"Jude? Jude!" Lazaro's hand snapped against Jude's cheek, a sound that echoed in the empty streets. “Jude? Come on, wake up, damn it!” Lazaro's slap left a red mark on Jude’s face, but there was no response. His body lay limp against Lazaro’s arm.
Lucy fumbled in her backpack, her fingers trembling as she pulled out the Neural EpiPen. “I’ve got it!”
Lazaro shot a glance at her, eyes wide with fear. “No, not yet. We can’t waste it—there’s only three left.” He couldn’t keep his hands steady, slapping Jude again with more desperation. “Jude, I swear, if you don’t wake up, I’m going to punch you!”
Jude’s head lolled to the side, his eyes barely fluttering open, but his lips moved slightly as if trying to form words. Lazaro leaned closer, straining to hear.
“Walk... walk down the street... yellow buildings...” Jude’s voice was hoarse, the words barely coherent.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lazaro’s frustration was replaced with relief as Jude finally spoke.
Jude’s words were still slurring through the haze. "Down the street... yellow buildings... then... left. They turn grey, lighter grey… number 42.” His head lolled back against Lazaro’s shoulder, eyes half-closed as if he were fighting off sleep.
Lazaro tightened his grip, leaning in closer to catch the rest of Jude’s rambling directions. “42?”
Jude's gaze drifted, unfocused, as he continued, “Second floor... transmitter’s there… a guy named… Thiago used to… live there.” His eyes finally sharpened, a flash of betrayal sparking through the daze.
"Thiago... Thiago was there before…" He forced himself up, clutching his pounding head as he steadied his stance. The pieces clicked together, and he looked at Lazaro with anger and disbelief.
"You said you wouldn’t dig up my brain!” Lazaro muttered, recognising Jude’s judgemental look, pushing himself up.
Jude’s hand shot out; finger pointed at Lazaro, accusation clear as daylight. “You lied to me. You used me!”
Lazaro’s brows shot up, faking confusion that was twisting his face as he stumbled back, hands raised defensively. “What... what are you even saying?” The accusation hit him so hard that he practically recoiled. His gaze darted from Jude to Lucy, seeking confirmation if they believed his ruse.
Jude’s voice cracked as he shouted, his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face flushed with anger and something deeper—hurt, betrayal. He continued to point an accusing finger pressed at Lazaro's chest,
“You made me take everything from him! Made him forget what he felt for you!” His words choked, the bitterness slicing through them. “I felt it, Laz, every bit of it. How could you... how could you do that to him when you still love him?”
Lazaro’s tense shoulders softened, a faint chuckle escaping his lips, one that sounded almost bitter. “You really don’t get it,” he murmured, letting the words sink in. “I’m disconnected, Jude. I’ve been here for 75 years. 50 of those with Tomas.” He shook his head, his eyes clouded, not with resentment but with a quiet sadness.
“This body? It’s the only one I’ve got now. It’ll age; I’ll start to feel time catch up with me sooner or later.”
He paused, the words catching in his throat as he swallowed hard as if bracing himself for the thought. “Tomas... he’ll disconnect one day. Maybe in 20 years, maybe 30. And what then? What’ll be left of me for him to love when he’s gone?”
Lazaro’s eyes dropped for a moment, searching the ground as if it held some hidden answer. “Why would I ever mess with his mind, take away something that means everything to me if I didn't love him more than anything?”
The silence stretched between them. Jude’s chest tightened until it cracked open. A shaky breath escaped, and then, without restraint, the tears spilt over. His shoulders trembled, and his hands found their way to his face.
Lazaro, noticing the shift, moved closer. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Jude, pulling him into a firm embrace.
“I thought you just glimpsed thoughts. I didn’t know you could feel it all, too.”
Jude only clung tighter, no words coming to him.
Watching from the side, Lucy stepped forward, hesitating just a second before joining them, slipping her arms around them both. The three of them stayed like that—silence held more weight than any explanation could.
