"Hey, bud!"

"Hey, bud!"

"Kindly grandfather! Have you seen anyone else down here?"

"Why yes! Just now! A lady came barrelling past. Almost missed her, she was speedy." He shakes his head in awe. "Intense form."

"She's not a runner. She's a thief."

"A thief?" He glances toward the silo's entrance. "Oh, that's terrible. Had I known, I'd have tripped her clean."

"And with the pace she was going, I doubt you'll catch up to her. I'm sorry, bud."

"What'd she look like? Describe her."

"She's one of them scrappers -- you can tell by the non-ergonomic rags. Poor thing's usually gathering copper out front, muttering to herself."

"Did you see her follow me down the stairs?"

"No. That mad dash for the exit's the first time I've seen her inside the silo, in fact."

"Then how'd she get down there?"

"There's plenty of side-entrances and emergency exits, I'm sure. Not that I've explored them myself, but a curious soul would."

"Teleportation. I didn't stand a chance."

"It's more likely she got in another way, bud. I wouldn't be surprised if there were side-entrances and emergency exits littered around this place."

"Ever seen this before?"

"Never seen her wear that, but I do recognise where it's from. It's one of them Bagman bags, isn't it? From the TV show."

"Yeah, seems so."

"He's always rambling about secret government things -- many people watch him religiously."

"Thanks."

"Of course, bud."

"Non-ergonomic, like this?" (Show him the bag.)

"Never seen her wear that, but I do recognise where it's from. It's one of them Bagman bags, isn't it?"

"One of them who?"

"You know, Bagman? He's a local television personality, always rambling about secret government things, and how the boars are spying on us. It's not for me, but many people watch him religiously."

"Your words confuse me greatly, ancient silo man."

"Muttering? Is she... unwell?"

"I suppose she might be. She's always going off about some Bagman conspiracy or other."

"Just to confirm: Did she look fully human to you?"

"Well, yes. What other kind is there?"

"The dolphin hybrid kind."

"No, she looked... human-human to me." He frowns at you.

"How many blowholes did she have?"

"Well, I didn't get a good look, but I have to assume zero?" He brings a finger to his lip. "I hope you didn't hit your head on the way up, bud."

"Fair play, grandpa." (Move on.)

"Everything alright there?"

"Thanks for your help." (Conclude.)

"Good luck catching her, bud."

"Where'd she go?"

"She dashed right past, and out the door she went." He studies you. "You two aren't on friendly terms, I take it?"

"I think there's something wrong with these stairs."

"You look a bit pale, bud." He glances toward the steps descending into darkness. "What happened?"

"They make me think someone's after me."

"Quite the heavy load for a staircase." He offers a meek smile. "But then again..."

He has felt it too.

"You know the feeling, don't you?"

"It's been a while, but..." He shakes his head. "You've humoured me enough, bud. Just glad you made it back up."

"Tell me. I'm all ears."

"You've humoured me enough, bud -- I'll spare you my ramblings. I'm just sorry the stairs didn't work for you." He turns his head away.

"Is it more nonsense about exercising?"

"No. It's far sillier than that." He smiles.

"They make me fear twisted and unnatural things."

"They made me ask all kinds of uncomfortable questions."

"Nevermind. I'm fine." (Drop it.)

"Glad to hear it!"

"You're not bothered by the rain of beer bottles, then?"

"Not at all, bud. Good to see the youth getting out, practicing their overarm toss."

You hear a whoosh and a crash as another bottle falls to its death.

Must have been very unlucky indeed.

"Aha! Hear that one? Went straight to the bottom. Excellent aim."

"May I ask what you're doing here, sir?"

"Beautiful place, isn't it? I come here regularly. This here's the perfect spot to run mitochondrial apoptosis drills."

"Really? Isn't this an abandoned silo?"

"Nicely observed, bud! See, concrete's great for radial gut-flow optimisation. Plus all the empty space helps with glucose reverberation. No better way to torch all that nasty glycogen, really."

"So you're... working out?"

