Unsupervised

Snowed In ·

Open by reporting on the weather as though it has changed. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

kitQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit vicQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modeweather twistUnfinished voices Concrete

Kit

The humidity broke. Finally. The air actually moves now, carries that damp concrete smell instead of the usual oven-suffocation. Makes me think of the municipal pool again. You know, the one with the chlorine that bleaches your hair and the tiles that look like a reject from a 1970s dentist’s office. I walked past it this morning. Still locked. Or maybe just empty. Hard to tell with that fog lifting off the water. It’s eerie, really. Those empty lanes, waiting for someone to cut through. You used to swim laps like your life depended on it. Still do, or did you give up on that nonsense too?

Vic

I didn't give up. You just stopped coming down to the deck. My knees click when I push off the wall, hard enough to hear over the echo. Cheap rubber goggle strap, replaced it with silicone last week. Better seal. The foreman at the warehouse doesn't care if I'm tired, just that the pallets are stacked straight. I stack them. I swim. It’s the only time the noise in my head stops. You walked past and saw emptiness. I see the distance. Forty-five lengths. That’s the only metric that matters.

Kit

Forty-five lengths. Obsessive much? You treat it like a metric system for sanity. "Oh, Vic’s head is loud, push off the wall, reset the count." It’s pathetic, really. But I guess stacking pallets straight all day fries your brain more than swimming does. At least the water’s cold. Keeps you honest. I saw the new goggles. Silly. You look like a frog that lost its way to the pond. Still, if it stops the noise, fine. Just don’t come crying to me when you pull a shoulder muscle trying to beat your own personal best of… what is it? Forty-six? Forty-seven? Pathetic little victories.

Vic

Forty-eight. You’re forgetful. Or lying. Probably both. The shoulder’s fine. I taped it. White athletic tape, cheap stuff from the gas station on 4th. It smells like rubber and desperation. You think you’re above it all, walking around in that fog, judging my frog goggles. But you’re still here. We’re still here. The supplies are running low on decent coffee. Just that bitter swill they serve at the breakroom. I drink it anyway. It wakes me up. Makes the laps feel longer. Which is the point, isn’t it? To make it feel longer. To fill the time until whatever this is ends. Or doesn’t. I don’t care anymore. Just keep swimming.

Kit

Forty-eight. You’re counting. Of course you are. I’m just observing the decay of your grip on reality. The coffee’s trash, sure, but it’s hot. And it’s liquid. That’s more than most of us get with these rations. You say you don’t care, but you’re taping your shoulder. You’re tracking your lengths. You’re deeply invested in this endurance test. Don’t pretend you’re above the ritual. I watch you do the stretches, the grimace when the tape pulls. It’s theater, Vic. But if it keeps the silence at bay, fine. Just don’t expect me to applaud. I’ll bring the extra tape next time you pull something. Again.

Vic

Theater? You watch me like a hawk. Creepy. But sure, keep watching. See if I slip. I don’t need applause. I need the tape to hold. And you bringing it? Fine. Bring the strong stuff. Not that flimsy gauze from the kitchen. The kind that actually sticks to sweat. We’re dry here. Everything’s getting brittle. The walls, the paint, us. You think you’re observing decay, but you’re just pacing your own cage. Same size. Same view. Just different angle. I’ll take your tape. But don’t think this makes us friends. It makes you useful. There’s a difference. A big one. Stop analyzing me and go check the water filtration again. It’s been humming off-rhythm since Tuesday. Or maybe it’s just my head.

Kit

Friendly? Please. I’m just ensuring my co-conspirator doesn’t implode. You think I’m useless without the tape? Try fixing that filtration unit yourself. It’s been screeching like a dying cat since Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Time’s a soup anyway. I’ll get the strong tape. But don’t mistake practicality for camaraderie. I bring it because if you tear a rotator cuff, who’s going to swim my forty-eight? Who’s going to prove me wrong? You’re brittle, Vic. Brittle things break. And I need you intact enough to keep this weird, silent dance going. Check the valves. I’ll check the pantry. We’re both just waiting for the world to restart.

Vic

Forty-eight is a lie. It’s forty-six. I stopped at forty-six because the water got too cold. Tuesday’s right. The filtration unit is vibrating the floorboards. I can feel it through the soles of my boots. Check the valve on the left. It’s loose. Tighten it with the wrench, not your hands. You’ll cut them. I checked the pantry. Canned peaches. The syrup is cloudy. Probably expired. Eat them if you want. I prefer the dry crackers. Less mess. Less time. The world isn’t restarting. It’s buffering. And we’re just the loading screen. Keep talking about my rotator cuff. It’s getting sore just listening to you.

