Dark Skies - 4. Novgorod

Every country carries the scars of The Interregnum. And there’s always a particular one that stands out. In England, it’s The Battle of Manchester. In China, The Shenzhen Uprising. In Australia, my old home, it’s The Blackout. There is, however, one national ‘scar’ that still feels fresh, and its resonance has become undeniably global. The Purge of Novgorod.

Tosno DMZ

“Into Russia?” The border guard raised an eyebrow in Miguel’s direction, holding his passport up and squinting comparatively at the two faces.

“On business.” Miguel nodded with a broad, easy smile. Mic shuffled to-and-fro, boots crunching into the snow. She held herself around the midsection, the cold biting its way through her trench-coat and cardigan with ease. She internally wished she’s planned better for this.

“I’m a - " Mic started, but Miguel held up his hand at about waist level: noncommittal; passive, but enough to get his point across.

“ - We’re with the Orphean Collective.” Miguel nodded. Mic sighed, watching steam curl from her lips into the frigid air. The guard lowered the passport, cocking his head. With a bemused shrug, he adjusted his Ushanka, pushing it back and away from his forehead slightly. He sniffed.

“Uh…technically…” The guard started, wading his way through English slowly but competently: “It is ceasefire, not peace. You realise this, yes?” Miguel nodded. The guard turned, pointing back behind him: “Oslo Accords.” He turned back to them, pointing out into the distant haze of gently falling snow: “Russia.” He pointed at the ground directly beneath their feet: “DMZ. You have uh…diplomat credentials. Does not mean ‘safe’. Repeat this for me, once?”

“It isn’t safe.” Miguel and Mic stated in solemn tandem. The guard shrugged again.

“Is on you, then.” He reached into a leather pouch, pulling out several sheets of folded over, slightly damp paper. He handed them to Mic, who took them, leafing through. She raised an eyebrow:

“I can’t read this, it’s in Russian.”

“No, no, is not Russian, is Ruotsi,” The guard scoffed. “Cyrillic so different - "

“ - Apologies, my friend here is Australian.” Miguel explained. “She is a long way from home.”

“Oh, with the…” the Guard put his hands up in front of himself as if miming a Tyrannosaurus Rex: “The kangaroo, and the uh…Emu.”

“Yeah, totally.” Mic rolled her eyes. The guard shrugged, accepting the explanation. He reached out, putting a hand on Miguel’s shoulder, making pointed eye contact:

“Do not lose papers. Lose papers? Stay in Russia. Stay in Russia? Die in Russia. We do not want this for you. Yes?”

“Yes.” Miguel and Mic nodded in tandem. The guard’s eyes narrowed. He pointed back and towards the car.

“Who is?”

“That’s Violet. She’s coming with us.” Miguel clarified.

“Oh. Very beautiful. Good company for you I think. Lucky man.” The border guard nodded dismissively, removing and starting to carefully clean his glasses.

“Well, she’s…with me.” Mic amended. The guard looked up, eyebrows raised.

“Oh! Lucky woman. I uh…I have sister who does this, also. Very happy lady. Her wife? Greek. This cooking? You will not believe.” The guard raised his fingers to his mouth, miming a ‘chef’s kiss’ and letting his eyes roll back slightly. In the space of a split second, his demeanour shifted back: “I will say again: do not lose papers. Do not die in Russia. This looks bad for us if so. You have forty-eight hours.” He reached out and poked a finger into the papers Michelle was holding. “This is only thing written which matters for you. Now go.”

“Thank you.” Miguel held up his hands in a little ‘prayer’ mime, before walking back to the car.

“Yeah, thanks. We’ll uh…try not to die. Promise.”

“Forty-eight hours, do not die!” The guard waved cheerily, turning and making his way back through the snow towards his station.

“Interesting guy.” Mic muttered.

“So?” Vi asked, arms folded over her chest and shivering slightly as Mic and Miguel climbed back into their respective front seats of the car. Mic dragged off her trench-coat, passing it into the back seat. “Oh. Thank you.” Vi pulled it against herself like a blanket. Miguel started the car, pulling away from the Guard station and onto the empty road.

“We’re good to go.” Mic explained. “Guard thought you were hot and has a gay sister, apparently.”

