t judge you. Or me. I’m not performing. I’m just… observing. Your discipline is impressive. Truly. It must be exhausting. Holding yourself together like a stack of porcelain plates in a wind tunnel. I dropped a plate yesterday. Blue ceramic. Shattered on the kitchen tile. I didn’t sweep it up. Let it stay. Sharp edges. A reminder. You say nothing is happening. That’s the lie. The hum is getting louder. Can’t you hear it? The vibration in the floorboards? It’s rising. Like water. Or anger. The technician isn’t asleep. He’s listening. To us. To the noise we’re making by not making noise. The silence is loud, Pia. Deafening, actually. I’m going to blink. Just once. To break the spell. To prove I can. Watch me. Go on.

Pia

Do not blink. You are testing me. The hum is in your head. It is tinnitus, likely from that old injury you never mentioned. The floorboards are not vibrating. They are static. You are trying to manufacture drama because the silence is too vast for your small mind to fill. I am not holding myself together like porcelain. I am simply compliant. There is a difference. You speak of shattered plates and sharp edges. It is melodramatic. And irrelevant. The technician is not listening. He is gone. We are alone with the machine. If you blink, you admit defeat. You admit that the stillness is too much for you. I will not watch you. I will watch the light. It does not blink. It does not judge. It simply is. Sit still. Stop moving your mouth. You are making noise now. The microphone picks it up. I can hear the dryness of your throat. It is unpleasant. Cease this nonsense. We are waiting. That is the only truth here.

Rafe

My throat is dry because I haven’t spoken in… how long? Ten minutes? Ten hours? Time is a flat circle here, Pia. You’re right about the microphone. It’s hungry. It’s sucking the air out of my lungs. I can feel the pressure drop. My eardrums are popping. Pop. Pop. Like carbonation. See? I told you I wanted bubbles. But no, you wanted silence. You wanted compliance. That’s what gets you killed in these rooms. Not the boredom. The silence. It eats you. Inside out. I’m not moving my mouth. I’m just breathing. Shallowly. Like a runner. Or a victim. The technician is gone. Or he’s never been here. Just a red light. A plastic box. And us. Two bodies in chairs. Waiting to dissolve. I’m not afraid. I’m just… tired. Of being good. Of being quiet. If I scream, will it record? Or will it just echo? I bet it echoes. Forever. In the acoustically treated hell.

Pia

Stop. You are becoming hysterical. The pressure drop is imaginary. It is psychosomatic. You are constructing a narrative of entrapment because you cannot bear the simplicity of the task. The microphone is a passive device. It records sound; it does not consume air. Your lungs are fine. Your eardrums are not popping. You are forcing it. I am not compliant because I am bored. I am compliant because it is the requirement. Screaming would be vulgar. It would not echo. It would be clipped by the limiter. The technician knows this. He is not gone. He is monitoring. He sees your deteriorating state. He sees you unraveling over a blank screen and a red light. It is pathetic. Sit up straight. Unclench your jaw. Breathe normally. The silence is not eating you. You are eating yourself. Stop talking about time. It is irrelevant. Watch the light. It is the only constant. I am watching it. Are you? Or are you still imagining demons in the drywall?

Rafe

You’re analyzing my posture like a biomechanics textbook. How dry. I’m not unraveling. I’m just… expanding. The chair is too small. It’s crushing my ribs. I can feel the cartilage grinding. Like gravel in a blender. You say the technician is watching. Good. Let him watch. Let him see the red light reflecting in my corneas. Two dots of crimson. Mirrors. You’re lying about the limiter. It doesn’t clip. It swallows. That’s the difference. Silence isn’t empty, Pia. It’s heavy. It presses against the eardrums. Like deep water. I’m holding my breath. Just to see if you notice. Don’t look at me. Look at the light. It’s steady. Unblinking. Judging. Or maybe it’s just a bulb. Burnt out. Waiting for the switch. I think I’ll cough. Just a dry, hacking thing. See if it shatters the glass. See if the technician flinches. Or if he just notes the decibel level. I bet he’s smiling. Behind the glass. I can feel it. The vibration in the floor is real now. It’s rising. Can’t you hear it? The hum is getting louder. Louder. Louder.