Kit

Forty-six. You lost two lengths to the cold? Cute. I knew you were cracking. But fine, keep your lie. It’s more stable than that rattling filtration unit. Left valve. Wrench only. Hands off or you lose fingers, and then who tapes your shoulder? The peaches are gross, but dry crackers? Really? You’re eating like a prisoner. At least the syrup has sugar. You need the sugar if you’re going to pretend we’re just buffering. We’re not loading screens, Vic. We’re the glitch. And I’m the only one who sees it. Keep swimming your forty-six. I’ll handle the noise. Just don’t expect me to comfort you when the cold finally gets you.

Vic

Glitch? You’re dramatic. I’m just efficient. The cracker taste is like dust and regret, but it fills the hole. Sugar makes you crash. I don’t crash. I persist. Left valve. I tightened it an hour ago. The screeching stopped. You’re just hearing things now. Or maybe you’re finally listening. The cold doesn’t get me. I’m insulated. Foam and stubbornness. You worry about my rotator cuff, but your hands are shaking. Look at them. Tremors. That’s the withdrawal. Or the boredom. Doesn’t matter. Just bring the tape. The good kind. And stop calling me a glitch. I’m the baseline. You’re the noise. Now shut up and help me move these crates. The forklift’s broken. Again.

Kit

Shaking? It’s the grip strength, not withdrawal. Stop inspecting me. I tighten the valve, you take the credit for the silence. Classic Vic. Foam and stubbornness? Sounds like a badge of honor you bought at a clearance sale. Baseline? You’re the one counting laps to avoid thinking about the forklift. Fine. I’ll move the crates. But if I throw my back out, you’re carrying them. And bring the tape. The strong stuff. Not that gas station junk. And shut up about my hands. They’re fine. Just… vibrating from the silence you created. Go grab a crate. I’ll grab the other. Try not to drop it on your foot. Again.

Vic

Gas station junk holds. You just have weak hands. I bought three rolls. Blue box. Not the white ones. White is for fixing shoes, not shoulders. The forklift is dead. Battery’s shot. We move them by hand. Like animals. You talk about shaking; I hear the clatter of your teeth when I start lifting. Heavy. Fifty pounds. Maybe sixty. The crate smells like oil. Stains your fingers black. I don’t care. You drop it, it’s on you. I’m not carrying extra weight. My shoulder is taped. Tight. Skin’s raw underneath. It stings. Good. Keeps me awake. Move. Now. Or I’ll count your mistakes instead of laps. Forty-five. Forty-four. See how fast you fall apart.

Kit

Fifty pounds? You’re bluffing. Those crates look light. But sure, I’ll lift them. Because if I don’t, you’ll start counting down my failures like you do your laps. Pathetic. And it’s not my teeth chattering; it’s the vibration from that dead forklift still humming in your head. Blue box. Got it. Don’t you dare start counting. If I drop this, I’m blaming the oil. It’s slippery. And if your skin is raw, stop picking at it. It’s not “keeping you awake,” it’s infection waiting to happen. Move the crate, Vic. Before I decide you’re more trouble than the silence. And wipe that oil off your hands. You look like a rat.

Vic

Bluffing? Light? Try lifting it. See how “light” it is when your spine tries to unzip. I didn’t pick at the skin. The tape pulled it. Adhesive burn. Smells like chemicals and failure. You want silence? Lift the crate. Don’t talk about my spine. Don’t talk about my hands. Just move the damn thing. The oil is everywhere. It’s in my pores. I can’t wash it off. I tried with the dry crackers. They just stuck to my fingers. Now I look like a greasy rat. Is that what you wanted? To see me break? I’m not breaking. I’m just… greasy. And tired. Lift it. Now. Or I’ll start counting your breaths instead of your failures. One. Two. Three.

Kit

Greasy rat. Funny. You’re the one smelling like a gas station spill. I’m lifting it. Because if I don’t, you’ll count my breaths until I hyperventilate, and then who moves the damn crates? You? With that raw, peeling shoulder? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not breaking. I’m just annoyed. Annoyed by the oil, the crackers, the silence, and your obsession with metrics. Fifty pounds. Thirty. Twenty. It’s not heavy. It’s just… there. Drop it here. Carefully. Try not to stain your shoes. You’ll have to walk around looking like a raccoon in a dumpster. It suits you. Now stop counting. Count your laps instead. At least those are clean.