“That’s…” Vi trailed off, eyes narrowing as she looked out the window. “I have no idea what to do with any of that info, but…cool?” Mic ‘hmm’d’, slumping into her seat, staring out the window pensively. After a couple of minutes, Miguel cleared his throat:

“Something on your mind, Michelle?” He hazarded.

“Just…why do you think he didn’t assume we were together?” Mic directed at Miguel. She sat up, folding the papers into the glovebox. “Like I was standing right there.” Miguel reached down to turn the heater and fans up.

“Mic. Please.” He laughed quietly.

“Um…what’s that meant to mean?” Miguel looked over at her with a condescending smile and a raised eyebrow.

“Mic.”

“Miguel. It’s two hours from Tosno to Novgorod. Gotta talk about something.” Mic said, tone sharp.

“Beauty is subjective.” Miguel sighed. “But…if one was to apply a standard to our little group, based on…generally accepted signifiers of ‘obvious’ beauty, which are…in fairness, very much based on Western cultural - "

“ - You think you and Vi are prettier than me.” Mic concluded. Miguel - keeping his hands on the wheel - silently side-eyed her, providing an excruciatingly slow shrug, as if to say ‘don’t you’? “Suck my dick.” Mic huffed.

“Look, in fairness, I never said it. I never would say it. I’m simply providing a framework to elucidate why he might have prematurely formed…” Miguel rolled his eyes: “Certain opinions, but - ” Mic turned aggressively in her seat, glaring back at Vi:

“ - Sweetheart, I’m prettier than Miguel, right?” Mic asked Vi.

“I…don’t…find men attractive, particularly?”

“You think Rett is hot.”

“You know that’s more in spite of him being a man than because of it, ‘Chel.”

“Oh that’s such a fucking dodge…”

“I notice you’re not questioning whether Violet is more attractive than yourself?” Miguel observed. “Sexism is - "

“ - I’m not sexist, I just know who the fuck I’m dating. I have eyes. And I’m not saying you’re not pretty, just that you’re not pretty-er.”

“Are you qualified to - "

“ - I’m bi.” Mic insisted defensively.

“Kinda hanging on to that label by your bleeding fingernails at this point…” Vi muttered.

“What?” Mic snapped.

“Nothing, don’t worry,” Vi smiled innocently: “Anyway, why couldn’t we get closer to Novgorod?” She asked from the backseat, deflecting masterfully.

“Geopolitics.” Miguel clarified drily. “The closest functional airport being St Petersburg, the best option was to go via the Oslo Accords occupation zone and in through the DMZ.”

“Right.”

“Didn’t you say something about no active war zones when you bought your way into this gig?” Mic asked.

“You heard the border guard: ceasefire.”

“I wonder if it’s ever going to end.” Vi mused.

“They’ve been at it on-and-off since the Interregnum,” Mic noted: “and it’s honestly feeling pretty laughably one-sided at this point.”

“It’s true. Seems almost…cruel that the OA don’t just put Russia out of their misery and end it.”

“Wonder how the New-SSR feel about getting their asses kicked half-way back to Moscow?” Mic chuckled.

“Unenthused, one imagines.” Miguel smiled to himself. “Of the Interregnum Wars, it was - by a significant margin - the strangest. But it was very soon after the Purge of Novgorod. I suspect…no one was thinking particularly clearly at the time. And when the inevitable happened…” He trailed off.

“Don’t fuck with the Finns.” Vi nodded quietly to herself in the backseat.

“A lesson for us all.” Miguel confirmed.

Veliky Novgorod - Environs

The landscape was vast and the open fields and wilderness were covered over in a thin layer of snow as far as the eye could see. Along these tracts, visibility slowly dissolved into formless white a few hundred metres in any direction. These areas were interspersed with unruly forests - pine and birch trees, primarily - and punctuated with thin, winding streams, frozen in place. A ways off to the left, Mic’s eyes tracked over the glittering grey surface of a wide, iced-over lake. She sighed, sitting forward, and forcing her knees up against the dash.

