Notes:

+ Sorry for the delay~ this one took forever ahh
+ cough tbh this chapter is probably the least plot-canon...
+ But anyway, one more chapter, and then finished! Thanks again to everyone who has left reviews thus far, they make me so happy to read!

Chapter 6: Different Poles

It hadn't been too long, really — but in Cloudbank, where Cartography and Meteorology were sister fields with Forecasting, it had felt like an eternity. They spent at least four dozen seasons together, only a couple of them duplicates, and she even got him to vote on one of them (though he did it only after spinning around a couple times, and then jabbing at the screen with his eyes closed). They watched the entire construction of a Highrise building, and its subsequent dismantling to make way for a sky-scraping swimming pool. They were more constant than the number of windows in her apartment, than the shapes and directions of Cloudbank's roads.

She liked her life running in parallel with his. It wasn't hard for her to realize it. And after she did, it had been easy to believe that, unlike everything else in Cloudbank, they would last forever.

:::

Finally, it happened.

"I'm done," she breathed, and yanked off the headphones. Her ears ached. She spun around to the table, where he was sitting. He was browsing his terminal idly, as he usually did, and he looked up at her.

"You're done?"

"I'm done!"

He smiled, faintly. "Congratulations."

She was ready. She was ready! She stood and headed for the table, pushing aside napkins, papers, mugs. The napkins again. The papers again.

Strange. "Have you seen my terminal?"

"Your terminal?" He picked at the cloth on his arms. "What are you going to use it for?"

"To, um...to…call. Call Sybil." She checked her pockets, the shelves, the kitchen counters. Her body was humming. Where could it have gone? She'd been working all day — it should have been on the table.

"Why Sybil?"

"To set up an event." Red smiled to herself. "Finally. She'll be so happy to Organize a concert again — probably try to force me into another dress, too. Maybe I should even let her this time."

"Sounds...great."

"It will be, she has great taste. She's the one that gave me that dress you commented on the other day — way back when. Are you sure you didn't see my terminal?" She lifted up a plate, just in case. She began sifting through the papers on her desk. "Will you help me find it?"

"Yeah — yeah," he said, and she turned toward him just in time to see him frown.

"What? What's the matter?"

"Red…" He took a breath, didn't continue.

"What?"

He looked at her. "Why do you want to perform?"

"What do you mean, why?" She smiled at him, nervous, impulsive. He was so serious. "I'm a Musician."

"So? It doesn't mean you have to perform."

"No," she agreed, "but I enjoy it. The — rush of it. Communicating with people. Recognition."

"So it's recognition that's important to you? I mean," he said quickly, "isn't that unnecessary? You don't need people telling you you're great, Red. You don't need to prove to anyone who you are."

Red folded her arms. "Alright. What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," he said, sharp. "I just — I'm just surprised that you — want to perform so soon. So soon after — what happened at your last big performance."

"Soon! It's practically been an eternity. I'm not afraid of those people anymore."

"Why not? What changed?"

She shrugged. "There's just...so many other things." Like him. Like her new music, singing through her. "Everything's always changing. It's a waste to linger on how things were before, on whatever happened before."

"Well," he said, "you should be cautious at least."

"Be cautious and — what? Stay inside all day? Just lie down? Doesn't sound like much fun."

"No," he agreed, "but it would be safe."

"I'll be fine! I'll ask Sybil to hire more Security, or something. She's offered before."

"No," he said, almost yelling now, and Red blinked. "You don't get it. It's — it's something else, something I've never told you before."

"Hey." Red uncrossed her arms. He was starting to pace. The cloth on his arms had unraveled further than she'd ever seen it. She started toward him, put a hand on his shoulder. "What is it?"

He took a breath. "People in Cloudbank are disappearing."

"People are — what?"

"Disappearing. Not just ordinary people, either — people in the spotlight. People like you."

"Are you serious? I've never heard of something like that."

"You have," he said, and took her hands in his. "You have. Like Wave Tennegan."

"Wave! He just retired. He was always talking about it."

"And Olmarq."

"The Hammer kid? He was just put on probation or something, right? I'm not surprised he wants to stay out of the public eye."

"Alright, then someone who loved attention — that Shasberg guy."

Now she laughed. "Shasberg disappears all the time! It's practically his Selection."

"But for this long?"

"He'll be back once everyone's sure he's gone for good, just to make the biggest splash."

His face was getting red. "Yon-Dale hasn't been seen for a while either."

"Of course not. She made a violation with that sunset — the one you and I saw, remember? It was way too big."

"I'm telling you," he said, releasing her hands to grab his terminal, "I know what I'm talking about. I monitor all the streams. People are really vanishing — not just for a little bit, not just from the public. They're gone, without a trace. And it's always someone with influence, someone in the spotlight."

He handed his terminal to her, and she took it and sat down, leaning back, frowning. She skimmed through a couple pages, grasping nothing more from the walls of text than famous names and a bunch of dates. She looked up.