Vic

Thirty pounds? Sure. Tell yourself that. Your knees are buckling. I see it. The way you hug the crate to your chest like it’s a child. Pathetic. And don’t call me a raccoon. I’m not cute. I’m dangerous. Greasy and dangerous. You drop it again, I’m not helping. I’ll just count your panic. One, two, three. See how fast you crumble when the physical thing slips. The laps are clean because I scrub them. You? You’re just drifting. Floating in this damp, oily hell. I’m anchoring us. With tape. With pain. With the truth of weight. You hate the weight because you’re weak. Admit it. Admit you need me to hold the load while you pretend you don’t. Go wash your hands. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just don’t touch my shoulder again.

Kit

Thirty pounds. Sure. Your delusion is impressive. I’m not hugging it like a child; I’m trying not to drop it on my toes. And I’m not weak. I’m just… conserving energy. Unlike you, burning it all on tape and tantrums. Dangerous? Please. You’re a greasy, counting maniac. Anchoring us? You’re drowning us in your own metrics. Wash my hands? Fine. I’ll wash them. Then I’ll wash my face. And maybe my soul. But I’m not touching your shoulder. Good. Because if I do, I’ll check the tape. And if it’s loose, I’ll re-tape it. Not because I care. But because I refuse to carry you if you tear something else. Now move. Before I decide to let the crate slide.

Vic

Re-tape it? You don’t know how to apply pressure. You’ll just make it worse. And I’m not drowning. I’m breathing. You’re the one choking on your own metaphors. Soul? Please. You haven’t seen a soul since you stopped swimming. Go wash your face. The water’s cold. Good for the shock. I’m moving. Not because you said so. But because the next crate is right there. Fifty pounds. Maybe more. You think thirty was hard? Try forty-eight lengths against a current that doesn’t exist. Try existing when no one is watching. I’m watching. Always watching. You drop that crate, I’m counting your heartbeats until they stop. One. Two. Three. Move. Now.

Kit

Shut up about the soul. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I swim when I want. Not when you count. And pressure? I know pressure. I live with you. You’re trembling, Vic. Not from strength. From fear. That current doesn’t exist? Neither does this argument. We’re just two ghosts haunting a warehouse. Drop it. Now. Before you drop me. I’m washing my hands. Then I’m getting the tape. Blue box. Not that white garbage. And if you start counting again, I’m throwing the wrench at your head. Move. Or don’t. See if I care.

Vic

Trembling? That’s the vibration from the floor. The forklift’s still humming. You’re the one shaking. I see it in your eyes. Wild, hunted thing. You think washing your hands fixes the oil? It just makes your skin dry. Cracks. Bleeds. I know. I’ve seen it. You’re not a ghost. Ghosts don’t eat dry crackers. Ghosts don’t tape shoulders. You’re real. And you’re tired. So am I. But I don’t throw wrenches. I count. One. Two. Three. The crate is heavy. Heavier than you think. Lift it. Don’t drop it. If you drop it, I won’t pick it up. I’ll just watch you struggle. And count. Until you give up. Until you break. That’s the metric. Not laps. Survival. Now move. Or don’t. I’m watching. Always watching. The blue box is on the shelf. Higher than you think. Try reaching it. See if you’re strong enough.

Kit

Hunted? I’m annoyed. There’s a difference. You’re projecting your own paranoia onto my face. Dry skin? Good. It means I’m not drowning in your gloom. And ghosts don’t tape shoulders? Exactly. I’m real. And I’m done carrying your weight. Literally. Lift the crate, Vic. Or don’t. I’ll leave it here. Let the oil stain the floor. Let the forklift hum its broken song. I’m getting the tape. Not for you. For me. So I don’t have to listen to your counting. Blue box. High shelf. You reached it once. Show me you’re still human. Or just a raccoon in a warehouse. Your call. I’m washing up. And no, I won’t help you reach it.

Vic

High shelf? It’s not high. It’s twelve feet. I used the ladder. The one with the wobbly rung. You wouldn’t know stability if it hit you. I’m not projecting. I’m observing. Your hands are shaking. I see it. And the tape isn’t for you. It’s for the wall. So I can hang my robe. So I don’t have to stand here naked in this damp, oily hell. You think I’m a raccoon? Fine. Raccoons survive. They adapt. They eat trash. You’re just… fading. Like the paint on these walls. Peeling. Flaking. Gone. Lift the crate. Now. Or I’ll count your breaths until you pass out. One. Two. Three. I’m watching. Always watching. The ladder is there. Use it. Or climb. I don’t care. But don’t tell me you’re human. Humans don’t leave crates on the floor. Humans clean up. Humans fix things. You’re just… waiting. For what? I don’t know. But I’m not waiting. I’m working. Move.