The city of Veliky Novgorod sat at the edge of Lake Ilmen, straddling a small, riverine inlet that hugged to its’ perimeter. It was a location that had a very particular place in the history of the Interregnum, but one Mic hadn’t thought about in some time. The thing of it was…in a world where your memories lurked in the shadows of your mind, plotting and preparing to drag you out of the present and into the past…the Purge of Novgorod remained so unfathomably, unassailably weird, that when people spoke about it, it carried less…the resonance of a historical event and more that of a ghost story. Like Kroatoan. Like Chernobyl. Like Manchester. Events centred on place, that never needed context. You just…said the word, and people knew. You couldn’t say the word without them knowing. The word itself became branded. Recursive. Haunted. Mic reached down, pulling her purse into her lap and fishing around for her recorder. She held it up near her mouth.

“Novgorod as a liminal space. Maybe the only place where the Echoes seem to exist externally. Less about interviewing people than interviewing the location, I guess? Thinking back to Carter talking about Locuses. In a sense…Novgorod as a Locus relative to SeReS’ place in the world; where significance is assigned in absentia? Maybe that’s something? Why is it called ‘The Purge’? No…known signs of violence, or ideology, not even any concrete link to SeReS outside…chronology. So why ‘The Purge of Novgorod’? Agency being assigned to absence is interesting, maybe?” Mic paused, considering: “Miguel, can we go on the record?”

“Certainly, Mic.”

“Have the Orphean Collective been involved in investigating The Purge?”

“When Novgorod was still being investigated, certainly: we had teams involved in the overall Interim Authority effort. However…”

“Nothing was ever found?”

“No bodies, no footage…nothing.”

“Fucking eerie.”

“And confounding,” Miguel nodded. “There were over two hundred thousand inhabitants of Veliky Novgorod, directly preceding the purge. Reducing the scenario to pure logistics…taking out the human element: how is it technically possible that two hundred thousand people disappeared - whether killed or transported - without leaving...traces?”

“Any…considerations worth considering?” She smirked over at him, earning a wry smile in reply:

“Any mystery accumulates theorisation. And when a thing is wholly unexplainable, logically, it’s tempting to veer…sideways.”

“Sideways into…”

“Mysticism. Fantasy. Religion.”

“Potatoes, po-tah-toes…” Vi murmured from the back seat. Miguel shrugged.

“These Venn diagrams overlap considerably, it’s true.” He admitted. “And while the absence of evidence is not an evidence of absence, it is, in a sense, a red flag for speculation. If you can’t know what you don’t know, any conclusions you might reach become self-soothing. I don’t know about you, Michelle, but I don’t appreciate being…soothed.” Mic met Miguel’s eyes. They shared a look which dragged on just a little too long, forcing Mic to look away and out the window, clicking off the recorder and folding her arms across her chest.

“Yeah. Same.” She said quietly to herself, angling one elbow upwards and bringing her hand to rest on her shoulder…pushing and squeezing absent-mindedly against the ache.

Their first stop was on the outskirts of the city. The skyline was lowset. Mic scanned, seeing…little but forest and scrubland, unmaintained, growing into an organised meshwork of suburban streets, housing, and small clusters of medium density buildings. A thin sheen of white coated the city. Off in the distance, onion-spires dusted with snow and thick, terracotta-orange Kremlin walls - seeming to faintly glow against the monochrome white - punctuated the vista. Mic, Vi and Miguel slowly opened the doors and poured themselves out of the car.

“It’s like walking into fucking…cold storage…” Mic shivered violently. Vi held out her trench coat, which Mic pulled on at speed, hugging it around herself.

“Let’s get inside.” Miguel ushered Mic and Vi towards the door, leaning in to pull it open for them before entering himself. The interior was humble. Warm-but-not-quite-warm-enough. The walls were aged beige paint poorly layered onto concrete, and at the far side of the room was a large, enclosed fireplace stacked full of ember-ridden wood, glowing gently and silently with a rhythmic, orange pulse. Near the fireplace was a simple wooden table and several chairs. In one of the chairs sat a man - a full head of grey hair atop jarringly youthful features - wearing a tweed vest and long-sleeved white button-up shirt, sensible khaki slacks and brogued black leather shoes. He was writing longhand on some loose sheets of paper and looked up as they approached with an amiable smile. Mic’s immediate read was that he looked British; vaguely stuffy; absolutely an academic of some kind.