"This does sound...um. Disturbing. But how could...I mean, the idea of it…" She nibbled on her lip. "Maybe I could ask Sybil about it. She knows everyone — she would definitely know all those people, and what happened to them."

"Sybil again," he muttered. "Sybil sure can do a lot of useful things for you. You know, if she has actually has any idea what happened to them, she's high on my list of suspects."

Red stared at him, setting his terminal down on her desk. "You know, I think I just figured it out."

"Figured out what? You already figured out something?" He turned to her so hastily that one of the mugs on the table tipped over, spilling cold tea. "What?"

"That your Selection must be Conspiracy Theories," she said, and laughed.

He didn't follow along.

"Great," he snapped, "you don't believe me."

Her heart dropped. "I'm sorry," she said hastily, standing. "Hey, I'm —"

"No, don't apologize. I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have bothered telling you," he said, and now her hand made a fist by her side. She made herself inhale, made herself unclench her teeth.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Look, if people are disappearing —"

"They are disappearing —"

"Alright, they're disappearing. Let's go. We'll visit the Admins, we'll tell them about — about all this information you've gathered."

"Don't you think I've tried that? It's useless, Red."

"Is it? You've told them everything? How many times?"

"Enough times to know they don't listen. For all I know, they're the ones behind it." He scratched his head vehemently. "It doesn't matter — I've given up on it anyway, figuring out who's behind it. It's not like there's anything I could do about it anyway, if I knew."

"Well, don't surrender too easily," she snorted, and his mouth thinned.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, with unexpected acid. "Start turning over the pavement on the off-chance a famous person shows up? Go snooping so far that I disappear myself?"

"I don't know," Red said, her voice sharpening as his did. "But if you really believe people are disappearing, you should do something about it."

"I am. I'm begging you. Red," he said, taking her hand again, "don't perform."

"Not this time?"

"Not just this time — never again. Please."

She laughed, incredulous. "Are you serious? You're serious," she realized. "Music is my — it's mine. And you want me to throw it all out? Because you're afraid that I'll mysteriously vanish off the face of Cloudbank?"

"I'm not telling you to stop completely. Keep doing it — please keep doing it. Just maybe not in public. On a big stage."

"No," Red said, ripping her hand back. "Never letting anyone know me, or hear me — that might work for you. But it won't for me."

His voice was cold. "So you'd rather risk vanishing."

"Risk vanishing, over never having been anywhere? Over living in a shell, and never letting anyone know me? Yes," she told him, "I would."

They were standing too close. The room's walls thickened and softened to contain their raising voices, began to emit waves of soothing blues and greens.

"You're talking about me."

"Maybe."

"I don't live in a shell," he said, arms bulging beneath the cloth as his fists tightened. "I let you know me, don't I?"

"Do you?"

"What are you even — fine, Red, fine. Give me a paper. I'll write down everything. Or even better, just ask, and I'll tell you anything if that'll make you feel better, if having nice little boxes and labels will make you feel better than all of the time we've spent together —"

"Oh, give it a rest!" Red spat. "I'm pretty sure I know just as much about you as you do, which is to say: nothing. What kind of a life can you live avoiding engaging with anything? What kind of a person can you ever become? You've got a lot of opinions but when it comes down to actually doing something, all you have enough willpower to do is run."

His expression was hard. "I'm starting to think that I'm the one who's never known you."

"Well, there's tons about me in the Census if you ever get curious! Should have everything you need!"

This time he didn't say anything — just went to retrieve his jacket, just shoved his arms through.

"Leaving, Mr. Nobody? That's a choice, you know!"

"Go write a song about it," he snapped. "Music's all you need in your life, isn't it?" He reached into a pocket in his jacket, pulled out her terminal, and slapped it on the table. She reddened, but before she could say anything, he snapped, "Break a leg."

He stormed to the door. It opened, and slammed shut.

Red cursed and grabbed the sheet of paper nearest her and tore it. Her blood was boiling in her chest — abrading her heart — she huffed, blinked back tears of rage. The apartment began playing soothing music and she hissed, "Shut up!"

The music dimmed immediately into crushing silence, broken only by her harsh breathing, her heart beating in her ears. Jerk. How dare he ask that of her?

How dare he ask her to give up her voice?

:::

The days passed. She caught up on the news, read, took walks, ate. All the...normal things. Business as usual.

Occasionally her terminal chimed and vibrated and despite herself she always snatched it up.

- Hi Red, do you want to go to a party with me tonight?

- Hey Red, there's an art walk happening in a couple hours, want to check it out?

- Red, I've got an in for a demo of some new music tech, want to come?

After a while she left her terminal to thrum on its own.

He wasn't sending her messages. And he didn't come back.

Well, so what? He'd gone too far. No one had ever demanded something so large from her. Ridiculous. She felt her breath get staggered. Who did he think he was?

He's just some — some — nobody.

She touched her throat. She had shouted at him — louder, more vicious, than she ever had at anyone. Her throat still hurt with the texture and volume of the words she'd forced through it. She rubbed her forehead, feeling the apartment's silence settle around her, cold as snow. Her stomach churned.

