The howling of the snowstorm outside is becoming louder and louder to Pen’s sensitive ears. Quietly, they walk on down the way that the large man had chosen, neither of them speaking a word that might break the awkward tension present between them now.

Pen is exhausted, her body hurts and her heart aches now as well. The memory of the splendor of the majestic view from the top of the mountain, that she had earned through her suffering, is now rubbed and smeared and covered with this new, unpleasant feeling. The frigid, mountain winds continued on to blow. They have been walking for hours now.

Is it the colder time of the year right now? She doesn’t know. The last season that she remembers was when the snow was only lightly falling, but that was years ago. Since then she really has no idea about what has changed in the world. There was little to see through the blanket and the bars. There was so little to feel in the dank, stagnant air of old warehouses and tunnels, the backs of carts and the insides of crates. It all felt the same. The body becomes numb to it, as does the spirit. It all felt the same.

The wind howls. All the while the winding steps of the giant audibly make themselves heard around herself, as the machinery lifts and pushes with silent, pressurized hisses with every step. The one thing she does have is good ears. But good ears can be a curse too. They can let you hear too much. Things that aren’t meant for your ears. Dark truths.

“-ink there’s something up ahead,” says Tango. Pen snaps out of her daze, the vague images of bad memories that were unable to properly form in her mind’s eye, now all fading away at once as she snaps upward, her dark-patterned daydream now dispelled.

“What?” she asks, not even sure if she wants to.

“I said there’s something up ahead, look,” says Tango. Pen’s eyes rise up to the window immediately, but all she sees is a white flurry raging around themselves. Occasionally, a glimpse of a rocky outcrop, or some dead shrub, barely withstanding the freezing weather, makes itself seen. But then slowly, as they keep on walking, she sees it too. Her eyes were always bad at seeing things that are far away, but somehow the little window makes things clear for her. It’s as if the far away things were right in-front of her face. The vague jumble of shapes comes into form behind the thickly surging white. The gale, that is pelting it through the air, does not relent for a second. It feels as if it were determined to bury them both on the mountainside.

A giant, rocky outcrop stands out from the core of the mountain. A wall of stone with a hole in it. A passage.

It looks as if there was a sheer, solid mountain-face in front of them, one that towers up on high. But something has cut a perfectly round cylinder through the stone. It is as if a god had simply, in their boredom, pushed a single finger through the titanous cliffside, letting them see through to the other-side of the passage. Though there is little to see there, beyond the thick flurry of snow that has piled up on the entrances. A sheet of ice loosely hangs on either side of the tunnel.

Pen stares in fascination, as Tango keeps moving forward towards it. “We should take shelter here for now, until the storm subsides,” suggests Tango. “I could probably make it down the mountain in the storm if I had to, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Pen doesn’t say anything.

They approach a sheet of ice, the small wall climbing up high up to their waist. But Tango simply walks through it and she can hear a shattering around themselves, as they step into the tunnel. Immediately it becomes quieter. Thankfully, the wind is blowing in the opposite direction. She imagines it would be quite unpleasant if it sheared straight through this perfectly cylindrical passage. How odd. She scans the screen. She has never seen anything like it. Though, that’s not a surprise.

At least it’s quiet. The howling of the raging winter storm outside, the shearing of the winds, both of them now were held at bay by the thick stone surrounding them. They are back underground in a sense and that makes her uneasy. But at least from here she can still see the world outside. It isn’t so bad. They push in deeper into the tunnel. Tango’s hand slides along the perfectly smooth wall as he walks, she can hear it running along the stones. Something loud clicks in front of her causing her to flinch as a light turns on, shining out from their front to illuminate the way.

Tango stops. She looks.

The perspective in the window turns, panning towards the left-hand wall of the smooth tunnel, where there is an opening. It is dark beyond what they can see. Both of them are quiet for a moment.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Should we go in?” asks Tango.

Pen looks away from the window, her arms crossed.

“Well?” asks the bot.

“Don’t care,” mumbles Pen, tucking her knees up under her chin and wrapping her arms around them.

“You should,” says Tango.

“Do whatever you want, I don’t care,” replies Pen.

“I want to know what my partner thinks,” responds Tango.

Pen’s eyes shift upwards, but she doesn’t release her position. They stare at each other for a while. “Doesn’t matter what I say, you’re in charge,” says Pen. She knows better than to fight back now that she is the lesser. She knows what happens to those who did. She’ll just have to wait for her chance to assert her dominance again first.

“No I’m not, we’re working together. You help me, I help you,” says Tango’s voice, ringing in her ears.