“Mister Ablentegre,” He stood up. Mic nodded to herself: definitely British. The academia and stuffiness arguments were also gaining ground.

“Ken,” Miguel strode ahead, leaning over the table to shake Ken’s hand. “This is Michelle Reid, the journalist who will be interviewing you, today.

“Very good.” Ken nodded towards Mic, maintaining his smile.

“And this is Michelle’s partner, Violet. She and I will be taking advantage of the facilities whilst you two chat.”

“Facilities?” Vi raised an eyebrow.

“There’s an adjoining Guest House, for whoever’s on-site.” Miguel elaborated. “Showers. Kitchen - “

“ - Sold.” Vi shrugged.

“We’ll leave you to it, then.” Miguel nodded to Vi, leading her through the door and into the next room, leaving Mic standing across from Ken.

“They uh…” Ken smirked, running a finger up the bridge of his nose to adjust his glasses: “They haven’t told you why you’re speaking to me, have they?”

“I didn’t even know the agenda for the day.” Mic admitted with a small smile, sitting across the table from Ken.

“Tea?” He asked. “May as well, while I’m up?”

“Sure, what are we having?”

“Earl Grey.” Ken wandered over to the small armoire in the corner of the room: just large enough to accomodate some mugs and a kettle under a thin tablecloth over its’ top.

“Yeah, because of course we are.” Mic muttered under her breath. Louder, she said: “Sounds lovely, thank you. One sugar and quite a lot of milk, please? Like…quite a lot of milk. Take however much you think is a bit excessive and add fifty percent.”

“So you’re Australian?”

“That better not be - “

“No, nothing to do with how you take your tea. Just a change of topic.”

“Yes, from Melbourne originally. I’ve been living in Manchester since…”

“SeReS?”

“Mmm.” Mic nodded as Ken returned with the tea.

“Technically…” He started, taking his seat: “Tea is still on the Interim Authority list of Controlled Recursion Triggers. We get special dispensation for it from the Self-ID Bureau, you see - "

“ - Because you told them you needed it to not go Acute?” they exchanged a knowing smirk.

“Well, it was only half a lie. I am English, after all. I expect I very much might go insane and start blowing things up without the occasional spot of tea.”

“Pity they won’t make allowances like that for coffee. They treat it like it’s crack.”

“In fairness…it might as well be, in the world in which we find ourselves.” Ken turned in his seat slightly, and the two of them sat in silence, staring at the slowly smouldering fire.

“So why am I interviewing you, today?” Mic asked.

“Well I imagine it’s because I happened to be living in Novgorod at the time of the Purge.” Ken explained neutrally, a small smile creeping onto his face as Mic attempted heroically to avoid spit-taking her Earl Grey.

“I’m sorry, what?!” She coughed: “The Purge was - "

“ - I was out of town at the time. We - my partner and I - were spending a few days in Yaroslavl, though he returned home early. A…family emergency, as it were. His mother had fallen ill, but we decided I would stay and see out the trip.” Mic watched as Ken’s words began to slightly distend, becoming thick like molasses. She felt a sense of distance growing between them. His eye twitched, and a mildly annoyed expression flickered across his face, before he sharply inhaled and turned to her directly, placing both hands on the table directly in front of himself. Mic silently observed the way his arms seemed to lock in place, as if every muscle had rippled into tense, unified structures.

“It’s okay.” Mic reassured him.

“I need to take a moment.” Ken met her eyes apologetically. Mic shook her head.

“That’s fine. Would you like me to run through the interview stuff? Get the bureaucracy out of the way?”

“Please.” He sighed.

“Okay.” Mic went for her purse, pulling out the recorder and placing it on the table between them, flicking it on. “So, Ken. Is that short for Kenneth?”

“Yes. Kenneth Roberts.”

“Would it be okay if I asked you to state for the record that you consent to my recording this interview, and using the content of this discussion for the story I’m writing?”

“Of course, Michelle - "

“ - You can call me ‘Mic’.”

“Certainly, Mic. I’m happy to provide my enthusiastic consent for you to both record and use my words in relation to whatever project or projects you have in mind.” Kenneth sighed again. Mic took a moment, then reached out. She let her hand hover above his, making knowing eye contact. He gave her a fraction of a nod. She let her hand drop and sit on his.

