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A Delicate Machine
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G001. It was funny to think how just a simple combination of a letter and three numbers conveyed the end of Cass's life, topping it off with two lies just to add a petty insult to the death sentence.


Number one.

Cass sighed, staring blankly at their bag. They couldn't afford to feel slighted. They couldn't afford to feel. For the first time in their life, they embraced their familiar, consuming numbness, embraced cold, mechanical motion. There was a stairway in front of them, so they climbed. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the texture of the wall as their fingers brushed against it. It'd be easy, if they could just climb it forever. No thought. No emotion. Wishful thinking.

Eventually, the stairway ran out and Cass emerged onto the roof. They did not recognize the boy sitting by the edge from behind, but he cut a striking figure, outlined against the horizon, looking out towards the rising sun. He had probably heard their approach, but Cass didn't want to ruin the pocket of tranquility he had built for himself. Still, the words he had spoken to himself as Cass had intruded felt like they needed an answer. He wasn't wrong. Under any other circumstances, Cass would be overjoyed to be here, surrounded by crumbling buildings and scenic vistas, but art was a dangerous thing to consider right now. Art, emotion, and thought were intrinsically linked.

Well, Cass was already here. You can't unring a bell. If they retreated now, they were sure that Travis would be distressed by the thought of someone sneaking around behind them. Best to lay that worry to rest.

"Yeah," Cass said.
a tribute for the dead and dying

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Five Finger Death Punch · The Rooftop