IV

It seemed to Faust that his mind was set back in the darkness of his head, miles from his eyes. A thick bog of emotion sequestered him from the world. Distantly he could just about perceive Connie's distress, and when she hugged him he barely felt it, as though he were underwater. He tried to cling on, to anchor himself in reality, but in that moment his body was unknown to him, like a wrought iron diving suit that was weighing him down.

She was saying something, peering deep into the abyss of his gaze. He thrashed, trying to surface.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's okay."

No longer could Faust bear to stand. He let the None-Edged Sword fall, and having fulfilled its purpose, it slipped down through the sieve layer, tumbling towards the bottom of the known universe. And he thought he hated himself before!

"You went like this when Greer passed," said Connie, shaking him gently. "Stay with me, man. Don't let his death be in vain."

That had been an age ago. Back then, he'd only been worried about himself.

"Team Shame," he whispered. "Team Shame! Team Shame!"

"That's right," she beamed, and he could see how skillfully she was masking her troubles. "It's all over now. We survived. They thought they could keep us down? Well, they couldn't. And we've got the list now, so really, it's us who's got the upper hand."

Drizzle poured in from the 70,000 door. She helped him back up to stand in front of it, staring out into the rain, appreciating the breeze as it cooled him.

"You're being strong for me," said Faust.

She shrugged. "Someone's gotta."

The fresh air made him feel more alive, coaxing him back out of the depths of his sorrow, making it a little easier to forget the lump in his throat.

"Okay," he said. "Let's finish this."

Grimly, they raised their thumbs. Faust thought of the seven names he'd etched into the bench at his funeral, and he hunched over at the gravity of what he owed them. A great fatigue overcame him, a weariness of spirit, even as he recognised that he would never again sleep soundly in his life, assaulted by memories.

"Stop the wordcount," said Connie. "Stop the game."

"Stop it all," said Faust. "Let it never come to pass again."

On the tail of their words came an overpowering blast of light. The wordcount left Faust, rising up above them while rivers of green blasted into it from their thumbs. The numbers swelled in size, inflating steadily. First each was the size of his head, and then his body, and it kept on growing, getting bigger and bigger until it consumed the entirety of his vision like sky-writing. The count hissed and crackled with plasma. Every tick boomed as deep as a landslide.

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The spectacle wasn't over yet. Next came the light all around them, the sole colour left on the blank page, all of it streaming into the number as bit by bit their surroundings faded to black. It glowed off their awestruck faces. They held each other as they bathed in the green, unable to look away. One of the last things to be sucked in was the Giga-Ostrich, dragged back from its 75,000 word plummet.

AAAAAAAA, it said, and they were fine last words.

With one last tick, the word count halted. Like scales off a moth under moonlight, or a particularly render intensive particle trick, it faded away, glistening.

"These are some fireworks, man," said Connie, arm around his shoulder.

"It's beautiful," he conceded.

Soon the number was gone. There remained only three things in the entire universe — Faust, Connie, and the door, which was letting in a ray of gloomy light.

Connie uncoiled her net. "What about this thing?"

"...Leave it."

"Yeah."

She let it drop.

"What do you reckon happens to this place after we step out?" she said. "You think it keeps on existing, or it stops?"

"I guess it depends on whether anyone's still around to perceive it."

"The audience? You think they're still watching?"

He laughed. "They can fuck off now. Show's over."

They stood before the door, and Barden City sure was a sight for sore eyes. Dreary, bleak, smoggy, dark — but real. Mundane. A place of ordinary struggles, of debt and ill-health, not of death and fear. No character arcs, but a daily struggle between incremental improvement and stagnation. Faust couldn't wait to start.

"After you," he said. "It's only polite."

"Thanks," she said. "Thanks for everything."

They stepped through.

—

Faust had never actually been to a kebab shop before, but Connie insisted they gorge themselves on mystery meat and wash it all down with lager. It smelled of spice and sweat. People at various stages of sobriety were bumping shoulders and chowing down, and the room was full of such cheer that it almost, almost got through to him. He almost felt like one of them. But he'd traded one set of troubles for another, and it would take a while to heal.

He sent her off to claim a plastic table and, while she was distracted, he quietly footed the bill before setting out to join her.

"Cheers," she said, clinking his plastic cup. "I did say I'd take you out for the night. right? You want to hit up a club after this?"

Faust smiled, finding it easy to speak loud enough in the din. "Maybe another time."

He took a bite of the kebab, and found it pretty overhyped. Could've been spicier, could've been meatier, even if it did pair well with the acidic beer.

Connie showed him a business card, stamping it down on the table.

"What's that?" he asked.

"This guy said he'd sponsor me for a chauffeur exam. I'm gonna have to call him up, and boy, is that going to be uncomfortable... but he said his grandkids are in the same position, and not to be afraid to ask for help if I need it."

He nodded. "That's a good lesson. You'll make a great chauffeur, Connie. Putting a lot of effort into your appearance is one of your strengths."

"Oh my god." She was beaming. "Is that a compliment from FAUST?"

"Yeah."

"What about you, man? What are you going to do, sixty years before you end up in that nursing home?"

He swished the lager around his cup and took a big gulp as he mulled it over.

Go and talk to a therapist, you self-pitying freak!

Suddenly, a burst of laughter overcame him, and he nearly knocked his food on the floor. He felt himself surface out of the bog.

"What?" she said, leaning in, slightly concerned. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Just a few little changes."

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