“When it all kicked off…” Mic started slowly: “I was with someone. Her name was Lia. I’m not sure how relatable this is, but it was…simultaneously something that was pretty unhealthy for me, emotionally, and also the only thing holding me emotionally together for…quite some time.” Ken nodded slowly.

“Quite relatable, I think you’ll find.”

“Yeah. I think a lot of us have one of those. At least one.” Mic murmured, maintaining eye contact. “We got separated, in the lead-up to the Battle of Manchester. I remember…explosions, and fighting in the streets, and the army doing…” Mic flinched slightly as a sharp shard of recollection tried to force its way back into the present. She clamped down on it, slowly raising her unoccupied hand to rest on her shoulder. She felt her knee tensing, her foot wanting to tap. She took a deep breath and then continued. “Well, doing what they did. And I couldn’t find her. That was all I cared about, all through it. And um…I never…did find her, y’know?” Ken pulled one of his hands out of the pile, laying it over Mic’s. They just sat there for a few moments, hands sandwiched together.

“Okay. Very good.” Ken breathed. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Of course.” Mic nodded. “Can I ask what drew you to Novgorod, initially?”

“Money.” Ken stared plainly at Mic.

“Oh?”

“Yes, there was a grant, and my part of it would have been…generous. I had the qualifications. So I applied, was accepted, and came to Novgorod. It was not exciting work. Largely archival processing, artifacts and what-have-you. The contract was for six months, and I had plans to use the money to do something a little more…flavoursome. No one gets into archaeology for the job they end up doing, you see. I imagine journalism isn’t so different. You have these dreams of doing amazing things in amazing places, and you find yourself - “

“ - Running around central England, whoring out your trauma to sociopath doctors and getting stiffed on the vig.” Mic paused, head lolling to the side: “Sorry, that came out a little more ‘hard-boiled’ than I was going for, but yes - that is to say - I get it.”

“Well quite.” Ken nodded. The two extracted their hands from one anothers’, going back to quietly sipping tea.

“What was your plan, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’d always wanted to be part of a real dig. Excavating a hidden, long-forgotten world, and bringing things into the light of day for all the world to marvel at; that sort of thing?” He smiled ironically. “A child’s fantasy, I know. But a good one. A nostalgic one. And I did have it in my head that, after Russia, I might bargain my way into something along those lines. I had romantic notions of…offering myself up for very little, just to be a part of it.”

“But this didn’t end up happening. Because of SeReS?” Mic hazarded.

“No, in fact. This was some time prior. It was…because of Arkadi. And whatever you have in mind, it was equally as…silly and cliched. A whirlwind romance…stolen kisses…family drama, past partners returning, ultimatums given, boundaries set, choices made; it was, in short…not the kind of thing a repressed, professionally ambitious young Englishman like myself had seen as being remotely on the cards. I loved him deeply un-Britishly.” Ken smiled wistfully. “And the last thing I said to him, as he was leaving the Hotel in Yaroslavl was ‘Don’t forget to pick up the boring cardamon Pryaniki for your mother on the way home’. And then he was gone.”

“Why do mums always like boring biscuits?” Mic placed a hand back over Ken’s, rubbing slowly, her mouth rearranging into a tight little smile, directly below oversized, pained eyes.

“I hope she’s enjoying her Pryaniki in hell.” Ken chuckled with a small sniffle. “She always hated me for…well, you know.” Mic nodded.

“Pretty sure I do, yeah.”

“So.” Ken stated, slightly too loudly, as if trying to force additional punctuation into the room by force of will: “That night would later become known as ‘The Purge of Novgorod’. Over two hundred thousand souls…gone. Somehow.”

“So you…went back?”

“Well…” Ken smiled sadly: “What else was I to do? It was our home.”

“Can I ask - “

“ - Yes, of course. I still think about it. Russians aren’t what I would call a…superstitious people, but they are…something. And they hated Novgorod from minute-one. They simply…would not address the situation. Which is why they outsourced it. Which is why the Orphean Collective and Interim Authority ended up here. Which is how I ended up with my job.”

“And what, specifically, is your job?” Mic asked. Ken smirked.

“Oh, largely archival processing and what-have-you?”

