Masked with small hands

The tunnels stretched out before him, dimly lit by the occasional flickering bulb that hadn’t been replaced in decades. Clint moved with caution, his footsteps echoing through the narrow passages as he wove deeper into Nola City’s forgotten bowels. He kept one hand on his tool bag with his fingers brushing the small device hidden inside, as if to reassure himself it was still there. With each step, he felt like he was leaving his old life further behind. Like he was stepping into a place that time had left untouched.

Down here, everything was different. New City was built for efficiency and convenience, with every surface smooth and clean, with every light unwavering and bright. But Nola City was rough. Layered with grime, and every wall, every pipe, seemed to carry a history that Clint could almost feel beneath his fingertips.

The smell was the first thing that hit him, it was a heavy, earthy dampness mixed with rust and rot, but not a bad kind of rot. It was so thick he could almost taste it. Thin strands of moss clung to the cracks in the walls, and here and there, vines snaked through breaks in the concrete, reaching out like fingers reaching for the starry sky. There was life here, hidden and wild. Defiantly pushing back against the decay.

Clint let out a shaky breath, while feeling his tension ease slightly as he ventured deeper. He wasn’t quite sure where he was headed. He only knew that he needed somewhere safe, somewhere far enough from the enforcers’ reach. He wanted somewhere he could listen to that music again without fear.

He scanned his surroundings, and for the first time he realized how quiet it was. But it wasn’t the silence he knew from the city above, not bothering. No, here, the quiet was thick. Filled with thousands of small sounds: the slow drip of water in the distance, the faint hum of wind moving through unnoticed cracks, the soft rustle of small creatures scurrying around in the shadows. It was the kind of silence that felt alive.

Clint couldn’t help himself from reaching into his tool bag, pulling out the enhancer he used to listen for leaks in the pipes. Pressed to his ear, he placed it against the nearest wall, just as he had a thousand times before. But this time, instead of the usual faint hisses and groans, he heard something else. The wall was buzzing and humming, with some distant resonance. He followed the sound, tracing his hand along the wall as he walked, letting the shy vibrations guide him deeper into the darkened tunnels.

Soon, he stumbled upon a larger chamber, lit only by a single dying bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were covered in faded posters, edges curling with age. Their images smeared and warped by years of moisture. He could just make out faint faces. Frozen smiles, people laughing and playing instruments he didn’t recognize. Some held strange devices, while others stood in crowds. They were looking up at something unseen, with expressions of joy and awe on their faces.

He moved closer, while peering at one of the posters. “Live Music Tonight! At Fritz & Sal’s Jazz Club” it read, in bright and stylized letters, though much of it had faded beyond recognition. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the paper to feel its brittle texture beneath his touch.

It felt surreal, like he was staring into a different world. It seemed to have been a time when people gathered to share in something beautiful. A time when sound and music was a part of life.

Clint took a gentle step back, the images left a strange feeling in his chest, almost like nostalgia. He’d never seen these things before, but something about them stirred inside of him, as if he were missing something he’d never known he’d lost.

He was about to turn away when he noticed a small, narrow passage tucked into the corner of the chamber. Almost hidden behind layers of rusted piping. His curiosity silently sparked, he squeezed through the tight space. Ducking beneath the low-hanging pipes and maneuvering around fallen debris.

On the other side, he found himself in a vast room. With the ceiling soaring high above, shrouded in shadows. The faint glint of metal caught his eye, it looked like a stage of sorts. With old and rusted stands, some toppled over, others still standing tall, coated in thick dust. Generous rows of empty seats stretched out before it, their cushions torn and cold, as if waiting for an audience that would never return.

In the silence, Clint pulled the device from his bag, holding it in his dirty hands. It felt oddly heavy here, in this place where music had once filled the air. He turned it over and pressed the familiar button with hope that it would bring the sound back to life.

For a moment, nothing happened. He held his breath with a heavy chest, feeling the weight of the empty room pressing in, resting on his frail shoulders. And then, crackling through the device’s old speaker the music began once again. The notes echoed through the vast and empty space, swirling around him. Filling the chamber with a life that defied its decay, the trumpet blared sharp and bright, with the drums as a steady heartbeat. The saxophone’s low, mournful notes weaving through them all.

Clint closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. Here, in the forgotten heart of Nola City, he was surrounded by relics of a time that had been buried and erased. He felt something awaken within him. The music wasn’t just sound. It was memory, longing, joy, and sorrow, all woven together in a way he’d never thought possible.

As the last notes faded into the shadows, Clint opened his glossy eyes, with a mixture of dirt and tears in his eyelashes. His heart was pounding in the silence. He knew that he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t go back. This was only the beginning.

Clint took a deep steadying breath, to let the lingering music notes fade into his mind, when a sudden rustling sound broke the silence. His heart skipped a beat as he spun around, flailing his arms, eyes wide opened scanning the dark edges of the chamber. From behind a stack of overturned chairs, he saw something darted into view, a flash of fur with beady eyes catching the faint light.

He stumbled back, eyes wide. The creature’s small, masked face peered up at him, twitching with curiosity. Clint had never before seen anything like it. It was small and hunched, with its tiny hands clutching at something shiny it had previously scooped up from the ground. Its striped tail flicked behind it as it sniffed through the air, with its gaze locked in on Clint.

Clint’s heart pounded as he backed away from the unknown creature, which was now boldly edging closer. Its small and gleaming eyes locked onto him. It lifted a tiny hand, reaching toward him as if inspecting him. For a brief but absurd moment, Clint almost felt like the thing understood him. That it was curious, but he quickly shook off the feeling. He knew when he was being hunted.

The creature’s eyes gleamed and Clint’s instinct took over. He swiftly spun around and bolted, adrenaline surging through him as he fled down the dark and narrow tunnel. He dodged rusted pipes and ducked low-hanging beams, with his footsteps echoing wildly in the confined space. His breaths came short and fast. Following every instinct screaming at him to put as much distance between himself and that unsettling creature as possible. He thought he could hear it skittering around him, the faint patter of tiny claws echoing through the hollow space.

In his frantic run something slipped from his tired grip. His heart sunk as he felt the weight of the music device vanish from his hand. He stopped and turned. Feeling the cool metal under his fingertips as he scooped it up, but he couldn’t ignore the sharp crack that had split across its casing. Holding it tightly, he took one last look back, then kept running. Though this time with his fingers clamped around the device as though it held the only tether to a hidden part of himself he’d just begun to discover.