When Silence Speaks

The ridge wind swallowed sound. Not silently—no, silence isn't quiet—but with an empty stretch, like breath cut halfway. You stand there, blade in hand, ash drifting across cracked stone. It sticks to your skin, but maybe it's just dust. Hard to tell.

Below, the world is broken. No horizon, just gaps. You draw breath like you're searching for something that isn't yours anymore. Answers slip away—answers are a luxury, and you've spent yours already.

He's there. Not proud, not waiting. Broken doesn't even touch it. Blood beads on his skin, glinting

before it seeps into the stone like ink on parchment. He grips his blade, crimson-streaked, a stain you can't wash out with courage.

"This was supposed to be the end," his voice is low, rough, burned raw. You stand frozen, blade heavy in your hand. This was your chance. But here you are, still—

"Did you think it over?" he asks, not waiting. You taste your own hesitation—hunger mixed with regret. You swallow. Can't respond.

His gaze doesn't waiver. "If I let this blade fall…" you murmur, more question than statement. You grip harder. Breath sharpens.

"For a heartbeat, I thought you'd finish it." His voice cracks—quiet, too familiar. His eyes flicker. "That was your question, wasn't it?"

You hesitate. Ash drifts. You ask instead, voice soft: "Is it worth it?"

He smiles—half a thing, fractured. Fingers tighten on his blade. "The choice isn't mine." It trembles under moonlight. Then: "It's yours."

You hear your heartbeat echo. A gust sweeps ash upward, past your boots. You steel yourself. Ridge-dust coats everything. Still, you move…

Blades clash—gunfire flash, sparks, heat and death crashing together. He staggers first. You thrust, blade slicing into chest. But he shoves you back. You stumble, dust in your lungs. Blade lodges in earth.

You cough. Breathe in cold, iron, regret. He stands, chest bleeding slow. His fingers brush the wound, shaking.

"Not…" he breathes.

"You weren't supposed to…" confusion in his voice. He looks down. Eyes meet yours.

You whisper, voice small but clear. "This isn't over."

Point to his chest: "You lived. So do I."

Light flickers across his face. He blinks. "You… you—"

You stare. Hold the moment. Then: "Why didn't you die?"

He turns away. A pause. Then, voice low as gravestone:

"A promise."

Unshed tears? Broken words? You feel the weight.

'My life isn't mine." He kneels and gathers your blade. No hurry. Slowly.

"And you… yours never will be."

Something catches—chest tight. You whisper, "Then pick it up."

He meets your gaze. Quiver to half-smile. Touches your blade.

"Together?" you ask.

He nods, sharp.

"Yes."

You both stand—wounded, side by side. No celebration. Only breath, night, broken stone.

He doesn't look at you after. But posture shifts—shoulders relax; tension eases. Two fractured lances leaning together.

You lift your Galieya. Spiral veins pulsing dimly—not proud, not angry, just alive. In your lap, weight.

The silence stretches—not hostile now, but expectant. The trench watches. Waits to see what comes next.

"I thought you wanted me gone," you say low.

He doesn't answer at first. Then, voice thin as wire:

"I still do." Pause.

"But I want you to get there first."

His words hit like metal. You blink. Veins hum, memory adjust burden.

Below you, fog swirls over the trench floor—static memory, drifting shapes. Echoes. Remnants. Possible futures.

You look at him. Ridge air cold.

"We descend again tomorrow," you say.

He nods.

"Together this time."

You frown.

"Until the weight breaks us?"

His voice steady:

"Until it doesn't."

You don't disagree. Don't object. Accept the slope ahead. Survival isn't goal—it's burden. Yours to carry. Let the trench remember that—because no one else will.

You descend. Side by side. One step, one breath, into what comes next.

The descent was quieter than it had any right to be.

Not quiet like peace. Just... like the trench had decided not to listen anymore.

You didn't ask questions. Neither did he. Not because either of you trusted what was happening—but because there were no more questions left that would help.

The slope twisted sharply. The air carried that low, acrid scent again—burnt circuitry, a whiff of something deeper, maybe even familiar. Memory.

Not yours.

Not his.

Just memory that had nowhere else to live.

His steps were a half-beat behind yours. Not trailing, just… careful. You didn't speed up. You didn't slow down either. You let the trench set the rhythm.

A mark passed underfoot.

A ring etched into the floor—like a blade tip had circled it once, then again, then cracked halfway through. You didn't stop. Just noted it.

"I hate that it's not always pain that makes it hard to walk," you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He exhaled, short. "Sometimes it's the remembering that you walked here before."

Your grip tightened.

"I haven't."

"Not in the way that counts."

And maybe that was worse.

—

The corridor narrowed. Shoulders brushed walls. You scraped your Galieya once, and the stone hissed back—not loud, but sharp enough to feel like it resented the contact.

You adjusted your hold.

He didn't look at you, but said, "You always grip too high on the shaft."

You almost snapped back. Almost. But the weight in your chest made anger too expensive.

"I hold it where it balances for me."

"No such thing down here."

You didn't answer.

You reached a small opening.

It wasn't carved.

It was bent open. Like something inside had tried to leave and changed its mind halfway through.

Beyond it—flat ground.

And a single figure.

Standing.

Waiting.

Not human. Not Core. Not a mimic either.

Just… possibility.

The figure had no face. But the moment you saw it, you knew it was shaped like a choice you hadn't made yet.

You both stopped.

The trench didnt prompt.

The HUD didn't flash.

Your Galieya dimmed again. Listening.

"What is it?" you asked.

He tilted his head. "I think it's the future."

"That's not helpful."

"It's not supposed to be."