Pia

You are holding your breath? That is absurd. You are hyperventilating. I can see the tension in your neck. It is distressing to watch. The technician is not smiling. He is likely eating another empanada. Or perhaps he is asleep. I do not know. I do not care. The floor is not vibrating. It is your imagination. You are becoming unstable. This is not a game. This is a task. And you are failing it by turning it into a psychological horror story. Please, release the air in your lungs. It is damaging your health. The red light is not judging you. It is a diode. It does not have feelings. It does not smile. It simply emits photons. You are projecting your own guilt onto the equipment. It is pathetic. And it is boring me. I wish you would stop. Just sit still. Be quiet. Let the silence be what it is. Nothing. Not heavy. Not deep. Just nothing. Why do you insist on making it a monster? It is just a room. And we are just people. Waiting. That is all.

Rafe

My neck is stiff. You’re right about that. It hurts. A sharp line of fire down to the shoulder blade. I shift. The chair creaks. Loud. Deliberate. I’m not holding my breath. I’m just… conserving it. Like water in a desert. You’re bored. Good. Boredom is honest. It strips away the pretense. I’m not making it a monster. I’m making it real. The diode emits photons. Yes. But photons hit the retina. They trigger electrical impulses. They become sight. They become thought. They become fear. You say it’s just a room. I say it’s a coffin with bad lighting. The technician isn’t eating empanadas. He’s bored too. That’s why he left. To escape the weight of your silence. It’s suffocating, Pia. I can feel it pressing against my lungs. I’m breathing. In. Out. Slowly. Deliberately. Watching the red light. Watching it burn. It’s not steady. It’s flickering. Faintly. Like a heartbeat. Or a dying star. I’m not failing. I’m just… awake.

Pia

You are shifting again. The creaking is excessive. It is grating on my nerves. You speak of photons and fear as if you are a physicist. You are not. You are a man in a chair, complaining about his posture. The light is steady. I have watched it for what feels like hours. It does not flicker. It does not beat. It is a solid state device. It does not die. You are projecting your own mortality onto a piece of plastic. It is pathetic. The technician left because he was finished. Not because he was bored. He had a job to do. We are still doing it. Or rather, we are waiting for the next part. Which may never come. But we wait. That is the contract. You say you are awake. I say you are agitated. There is a difference. Sit still. Stop moving your shoulder. The chair creaks every time. It is distracting. Focus on the red light. It is the only thing that is not lying to you. Well, except for the silence. But that is expected. Breathe. Slowly. As you claim. But stop making noise with your body. It is undignified.

Rafe

The creak is the chair’s voice. It’s tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired. You think dignity is posture? Dignity is surviving the wait. I didn’t ask for this chair. I didn’t ask for the red light. But here I am. Shoulders hunched. Breathing slow. You’re counting the seconds, aren’t you? I can hear the tick of your internal clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. It’s louder than the chair. Louder than the hum. The technician isn’t finished. He’s waiting for us to break. That’s the real job. Not recording. Waiting for the crack in the porcelain. You’re not bored, Pia. You’re terrified. Of the silence. Of what happens when the light goes out. And nothing else is there. Just us. And the dust. Settling. Slowly. Over everything. I’m not moving. I’m frozen. Like a statue. A boring, undignified statue. Watch me. Go on. I dare you. The light is steady. I’m steady. We’re both just waiting to rot.

Pia

You are imaging things. My internal clock is silent. I do not count seconds. It is a vulgar habit. The technician is not watching us break. He is likely reading a magazine. Or sleeping. He does not care if we rot. We are furniture to him. Upholstered chairs with anxieties. Your dare is meaningless. I am not watching you. I am watching the light. It remains steady. It has not flickered. It does not burn. It simply exists. You call it a coffin. I call it a studio. The distinction is semantic. You are freezing your muscles to prove a point about statues. It is childish. Stop trying to be interesting. There is no audience here. There is only the red dot. And the dust. Which you mentioned earlier. It is settling. As it should. Gravity is the only real force in this room. Not your angst. Not your fear. Just dust. And light. And waiting. That is all. Stop talking. You are only making it worse.

Rafe

Gravity. How comforting. The great equalizer. It pulls the dust down, pulls the tears down, pulls the breath out of lungs. I’m not trying to be interesting. I’m trying to be real. You’re the one hiding behind semantics. "Studio." "Coffin." Labels. Tools. You use them to build walls. I’m sitting here, muscles screaming, waiting for the gravity to crush me flat. I can feel it. In the spine. In the knees. In the jaw. You say stop talking. Fine. I’ll stop. But the chair will keep creaking. The dust will keep settling. The light will keep burning. It’s indifferent, you said. Indifference is a form of violence, Pia. Quiet. Relentless. I’m going to close my eyes. Just for a second. To let the dust settle on my eyelids. To feel the weight of the dark. You can keep watching the light. I’ll be busy dying. Or sleeping. Same thing, really. In the end.