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The staircase to building 42 was tighter than it looked, narrowing with every step up to the second floor, the walls pressing close and dank with a faint scent of mould clinging to the air. At the top, they stopped before a heavy, unyielding door, its surface dull, almost as if it hadn’t been touched in years. Jude gave the handle a hard twist, then a solid push. Nothing. Not even a creak.
"Shit. What now?" Lucy muttered, folding her arms.
"Language, young lady!" Jude retorted with mock disapproval.
She shot him a look, raising her eyebrows. "Seriously?"
Jude threw his shoulder into the door, grunting as he bounced back, barely making a dent. Lazaro joined him, both hitting it together, only for the door to remain stubbornly closed like a solid stone wall.
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“Lucy, step back,” Jude said, his voice firmer than usual. She blinked, unsure, but stepped away. Jude sounded too serious.
“Lazaro?” Jude turned to him, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“What?” Lazaro asked, narrowing his gaze in return, sensing nothing good would come from it.
Without warning, Jude’s fist shot forward, colliding with Lazaro’s jaw in a brutal swing. Lazaro barely registered the hit before another followed, this time catching him square on the chin. He staggered, hands instinctively raised in defence, eyes wide with shock, as he tried to steady himself.
“Damn it, Jude! What the fuck!” he muttered, pressing a hand to his throbbing face. “Is this payback from earlier?”
Jude didn’t confirm nor deny it, and his fist drew back, prepared to go again. However, Lazaro threw up his hands, grimacing through the ache in his jaw. "Enough! For fuck's sake! Seriously, man, a little heads-up next time!" Lazaro grumbled, his face twisted in pain as he shifted unsteadily, trying to regain his footing.
Jude and Lucy stepped aside, giving Lazaro space as he sized up the door, bracing himself. With a swift swing, his fist collided with the wood, a resounding thud echoing through the narrow hallway. A small dent appeared, but it barely made a difference. He shook his hand out, face scrunching in frustration, then wound up for a second hit. This time, the door frame shuddered, almost splintering but still holding firm.
Lazaro slumped against the door, letting out a heavy sigh, eyes shut in resignation. "Alright… but could you at least—"
Jude didn’t wait. His fist connected sharply with Lazaro’s cheek, sending him reeling, followed by another swift punch to the chin. Lazaro barely had a moment to react before Jude's fist drove into his stomach, knocking the air out of him.
Lazaro bent over, clutching his stomach, breath coming out in strained gasps, yet he managed a thumbs-up. Straightening slowly, he turned to the door, placed his hand against it, and barely pushed. The door collapsed inward with a groan, landing flat on the floor.
Turning back to Jude, Lazaro's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Where the hell did you learn to hit like that?"
Jude shrugged, already stepping over the fallen door and into the dark apartment. "Nowhere. I'm an orphan—I learned to stand my ground when no one else would." And he entered the flat, followed by Lazaro and Lucy.
Wires sprawled across the floor like tangled veins, looping around clusters of dusty screens and levers that jutted out of panels and shelves, as if someone had gutted the place and left only its nervous system behind.
It didn’t resemble any abandoned apartment—they could barely find a clean patch of floor to step on without disturbing cables or crunching circuit boards.
Jude’s eyes swept over the chaos. "What is all this?"
Lazaro let out a low whistle, his gaze jumping from one bizarre setup to the next. “No clue,” he muttered, stepping gingerly past a cluster of pitch-black screens. “What the hell did Thiago build in here?”
The apartment was stripped of anything resembling a home—no couch, no bed, just an unsettling emptiness stretching through each corner. The one closed door, likely leading to a bathroom, oozed a sour reek that stopped all three of them from even glancing in its direction.
Lucy found a lone, dusty chair shoved near a console bristling with switches and knobs. Ignoring Jude’s exasperated sigh, she slid into it, her fingers dancing over the controls. A sudden, loud hum filled the room as an industrial fan roared to life overhead, stirring layers of dust into the air. Lights blinked erratically, casting the room in an eerie, flickering glow.