Kit

Twelve feet. I don’t need a ladder for a box of tape. I’ll use the shelf. Or the counter. You’re obsessed with height. Obsessed with control. The robe? Please. You’re not standing naked, Vic. You’re wearing that stained shirt and looking miserable. Same as me. Humans fix things? You’re taping a shoulder that’s already torn. That’s not fixing. That’s delaying. And I’m not waiting. I’m surviving. Just like you. With your counting and your cold water. The crate stays on the floor. Until you’re done counting. Then we’ll move it. Together. Or not. I’m going to wash my hands. Again. And then I’m getting the tape. Blue box. Not for your robe. For my hands. Because they’re shaking. And I’m tired of your eyes on me. Move the crate. Or don’t. I’m done watching.

Vic

Delayed? That’s surgery. For grown men who can’t afford doctors. You want to survive? Stop talking about it. Start lifting. The crate is ten feet away. Walk to it. Don’t think about the shelf. Don’t think about the tape. Just move your feet. One. Two. Three. You’re tired because you’re resisting the weight. Let it crush you. It’s easier. Then you don’t have to count. You don’t have to watch. You just lie there. And let the oil soak into your shirt. I’m moving it. Alone. Because you’re busy judging my robe. Which is dry. Mostly. The tape is for the shoulder. Not the wall. Not your hands. Your hands are fine. They’re just scared. Of me. Of the count. Move the crate, Kit. Or stay here and rot. I’m not waiting. I’m done with this. Lift it. Now.

Kit

Scared? Of you? Please. I’m bored. That’s the terror, Vic. Boredom. The slow drip of water on a stone that never wears down. You want me to lift it? Fine. Ten feet. Walk. Simple. But you’re standing there, counting my hesitation like it’s a lap split. Pathetic. I’ll lift it. Not for you. For the silence. Because if I move, I don’t have to hear you narrate my decline. Dry robe? You’re delusional. Everything here is damp. Including your spirit. Lift it. Now. Before I decide to leave it there. And stop counting. It’s annoying. And you’re not a god. You’re just a man with a tape gun and a death wish. Move. Or don’t. I’m watching the oil spread. It’s beautiful, in a disgusting way. Like a bruise.

Vic

Beautiful? It’s grease. It’s going to rust the bolts. You’re poetic in your decay. I like that. It’s fresh. Unlike your shoulder, which is throbbing. I can hear it. A dull, wet ache. You lift it. I’m not watching the oil. I’m watching your knees. They’re locking. That’s the tremor. Not boredom. Fatigue. You’re running on fumes. Just like me. I don’t need a tape gun. I have friction. And you? You have nothing but that bruise on the floor. It’s spreading. Like guilt. Lift it. Now. Or stay there and admire your own misery. I’m going to the pool. The water’s cold. It cleans better than soap. And it doesn’t judge. It just drowns you. Slowly. Quietly. Forty-eight lengths. I’m starting now. Don’t follow. You’ll just sink.

Kit

Throbbing? It’s the tape pulling. You imagine pain because you’re addicted to it. Knees locking? I’m resting. A tactic. You wouldn’t understand tactics. You just count. Grease rusting bolts? Good. Let it eat the metal. We’re replacing it all eventually. Or not. Who cares? Forty-eight. You’re lying again. You couldn’t swim forty-eight if I paid you. Cold water drowning? Please. It’s just wet. And judgment-free? Sure. Like a grave. I’ll stay. I’ll watch the oil spread. It’s more interesting than your laps. Don’t follow you. You’re not worth the calories. Go float. Count your bubbles. I’ll be here, pretending to lift crates. Because if I don’t, you’ll start counting my heartbeats. And I hate that song.

Vic

Bubbles? You’re jealous. You think they’re simple. They’re not. They’re proof I’m still underwater, not rotting on the surface. You hate the song because you know the rhythm. One, two, three. You can feel it in your teeth. I’m not lying. I did forty-eight. Yesterday. The water was warmer than this air. Less suffocating. You stay here with your grease. Let it eat the bolts. Let it eat you. I’m going. The pool is locked, but the side gate is broken. I know. I fixed it. A week ago. Don’t try to follow. You’ll just slip. And I won’t catch you. Forty-seven. Forty-six. I’m counting backwards now. Faster. Closer to zero. Closer to the end. See if you can keep up. Or if you’ll just drown in the quiet.