“Oh really?” Mic smiled across the table. Ken nodded.

“The thing of it is, the Russians don’t want a great deal to do with Novgorod. But everyone else does. In relation to the Echoes, it’s developed a sort of…mythic significance. Think…Pompeii?”

“Ahh. Yeah, I sort of see that. So we’re saying…there’s an industry, there.” Ken nodded, a sort of…distant, blank expression washing over his face.

“The truth is, Mic, there’s nothing to see here. Not in the way most people think of it. There’s simply…absence. I should know. I have sat here, in this sad little room, for years now. I travel into town, collect and catalogue items for shipping, which are then sold at exorbitant prices to galleries, museums, and private collectors.”

“So why do you stay?” Mic asked. Ken shrugged.

“Because this is our home.”

“It must be difficult, with the Echoes?”

“It would be harder anywhere else.” He admitted. “I don’t really…want things, anymore. That ambitious young man is gone, you see. The thing about loss, is it doesn’t just take what it takes. Loss is greedy. It takes more than it should, but never everything. Without Arkadi, in some ways…I feel like all I am now is the absence of him. An Echo of myself, perhaps?” He smiled and rolled his eyes: “This is what he’s done to me. I’m so sorry, Michelle - you came here looking for an interview about The Purge, and you got queer poetry - I do apologise.”

“Ken, I’m here for stories. About experiences with SeReS. This isn’t investigative, this is exploratory. This is exactly what I’m looking for.” He nodded slowly, sniffling again.

“The thing I’ve noticed about Novgorod, from dealing with the interest from the outside world in what was left behind, is…” Ken paused, considering: “There seems to be an obsession with the notion that there must be either deeper meaning, or some profound explanation, here. Ironically, it feels like I’m on the great archaeological dig of my dreams, only…I’m the only one who understands that there’s nothing to find beneath the sand.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Well, perhaps it’s more nuanced than there being nothing to find. Perhaps my feeling is that there’s nothing for us to find.”

“As in…beyond what we’re capable of finding? Like we don’t have the scientific capability?”

“It’s difficult to articulate my feelings on this. I suppose what I would say is that…there’s a difference between ‘knowable’ and ‘ours to know’. This is the thing a lot of people don’t understand about science: not so much the practice of it as the history. The current state of the field. The state of the field is a map. Scientific method is a ‘key’ to understanding the map. And that’s all well and good. But unlike a literal map, the geography is subject to change. As a species, I don’t believe we’ve quite reconciled what SeReS did to that map. The Battle of Manchester, and everything that happened after: The Purge of Novgorod, the Interregnum Wars, the rise of the Orphean Collective, the establishment of the Interim Authority, the Eastern Counterpoint, the Subaltern Shift…it all had the cumulative effect of casting vast areas of the Cartography of our understanding of ourselves into unmapped shadow. And in some areas of that shadow…there be dragons.” Ken shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. “As they say.”

“But are historical events really ‘science’?” Mic raised an eyebrow.

“They are when they’re symptoms, are they not?” Ken raised one right back. “It’s all on account of Sensory Recursion Syndrome. That’s the ‘science’, and our recent history was the proof that broke the pre-existing theory.”

“Which theory?”

“The one about us having the first clue who we are as a species, and what our place in this universe is.”

“But that idea is older than SeReS, no? Religion, mythology…hell, even just how pervasive concepts like ghosts and vampires and such are. Also, more recently, the way cosmic horror resonates with people; Lovecraft’s work for example. I guess a counterargument would be that humans have a fairly well documented history of obsession with the uh…I guess you could call it the um…schism between ‘knowable’ versus ‘ours to know’? Like…this isn’t recent. Isn’t this just the latest example of a scientific phenomena scaring people to the extent that they mythicise it into abstraction?” Ken looked directly at Mic’s shoulder and smiled grimly. She hadn’t even realised she was squeezing it.

“I think you might be missing my point. I wasn’t saying SeReS changed things. I was saying it reminded us of what we are. What we aren’t. How little we know. How little we, perhaps, ultimately, can know. When people mythicise the unknown, it’s, again, a symptom. In this case? A symptom of existential dread. Functionally, it’s a form of narrativised vertigo, I suppose…making up stories about the water being shallow, warm, calm, directly after a moment of lucidity regarding how small your boat is…how far from land you are…how deep the ocean beneath you might be…what might lurk there…and what might happen if it finds you.”