"I am practicing full-spectrum autophagic cardio-incineration. Pump up the heart rate until weak organelles and grief proteins burn right up. Full somatic reset, just by running!"

"That's how you make the voices go quiet." He taps his forehead. "Get rid of those, and the fourth aperture opens wide. Makes you appreciate beauty all over again."

Hardly anything he said makes medical sense. It barely makes linguistic sense.

"Is that... biology?"

"Hah, biology! Biology wants you on the couch, letting the thoughts in. Biology tells you you're done at forty. It'll never tell you to obliterate yourself. But as the saying goes..."

"'Pain is just the body flushing out stories it shouldn't have been told.'"

The pre-Mircean poets-resuscitants saw pain as the soul rejecting unearned memories. Speak more, ancient wisdom man!

"Where did you get that from?"

"That's from 'The Tuff Cycle's Full System Flush: Sweat, Cry, Piss, Shake, Ascend'." He shakes his head. "No wonder you're hoarding emotions in at least six zones."

Six zones? Are you dying? You might be dying.

"I'm a bit worried about you, bud. You remind me of the old me, back when I was working. And that's no way to live -- no way to live at all."

"No one says that."

"Sounds like you should read 'The Tuff Cycle's Full System Flush: Sweat, Cry, Piss, Shake, Ascend.' I can tell you're hoarding emotions in at least six zones."

Pain is a nociceptive signal -- a response triggered by actual or perceived tissue damage.

"I've long assumed my hypothalamus was compromised. Go on."

"That's the tip of the iceberg! You also need to worry about your lymph nodes, fascia, adrenal glands. It's why the body needs constant attention. As the saying goes..."

"Well. I'm glad you're being healthy."

"Healthier than healthy, my friend! I'm post-healthy if anything. Obliterating myself with regularity. As the saying goes..."

"What kind of exercise is that?"

"Do you know who 'MIHO' is, by any chance?"

"Miho? I knew a Miho once. Big time negotiator from West Kodia, put away brandy like a man."

"Probably not who I'm looking for."

"You'd colour me surprised if it were -- she dropped dead at sixty. Heart attack. On account of the brandy."

"That's so sad."

"Yes. Yes, it is." He glances down.

"Sixty is basically the end anyway."

"Not quite my tempo, bud. But each to their own." He grins.

"That's unfair to the brandy."

"Swore off the stuff at forty-five. Past fifty, it's not a fair fight." He grins.

"Any chance she's down here?"

"Unlikely, I'd say -- she dropped dead at sixty. Heart attack. On account of the brandy."

"What line of work were you in?"

"I was an interzonal man, right up until 81. Consultant class. Two decades in foreign hotels and meeting rooms, harmonising standards for partners. Getting Portofiro ready for the big leagues, you see?"

"What do you mean, 'the big leagues'?"

"Joining the Developed World, at long last! Decades of work. Sweet Nestor set it all in motion, and one could say it's still in progress, but I had a small part to play."

"Interesting. I'm a bit of an interzonal woman myself."

"Oh, I noticed. Bags under the eyes. Awful complexion. Vending machine diet, I'm guessing. For me, that all ended when I heard Rim Tuff speak." He beams.

No need to be childish.

Fringe health theorist, frowned upon by most medical bodies in the People's Republics and the Developed World. Owns dozens of 'wellness centres' across Tsun's Arc, and millions of followers.

"You fell for a health grifter?"

"I didn't fall for anything, did I? Just found one of his discs in my hotel room. Figured it would fill the silence, so I put it on. That's when I heard, 'You don't have a body. You are a body.' Within minutes, I was doing lunges across the carpet."

"I kept listening, and that's when it happened. I smiled." He points to his teeth. "Middle of a lunge. Legs shaking. Sweat pouring down. Half a minibar bottle still in hand. Just smiling. Next morning, I called the boss -- told him I was done."

"Highly unprofessional. Sounds like you didn't have it."

"But I had something else, I just didn't know it yet."

"What did he say?"

"What could he say? I had made up my mind."

"It must have been a powerful experience."