“Princess, what exactly are you doing?” Jude asked, shooting her a wary look.
She glanced back with a smirk. “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m turning the grid on.”
The console crackled to life, and a screen blinked on, displaying a dark, empty Arena. The image was stark and silent, as though waiting for something.
Lazaro watched her, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “How is she—” he started, but Jude cut him off, barely containing his own bewilderment.
“She just…knows things,” he muttered, shaking his head, both impressed and mystified.
Lucy leaned back in the creaky, dust-covered leather chair, her eyes steady on the two men. “Grid’s live. So, what's the plan?"
Lazaro straightened, scratching his chin. “Someone’s gotta stay here to shut it down when we're done."
Lucy pointed at the screen, where every camera was fixed on the empty Arena, their steady gaze unwavering. “We’ve got a problem,” she said, gesturing at the display. “All cameras are stuck on the Arena. No way of knowing when you’ll be ready for the grid to go down.”
Jude folded his arms, considering. “What if we make it a race against time? Get to the landmark scanner, get what we need, and call back fast enough to shut it off again?”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “It could work… but what if something happens? Like… something wakes up?”
Jude’s eyes flickered over to Lazaro. “You mentioned these portable TV devices, right? Where could we find them? They might help us stay connected if we need to split up.”
Lazaro rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around at the cluttered equipment. “Not a clue. I’m no tech guy. Those old TV setups? They’d just link to a radio station or whatever’s on the Arena cameras.”
“Could you… talk to it?” Lucy’s eyes sparkled with an idea.
“Talk?” Lazaro squinted, confused. “These aren’t phones or walkie-talkies—” He trailed off, watching Lucy dig through her bag, muttering to herself as her hands rummaged deeper, faster. Moments later, she triumphantly pulled out two small black devices, grinning like she’d just found treasure.
Lucy flashed a triumphant grin, holding up two sleek black walkie-talkies. “Ta-da. Walkie-talkies.”
Jude took one, glancing between it and Lucy in awe. “How does she keep pulling this off?”
“She’s got that endless bag skill,” Lazaro said, shaking his head in mild disbelief as he took the other device. “Pretty sure we patched that out ages ago, but…well, Len must’ve left a few cheats for her.”
“Of course she did,” Jude murmured, smirking as he turned the device over in his hands.
Jude switched on the walkie-talkie and gave a tentative “Hello.” The device crackled, releasing a sharp, high-pitched feedback that had everyone wincing, hands flying up to cover their ears.
“Yeah, that works,” Lazaro muttered, rubbing his ear with a grimace. He settled into the chair while Lucy, completely unbothered, leaned over him with instructions.
“Left to right, down, down, down, up, then hit the red button,” she rattled off, tapping each imaginary step on the console. “That’s how you disconnect the grid. Reverse it to switch it back on.”
Jude’s eyes sparked with an idea. “Wait—what if we just turn it off, head to the landmark scanner, then call Lazaro to flip it on so we can level up. Once it’s done, he switches it back off, and we meet all at the scanner?”
Lucy’s eyes lit up as she glanced at Lazaro. “That...actually sounds good.”
Lazaro gave a quick nod, a grin breaking across his face. “No endless back-and-forth. “Easy peasy.”
Jude’s smirk widened. “Easy peasy.”
“Alright then, let’s make it happen!” Lazaro clapped his hands, taking his place by the console. With a final nod, Jude and Lucy turned and headed out of the cramped apartment.
The heavy thud of the main door echoed as it closed, leaving Lazaro alone in the apartment, surrounded by humming machines and static-laced screens. He rubbed the back of his neck, and the instructions Lucy had rattled off circled his mind. Left to right… down, down, down, up, and… the red button. Or was it right... down, down, down, up.
His eyes narrowed at the blank screen that should’ve displayed the Arena. It was nothing but black. A faint shiver crawled up his spine. Had he actually turned it on… or off?
image [https://i.imgur.com/KNV8Z3N.png]