How could he? Everything had been going so well. Everything had been great. She had even felt like she might even be able to fall in —

But no. She couldn't give up singing. Not for anyone. That was who she was. Red, Music. That was who she was. Without her performances, she was...nobody.

Nobody.

:::

For the first time in a while, she made tea. She opened each cabinet, searching for mugs, before realizing they were all in the sink.

She rinsed off the cleanest-looking one, then started boiling water, started steeping the leaves. When it was finished she brought her tea to the table. Sipped, grimaced.

It wasn't as good as his.

Well, so what? What could she do about it? If he couldn't even bring himself to talk with her like an adult, what could she do about it anyway? What could she do about someone who was too scared to live life? Who was so scared to make choices he would actually try and drag her into stagnancy?

Much later, she returned to the mug, lifted it up. It was still mostly filled with cold tea, and she dumped it all in the sink.

:::

One morning she woke up, arms empty, dazed. Something was missing. She sat up, blinking, and after her drowsiness cleared out she realized what it was.

His pillow wasn't on the bed.

She felt around — beneath her own pillow, beneath the blanket. She checked around the bed and underneath it. Still nothing. Where had it gone? There was no way that it had just completely...

It was only then that she felt a stab in her chest.

The apartment had adjusted. It had taken it back.

"No," she whispered. "That's not — he might still —"

He might still come back. He might still...he…

No.

It couldn't end. Not like this. He had gone too far — but she had too, she had said too much, she could still feel the barbs of her words stuck all down her throat and belly. He was wrong, but she could have argued without attacking him.

It couldn't end like this. Not like this, with him vanishing from her life as if he'd never been there. Not like this, without her having said everything she should have said.

She rushed into the other room, pulled up her terminal. Its light was blinking, and she turned on its screen, hopefully.

- Hey Red, I missed you at the

Red stopped reading, closed the message, and scrolled up and down her inbox, just to make sure. Empty. She typed quickly, pressed send.

An instant later she heard a beep. Message received. Her heart rose and she looked down at her terminal — but there were no new messages. She refreshed. Nothing.

Nothing but a light, emanating from behind her — from her desk. She turned, and reached, and found his terminal. The screen was bright with the message she'd just sent.

- I'm sorry come back.

This whole time she'd been waiting for him to send her a message, and she'd had his terminal all along. She would have laughed if she wasn't so furious.

Well, she had his terminal now — maybe she could find his address. She began digging into the folders and files, searching for any user information.

His terminal was full of data, but none of it was about himself. It was all news articles and media streams, carefully organized. She scanned through the information he'd accumulated, which she had just brushed off before. Wave Tennegan's shows, suddenly no longer broadcasting.

"Finally caved and made good on that long-standing threat to take a vacation," a newscaster speculated on a short video, and their partners nodded.

Shasberg's feats, suddenly no longer publicized.

"It's his best stunt yet," snickered a young man in a nodding crowd. "Pretty fantastic. My bet's that he'll be back in a month or two."

"Mine is three!"

Olmarq's curse, suddenly no longer the subject of gossip.

"He was a fantastic player," said a woman, proudly, on a playing field. "All that curse nonsense was just to distract from his career — which I think we can all agree now was nothing short of unparalleled in the entire history of the Hammers."

And then.

"There are rumors that she still makes appearances at very small venues, of course," drawled someone on a glittering backstage area. "And there are fans that say she's still spotted around the city from time to time. But Red's always been a private person. It's no surprise to me that she'd get even more secretive after that altercation."

Red, no longer performing.

She bit her lip. Well, it was her choice to take a break — not anyone else's.

But maybe…maybe…

He had just been worried. Paranoid, maybe, sure — but for her sake. They could have talked it out more calmly, if she hadn't reacted with fangs bared.

She leaned back in her chair. Opened a map on her terminal, pulled up a query.

- What are you searching for?

- Person location, Red typed.

- What is the person's name?

Her terminal clattered as she threw it on the table.

So much for that. If only he had his terminal. How could he possibly have left it here for this long? What was he going to do without it? What if he needed something, what if he got hurt? He couldn't call for help. What if he was hurt right now, and that was why he hadn't come back —

There's no way, she told herself, he's probably fine, but it didn't stop her from checking the weather (cool, with a 10% minority for rain). She rooted around her closet for a jacket with pockets large enough for both their terminals, and stuffed them in. They clacked against each other as she ran.

She checked the vineyard where they'd tasted wine (now a meditation area, with low benches and puffy flowers). She checked the zoo (now a clinic), the ice skating rink (now an aquarium), the cafe where they'd first met (now a pharmacy). She walked around in circles, searching, before realizing that The Mixin had been incorporated into a dance school. Its doors were closed, and dark.

She found a low wall, and sat down, staring out into the city as the sun set.

Well, what else had she expected from Cloudbank? Everything was always changing. Everything lasted for just a moment.

And just like that, their moment was gone.