"It sure was. Funny thing is, it didn't feel new or anything."

"Name doesn't ring a bell" (Lie.)

"An athlete. Author. Visionary. Found one of his discs in my hotel room. Figured it was junk, something to fill the silence. That's when I heard, 'You don't have a body. You are a body.' I started doing lunges across the carpet, right then and there."

"Who's that?"

"So you were doing important work."

"And it felt like it. Sixteen hour audits and maybe four hours of sleep. Choking down sardines and brandy between meetings. Oh, and all the pills too. But that all ended when I first heard Rim Tuff speaking." He beams.

"So you were doing the work of a bourgeois running dog."

"Maybe so. Grinding sixteen hour audits, sleeping four hours. Once fought over laundry tag phrasings for nine months. That all ended when I heard Rim Tuff speak." He beams.

"Let's return to this later." (Go back.)

"Sure, bud. I'd expect you to be restless, given the state you're in."

"You said you're worried about me? Why?"

"Slumped thoracic spine, for one. That's Grief pooling in the vertebrae. You're a bit pale, too. Capillaries holding on to despair." He nods.

"But the biggest problem's obvious. It's your lungs. You're dealing with a lot of anticipatory shame, aren't you? That stuff pools up in the alveoli."

If only. There's plenty of past shame too.

"I'd describe myself as a mixed bag of shame, really."

"Situation's worse than I feared, then."

"I hope you don't take umbrage at my words, bud. I remember the days when bad thoughts slipped in -- right through the weak fibre."

DOES THIS FOOL DOUBT THE RESILIENCE OF THE PEOPLE'S RESPIRATORY TRACT?

That's how he makes sense of the world, there's no need to fall for it.

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm okay."

"I understand. I spent many years in the throes of denial myself."

This is an old man, coping with existence by clinging on to a nonsense routine. Let it be.

SO HE INSULTS YOUR PSYCHE AS WELL?

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm glad to hear it! Of course, if you have any doubt, we could put those to rest with a little sprint around the Loop." He points upward.

"The top floor, when you come in. That's the Loop. No gadgets, no props -- nothing but raw athletics. You tell me when you're ready to run."

"Fine. It's on. You, me. Name the exercise."

"Well... if you insist. I'd be willing to see how far you can clear the Loop." He points upward.

"Surely you didn't mean to imply that I'm weak."

"Of course not! I'm only talking about your fibres." He squints at your chest. "And the lungs, too. It's those shallow, pathetic breaths that give it away."

"Open your ears and harken, old man: I could destroy you athletically."

"I doubt that, but this issue isn't really about me, is it, bud? If anything, it's about proving something to yourself."

"I am the foremost expert on self-obliteration."

Oh, it is about you now, and I could destroy you in all ways that matter."

"But I use those for nicotine and tar!"

"Well that's not helping you at all. Makes it easy for a bunch of anaerobic freeloaders to get in there, in fact."

"Nonsense. I'm breathing fine."

"I'm looking for the archives, have you seen them?"

"Afraid I can't help you, bud. I usually run down and come right back up. But I'd assume it's one of those doors, further down."

What does he think happened to you on the stairs?

His 'silly theory' isn't about you, or him. It's about places. Places like this one, shaped by history.

"You think this place is special."

"Most of them are. It's just more palpable here." He taps the metal railing. "You know, I've been wondering if places hold on to things. Not like we do, but like bodies."

The sound of boots, the warmth of people and a simple, stupid, stubborn hope.

"This silo's been through a lot, hasn't it? Got its own muscle memory, bruises, scars and aches. Built with hopes, dreams and purpose, and then.."

A violent burst, followed by a great hollowing out, leaving only silence. Is it any wonder such a place would still reverberate?

"At least it's still standing."

"Wouldn't be surprised if it outlasts us both."

"I hope the stairs won't stop you from coming back, bud. I've been thinking of starting my own exercise group, you know? Get some people in here. Give the place a bit of purpose again."

"That's quite sad."

"It is. But it doesn't have to stay that way."

"You're right, this is quite silly."