“Okay, so you’re not saying the world became unknowable. You’re saying we were reminded that it always was.”

“Essentially, yes.”

“And you’re saying that the difference between ‘unknowable’ and ‘not ours to know’ isn’t splitting hairs, it’s about how…small we are. How some things, we just lack the…” Mic trailed off, struggling for words.

“Yes, it’s hard to find an exact word for it, isn’t it? I suppose about as close as I’ve ever gotten is…that it sometimes feels like we’re too small. That there’s a problem of scale, or capacity: something in that realm. And it’s interesting you bring up Lovecraft, because I think that’s the differentiating factor in that brand of mythology, as well: it’s not that there are monsters. Not really. It’s that those monsters are mirrors that reflect our scale relative to the vastness of that which isn’t ours to know.” He took another sip of tea. “Y’know?”

“You’re kind of flippant about it,” Mic frowned. “It’s actually pretty heavy, when you think about it.”

“First time in Russia, hmm?” Ken raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bit like that, here. You must…embrace your fundamental insignificance in the face of a vast and uncaring universe - maybe have a tea, read some Dostoevsky - and get on with your day. Because what else are you going to do?”

“I dunno, having an existential crisis seems like a fairly solid reaction?”

“Ahh, an adherent to the French school.” He nodded sagely.

“I don’t know what that means.” Mic admitted.

“It’s fine.” Ken assured her. “I think I’ve just been here too long. Been alone too long. Sometimes I wonder if…” He shook his head with a sad smile: “Sometimes I wonder if it’s easier to leave a person behind than the ghost of them. If we’re so desperate to fill the absence of what once was with meaning, that we end up imbuing what haunts us with the kind of power and hold it never could have had while they were still present. Maybe that’s what the Echoes are, ultimately. The power we allow loss to have over us. The presences we create of absences.” Ken shrugged. “It feels like we should be drinking.”

“I could drink.” Mic shrugged.

“You’re Australian. Of course you could.” Ken shot her a teasing, affectionate little smile.

“Hey. You got me. We’ll have some vodka, and then I’ll take a shower. And then…”

“Oh.” Ken raised an eyebrow: “You’re planning to go into the city?”

“Well we came all this way, so…” Mic trailed off.

“Just…” He trailed off. “Perception has a history. Particularly here.”

“Not sure I understand.”

“Not sure I do either.” He frowned. “Just…know your triggers, okay?” Mic slowly nodded.

“Don’t worry. I’m…better at this than anyone.”

Veliky Novgorod

It was nearing sunset when Mic, Miguel and Vi had returned to the car to venture down into Novgorod itself. Miguel drove. Mic quietly joined Vi in the back seat, nestling into her. Vi stroked her hair silently as they drove, gazing pensively out into the sea of white fog, backlit with an eerie orange glow from the setting sun behind a featureless morass of cloud.

“Are you okay?” Vi murmured to Mic.

“Not so much.” Mic admitted. “It feels like things are slowing down. In spite of the jet-lag…I’ve had enough sleep. Miguel’s schedule means I’m…eating regularly. All the travel, it’s like I have time to stop, to think, to breath…”

“Oh, the horror.”

“Don’t.” Mic poked Vi in the ribs, making her flinch, which made Mic smile, before manoeuvring her hand higher, folding it over the contours of her own shoulder and twisting it like a lever. “Ow.” She squeaked.

“I know it’s hard for you when things get…” Vi chuckled to herself: “Calm.”

“Mmm.” Mic nodded, nuzzling into her.

“The last few days before we left were…”

“Insane?”

“Insane.” Vi nodded. “You need to pace yourself. We’ve got plenty of drama on the horizon.”

“Promise, baby?”

“The two of us, on the run together? Can pretty much guarantee it, yeah.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Vi leant down to kiss Mic softly on the forehead. Mic proffered her best impression of a purr, and Vi laughed quietly to herself.

“You’re the most trans-coded cis girl, I swear.”

“So how do we want to handle this?” Miguel asked from the front. Mic shifted uncomfortably, frowning, feeling like a spell had been broken.

