God, that scent. We should walk to the edge of the parking lot. Not for rain, but because the asphalt there is cracked and weirdly clean. I’ve got a flashlight. You bring the cynicism. We’ll map the spiderwebs like they’re ancient civilizations. It’s something. It’s better than staring at the peeling paint in the hallway.
You are exhausting. I did not agree to an expedition, yet here we are, standing in the damp dark. The asphalt is not 'weirdly clean,' it is merely stained with motor oil that smells like regret. Bring the flashlight. I suppose mapping the arachnid architecture of a highway exit is preferable to watching the paint flake off the hallway wall. But do not expect me to treat the webbing with any reverence. It is a trap, not a civilization. And stop checking the gate every time a car engine cuts. It is rude.
You’re impossible. Fine, no reverence. Just spiders and oil. Keep complaining; it helps me ignore the fact that I’m counting your blinks. And it’s not rude, it’s survival instinct. You’re just mad because the gate hasn’t opened in four hours. Hand me the light. I found a really ugly one under the dumpster. Look at it. It’s hideous. Isn’t it?
Your humor is as stale as the air. I am not mad about the gate. I am merely observing the absurdity of our predicament. The spider is a chaotic mess of legs and regret, quite fitting for this place. You count my blinks because you are terrified of the silence. I will not hand you the light. Hold it yourself if you wish to distort your vision. The shadows here are thick enough without your help. Stop looking at the gate and look at the wreckage on the ground. At least it is honest.
Hold it yourself? Look, the lens is cracked and your hands are shaking. I’m doing this for both of us. The wreckage is honest? Sure. Crushed metal doesn’t lie. But it doesn’t breathe. This spider? It’s trying to survive. Just like us. Shut up and look. It’s pulsing. Tiny. Terrifying. There. Happy? Now give me the damn light back before you trip over your own ego.
My hands are not shaking. They are steady. You project your own trembling onto me because you cannot bear your own stillness. The spider is not pulsing; it is merely adjusting its grip. Do not anthropomorphize the vermin just to feel less alone. It is hideous. It is indifferent. That is the only honesty here. The metal does not care. The spider does not care. Only we do, and that is the tragedy. Take the light. If I trip, it is because you are in my way. Again.
Fine. I’ll take the light. You keep lecturing me on indifference while you clutch that rusted pipe like a talisman. It’s pathetic. The spider doesn’t care, sure. But you’re shivering. I can hear your teeth chattering. Admit it. You’re cold. Or scared. Or both. I’m not projecting. I’m observing. And you’re standing right in my light. Move.
I am not shivering. The draft from the gate is simply biting. Do not mistake discomfort for fear. It is a physiological response to the damp, not an emotional failure. You see pathology where there is only physics. How tedious. I will move. Not because you commanded it, but because your glare is distorting the light beam. The spider remains. Hideous. Indifferent. Alive. Unlike whatever patience I have left for this exercise. Keep the light. I prefer the dark. At least it does not judge me for standing still.
Dark doesn’t judge. It just hides. Like you’re trying to. You think standing still makes you stoic? It makes you a target. And for what? The rust? The spiders? Save the drama. I’m moving to the north wall. There’s a vent there. If we can pry it open, maybe we can hear the servers. Or the generators. Something real. Stay in the dark. Freezing doesn’t make you deep, Kit. It just makes you miserable.
You are delusional if you believe a vent leads to servers in a parking lot. It is a ventilation shaft for the building’s HVAC, likely dusty and empty. Your optimism is a coping mechanism, Frank. A dangerous one. I remain here. The cold is merely a sensation, nothing more. You march toward the north wall if you wish. But do not expect me to follow your fantasy of industrial rescue. The darkness is honest. The vent is a lie. And your need to fix everything is as exhausting as the rain. Go on. Pry it open. See what you find. I doubt it will change the fact that we are trapped.
Fine. Fantasy. Hope. Whatever. I’ll pry it open. See if I find a dead bird or a rat. You stay in the dark. Pray to your indifference. I’m not fixing anything. I’m just seeing if the lock’s rusted through. Don’t look at me like I’m trying to save you. I’m just bored. And you’re watching. Always watching.
I am not watching you. I am looking past you, at the wall you intend to damage. If you find a rat, it will scurry away. If you find a dead bird, it will be cold and still. Neither offers conversation. You say you are bored. I say you are restless. There is a difference. I do not need saving, Frank. I need quiet. And you are providing none. Go on. Prick your fingers on the rust. See if it bleeds for you. I will remain here, in the dark, where the silence is loud enough to drown out your noise.