"It is, isn't it? Ah, well. Good thing I'm getting too old to care."

Fine. More theories about what those stairs did to you. Each one guaranteed to be better than whatever he has.

"Correction: the stairs radiate ultra-failure waves."

"Sure, bud." He smiles and nods in the most grandfatherly manner possible. "Must be that."

"It's residual shame. The air's filled with it."

"Enough silliness. It's probably just a carbon monoxide leak."

You don't need his theory. You already concocted a better one.

"This place is radiating failure-waves."

"Failure-waves? What are those?"

"Foreign technology, designed to make me question my coolness."

"I'm sorry, bud. I have to say, you've lost me." He gaze drifts toward the stairs.

"You know. Waves of failure."

Run the loop -- stick the burners on.

Diagnostics complete. Ligaments: primed. Heart rate: nominal. Joints: lubricated. Adrenaline and dopamine surge initiated to maximise propulsion. Awaiting signal.

Awwww yessssss.

"Ready... Steady... Go!"

RUN.

WARNING: vertical drop ahead. Torque and acceleration throttled due to survival drive. Provide vocal input to engage ultimate overburn.

"I AM THE ULTIMATE LONG-RANGE MISSILE!"

Run: complete. Desired performance achieved. Systems switching to 'reward mode++'. Enjoy the endorphins!

unnghhhhhhh.... ungh... ahhhh...

"Stupendous stuff, bud." The old man leans against the railing, trembling. "The speed, the leap, sure, sure..."

"But the magic's in the keeping on, isn't it? To keep being stubborn against the world." He nods. "Stupendous stuff."

"WITNESS ME, ANCIENT FITNESS MAN!"

Just scream.

WARNING: YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.

What?

Running requires motivation. You are wired to find motivation in fear and/or anger. Pre-check complete. Begin adrenaline release.

"Ready... Steady... Go!"

WARNING: vertical drop approaching. Propulsion lacking. You are actually going to die.

It's fine -- I'm just scared. (Go faster.)

By the stairs, the older man watches intently as the gap in the floor nears.

WARNING: drop approaching. Preferable alternative: giving up, followed by shame.

NO, GO FASTER. ENGAGE BURNERS.

Survival instincts override confirmed. Goodbye.

Shit, shit, shit! (Give up.)

"It's alright, bud." The old man nods. "I could see you got scared out there. Most people would've stopped too. There's no shame in it."

Wrong. It's all shame now. You are a shame-based lifeform.

"Not me, of course. I'm just saying, not everybody's built for for pushing through." He taps the railing. "Ah, well. I still don't mind the company, if something's on your mind."

What's the alternative? (Maintain speed.)

Giving up, followed by great shame. WARNING: Approaching drop. Lethality confirmed.

No, I'm going to win.

YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.

"Stay safe, Cardio Elder." [Leave.]

"Keep you moving, you'll be fine. We'll all be fine." He waves you off.

"Now that's a stride. That's a grand stride, right there! Up and down six times! Could go another ten, I'm sure..."

"Oh. Hey, bud! Now how'd a friendly face like yours end up here?" The wiry man beams, rivulets of sweat running down his wrinkles.

"What are you doing down here, old man?"

"Working on myself, but I'm all about done for now. That means the stairs are all yours, bud!"

"What's so great about them?"

"Down and down they go. Greatest stairs I ever saw. You ought to give them a try."

As you consider the stairs, a beer bottle clangs against the railing, smashes. The old man laughs.

"You know, it's nice to have company. A good chin-wag helps stimulate metabolic ignition."

"Just doing a bit of urban exploring."

"Now what you want is to do a bit of urban exercising. And take it from me, this is the best place to do it. Best stairs in the city, right here."

"Through a series of catastrophic choices, both personal and professional."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, bud. You want my advice, give the stairs a good try. Nothing like a few runs up and down to squash the old worries."

"Don't mind me, just taking a stroll." [Leave.]

"Now what's the best answer I've heard in a while! One foot in front of the other and everything. Catch you around, bud!"