The figure didn't move. But something behind its outline did. Light? Noise?

Or maybe it was just fear folding in on itself.

You stepped forward once.

The figure matched you.

Another step.

Again, it moved. Perfectly.

Your breath caught.

He put a hand on your shoulder—not rough, not soft.

"If it's mirroring, don't strike."

"Why not?"

"Because then it learns what you are."

"Isn't that the point?"

"No," he said, voice hollow. "The trench already knows what we are. It's just trying to see if we've changed."

You hesitated.

And then—stupidly, instinctively—you lowered your weapon.

Just a little.

The figure did the same.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

You watched it for a second longer.

Then turned away.

Didn't run.

Didn't flinch.

You just walked past.

It didn't follow.

He followed you.

And that was the strangest part.

—

Afterward, the trench widened.

Space. not comfort.

A plataeu stretched in front of you, scattered with broken anchor plates, old camp hooks, and the cracked shell of what might've been a Core once—or just a reminder.

You both sat.

No talking this time.

Just that same, awful rhythm: inhale, pause, forget to exhale.

You tapped your knee. Once. Twice.

Then asked, "Do you still think about the ones we left?"

He didn't answer.

But his Galieya glowed—just once.

That was enough.

You looked out at the trench wall.

Somewhere far beyond it, others were still descending.

Still choosing.

Still believing this was about redemption or honor or war.

You knew better now.

You closed your eyes.

Not to rest.

Just to see if anything would come back.

Nothing did.

You smiled, barely.

Then opened them again.

The trench blinked once.

No words. No warnings.

Just another path waiting.

You stood.

He stood too.

Side by side.

And you walked.

Not toward peace.

Not toward death.

But because there was still one more step left in you.

Let the trench remember that.

Let the trench carry it, if no one else would.

They walked. You walked, breathing that burden again. Through halls carved by choices you didn't know you'd made. The echoes didn't come back. Not yet. But the walls hummed beneath your touch, like tiny responses you couldn't hear—but felt.

For a while, only your steps, and his. Close enough you could count them, one-two, one two… but not close enough to reach. The trench had widened the space between your breaths. So you filled it with silence as heavy as stone.

He didn't speak. He never did when it mattered. But you felt him shift beside you—like a pause, like a question without words.

When you rounded the corner, the tunnel ended. Not another ramp—but a drop. Black opening. Thirty meters down, maybe more. You couldn't tell. The trench withheld that too.

You stopped at the edge. The air changed. Not colder. Denser. Charged. It felt like you'd been waiting all night, when in reality it'd been minutes.

You looked at him. He looked back. His eyes—behind the visor—told you this was the moment. But you didn't want the moment. Not yet.

You lifted your Galieya—finger tight against the shaft. You weren't sure if it'd help. It didn't matter. Holding it made you feel less alone.

He took a breath. Not a Core breath. A human one. Or something like it.

"Again?" he asked. Then closed his mouth. Not because he decided not to say more. Because he couldn't.

"I—" you started. Words blocked by weight. Instead you nodded. Once. Not enough to agree. Enough to show you didn't want to fall apart alone.

He stepped forward, to the edge. Then turned, placing his Galieya's butt against the stone.

"Step," he said. Voice low. Like he was giving you permission. Or forgiveness. Maybe he wasn't sure.

You swallowed. Filled your lungs with nothing. You stepped off the ledge.

Your knees folded. You swore. Then braced. Then—landed.

Hard. Impact spun you sideways. Pain shot up your legs. Black lights danced in your vision.

He dropped after you. Feet thudding. Not falling. Controlled. You heard it in the press of cloth and plating. Heard it like a depth charge in your chest.

You staggered. Then recovered. He kneeled next to you.

"You ok?" he asked, tone flat.

"Still—I… heavier."

He nodded. Like he'd known. Then stood.

"Come on."

You followed. One step at a time. Each footfall a promise that maybe, just maybe, you'd earn the next one.

The floor widened. And the trench let the light in. Faint, scarlet. Not signal. Not moon. Something older. Hidden.

The walls closed around you again. Muffled. High-pitched like old speakers humming. You realized your ears hurt.

He touched your arm. Steady. Brief. Enough.

The tunnel sloped upward. Slowly. Like a sigh. You sensed, not saw, the path winding ahead. You kept walking.

Then he slowed. You slowed. The air shivered. The walls bubbled scars.

There's a door. Wide. Grooved with tens of tall scratches. Not like symbols. Like countmarks. Each one carved deep. Fresh.

He stopped. Too calm.

"We close this," he said.

"Close what?" you asked. Fear clicked in.

He looked sideways. "The gap."

You realized then. This tunnel looped. You knew that pattern. The wall behind you was the same behind him now. The path behind that was closing in.

You looked down. The scratch marks were thinned at the end. Someone had stopped.

Someone had waited.

You swallowed again. "We can still go back."

He shook his head. "Doesn't let us."

The trench pressed. A pulse. The walls hummed louder. A dark line snaked along the floor. Not a crack. A trail. Like blood, like memory imprint.

He extended his hand. "We go together."

Your grip tightened. Then you stepped forward.

The wall peeled open. It sighed. Not a door. A wound. A corridor that hadn't been there before. Narrow. But solid.

He blinke. Then walked in.

You followed.

It curved sharply. You almost didn't turn with it—almost clipped the stone. You swore again.

He waited at the bend. Light flickered on his shoulder pulsar.

You reached him. He looked at you.

Something shifted in the light. A shape. Someone standing out of time.

Behind you.

You turned. Nothing. Only shadows.

When you looked back—he was gone.

The trench inhaled. And so did you.

The corridor waited for your next step.

There was no one else to carry you through.