Her eyes roll before she closes them again, keeping them that way. What a bunch of nonsense. Someone is always in charge. Someone always holds the leash. Someone always tightens the straps. She doesn’t need to say anything. He probably already made his choice and is just waiting for her to say something against it, to use those words against her. She should have just left him asleep.

No. No… then she would be dead now too, along with him. Whatever. She doesn't care anymore. Her mind is frazzled and burnt out. The wind howls, quietly now, off in the distance outside of the tunnel.

A minute passes, silence. Then another. Then another. The radiating heat of the cabin and her weak, starved and malnourished body make her deeply sleepy again, but she keeps her mind aware. She doesn’t want to sleep again. They still stand there, not moving. Another minute passes. Warily, she opens her left eye and peeks up to the bauble without moving her head, so that he doesn’t see.

“I’m not moving till you tell me which way you want to go,” says Tango.

Quickly she closes her eye again.

So they stand there. The wind howls. She listens to it off in the distance, it sounded so cold and so deathly. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, as the fresh memory of the ruins below returns to her. Her body is still covered in the fresh, aching wounds. It was just one day. It all happened in one, single day. Everything. All of this. The wind reminds her of that. Its whispering voice reminds her of the bad places, of the bad people. All of them were always filled with whispers, with hisses. They were always cold. Soon a half-hour passes. They still stand there. Her body hurts. Everything hurts.

Pen opens her eyes, keeping her gaze low. “Go left,”

“What’s that?” asks Tango.

She looks up towards the bauble, clenching her fists, her eyes now fuming. “GO LEFT!” she yells at the eye, not caring anymore. It doesn’t matter. Pen sits back down, expecting their forward march straight down the tunnel to continue, now that she had made her desire clear. Now that there was a string of hers that could be cut. A plea of hers that could be ignored. A hope that could be crushed. That’s why they did it after all. That’s why all of them did it.

They go left.

Pen looks up at the window, as they go down this new way. The little light on the front of the bot pierces the darkness. He actually went left, she notes, shocked.

“I wanted to go left too, actually. Glad you agree,” says Tango.

Huh?

Pen looks at the window. What’s happening here? Why is he going left?

“That’s what partners do,” says the voice around her, as if reading her mind. “I listen to you, you listen to me and if we don’t agree we can talk it out. If we do… well then we can go left,” explains the disembodied man. “We work together. I help you. You help me,” he finishes.

Hearing those words, Pen feels a strange sense of déjà vu that she can’t quite explain. Something small touches her chest, curious she places a hand on the disturbance. It was the small ring that she had found before, still tucked away securely in her dress’ pocket. She fumbles around with it through the fabric, trying to make sense of the foggy fragments of memory that she can’t quite see anymore.

They stop.

“Well will you look at that,” says Tango. At the command, Pen’s head snaps upward to look instinctively, immediately, her heart skipping a beat. But then her mind catches up. It wasn’t a command. He was just talking. Her eyes go to the window. The small streaming lights emitting from the body of the bot bring the dead-end of the short passage into view. This left-passage, it isn’t a side tunnel, it’s just a little bubble inside the stone that someone or something had carved a long time ago. A small metal box sits before them, illuminated by their glow.

“I wonder…” says the man idly, as he reaches forward towards it. His hand reaches it, but nothing happens. “Ah, dang. Well, I guess it is ancient, and it's been sitting out here for who knows how long. Too bad. Well, at least it’s not a total loss.”

Pen has no idea what the man was talking about.

“Check it out,” says the voice as they turn to the side, to look at the right side wall of the stone chamber they were inside. A tiny concrete structure, that looks like it belonged to the first-people, sits there against the wall. It’s also ancient, forgotten and dilapidated. Next to it is a simple round pit, around which a tiny ankle high layer of bricks had been laid in a circular pattern. The inside is filled with frozen water.

“What is it?” asks Pen, now too curious to resist.

“I’m not sure, this must have happened after my time. It looks like a little outpost really. Maybe they tried to take back facility nine from here?” guesses Tango.

He walks towards the tiny structure nested into the wall. It is rectangular with rounded corners. A series of thin windows line the solid gray walls, looking out over the empty space here now. Nothing stirs behind them, as Tango’s light shines through their time-aged panels.

“I’d like to stop here till the storm passes, is that okay with you?” asks Tango.

Pen fidgets with her fingers and loosens her posture a little, waiting for the hammer to drop. But nothing happens.

“Okay…” she replies, feeling strange that someone is asking for her opinion.