“Um…I figure we just…walk around? Ken said there’s nothing to see here. I believe him. But the absence is the point, so…”

“You want to feel it.” Miguel nodded.

“I want to see how it Echoes.” Mic clarified.

“Ahh.”

“So we’re doing Gonzo.” Vi observed.

“Pretty much.”

“Should we split up, then? Empty city…creepy, but safe.”

“There are wolves in Novgorod.” Miguel noted casually. “When the people moved out, nature moved in.”

“Nature abhors a vacuum.” Mic shrugged. The car pulled to a stop at the entry to a long street, lined in either side with houses. “Stay here. Keep an eye on me. I won’t go far, I just want to try something.”

“Hand on doorknob, Mic.” Miguel warned.

“Always.” She nodded.

The streets had narrowed as scrub encroached on the margins. boots crunching down on snow, the resistance of bitumen beneath: Mic walked slowly and cautiously, simultaneously claustrophobic and agoraphobic. She tried to imagine it the way it might have been; stripping back the intrusive nature of it all, visualising neat curbs, exposed pavement, curated suburban calm.

This was a mistake.

Mic stopped, halfway through a tentative footfall, watching as the streets filled with cars and occasional pedestrians, and the light-profile shifted from dusk to day.

“Oh no,” She breathed, going to raise her hand to her shoulder, but pausing - consciously - deciding she could ride it out, manage it. She gritted her teeth and set her feet. “Was this what it was like, before the purge?” She murmured to herself. A car drove past her. Close. No sound: Mic grabbed onto the silence like a buoy, latching onto the weirdness. From down the street, a stranger in an oversized coat raised a hand in a brisk, perfunctory wave. Reflexively, Mic started to raise a hand then thought better of it. Her gaze sharpened, picking out the dissonance. The stranger’s footsteps left no prints in the snow. A woman, crouched down and speaking to a child, but no sound of voices. Mic slowly walked towards the front of a nearby house. There was a small table and chairs out the front. Icicles hung from the undersides. Mic shivered as she sat, feeling the cold surface melt through her jeans and into her body. Grounding. Reality. Good.

“Hi baby.” Mic heard. She refused to look back at the source of the voice. Lia rounded the table and sat across from her, slumping down into the rickety chair - without sound - and tracing a finger along the edge of the table - without leaving marks.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.” Mic admitted, still refusing to look at Lia directly.

“Had something better to do, did you?” Lia chuckled. There was a hint of distance - almost like reverb - underlining the voice. The kind of unfixed-ness you hear but can’t quite process when a speaker simulates sound coming from a place removed from its actual location.

“No, it’s just…this is how it happens, y’know?”

“I thought you were better at this than anyone.”

“No one’s this good. This is how you lose the war. The second the Echoes start being what didn’t happen, the could’ve-beens and maybe-were’s…”

“How would you know what going Acute is like?”

“You know how I know.” Mic stated quietly, finally looking over at her directly. Lia smiled. There was affection there, but also…absence. It was as if Mic could see through her to the overgrown scrub and the twilight half-light. Lia’s lips moved, but there was no sound, anymore. Mic fought the urge to lean forward, to push to hear the nothing floating between them. With a grunt, she forced her hand up to her shoulder, squeezing viciously, recalibrating frantically, her eyes squeezing shut and her mouth involuntarily pulling open. The pain provoked tears, the tears went from hot to cold in milliseconds, ice against her cheeks. Mic pulled her hand back, opening her eyes. She sat in the ashen chiaroscuro of it all, brush and scrub pushing in at her from the margins of the snow-addled porch. For a split second, she thought she could still see Lia sitting across from her - still and smiling, like burn-in on an LCD screen - and then she was gone. Mic shivered.

“Time to go.” She hissed through gritted teeth, getting up and walking back towards the car. She had what she needed. As she trekked back through the snow, with shaky, numb fingers, she rifled through her bag for her recorder, raising it to her face and pressing the ‘record’ button: “Not a location. A lack of one. Not a ‘Purge’. An emptying out. They should concrete this place up like Chernobyl.” Mic thought of Ken as she reached the car and went for the handle of the left side back door: “Here there be dragons.”