LOFTER-网易轻博

January 3rd, 1995

The rest of the day unraveled into a blur of motions—methodical, necessary, and numbing in their repetition. They combed the field again, line by line, boots leaving imprints in the scorched earth as deputies bagged evidence, yellow flags planted like morbid markers. Wooden trinkets were gathered, symbols cataloged,every detail logged into neat, lifeless reports that couldn't capture the unease that seeped into the place.

Marty managed the team, calling names for legwork—neighbors, friends, coworkers, anyone who could give their DB a history. The list grew long, the kind that promised sleepless nights and coffee that tasted like burnt rubber. Rust, meanwhile, remained quiet, meticulous in his observation, a living contradiction: detached yet focused, seeing threads only he could.

By sundown, the clearing was empty. The big oak tree stood alone once again, its dark silhouette now more sinister against the bruised hues of the dying sky. Marty and Rust drove away, the tires crunching the loose gravel road beneath them. The only sounds in the Crown Vic were the hum of the engine and the distant call of cicadas rising as the night rolled in.

Rust sat in his usual way—leaned against the door, his elbow propped on the window frame, hand curled below his chin. He stared out at the passing fields, his gaze looking at something far beyond them.

"People out here," Rust started, his voice low, like he was half-talking to himself. "It's like they don't even know the outside world exists. Might as well be living on the fucking moon."

Marty, caught off guard, glanced at him, curiosity flashing across his face. Rust starting a conversation? Well, there's a first time for everything.

"There's all kinds of ghettos in the world," Marty said, his voice casual, watching Rust out of the corner of his eye.

Rust glanced back at him briefly before returning his gaze to the window. "It's all one ghetto, man. Giant gutter in outer space."

The word shung in the air, stark and absolute. Marty let it sit for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, before speaking again. His tone softened, like he was admitting something he didn't want to say aloud.

"Today—that scene—that's the most fucked up thing I ever caught."

Rust didn't respond, his face shadowed in the dim light of the car's interior. Marty gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles pale in the evening glow, before turning slightly toward his partner.

"Ask you somethin'? You're a Christian, yeah?"

"No." Rust answered immediately, without so much as a flicker of hesitation.

Marty frowned, puzzled. "Well, then what do you got the cross for in your apartment?"

Rust shifted slightly, his eyes still locked outside the window. "That's a form of meditation."

"How's that?" Marty pressed, curiosity getting the better of him.

Rust exhaled through his nose, a soft sound like irritation wrapped in resignation. "I contemplate the moment in the garden. The idea of allowing your own crucifixion."

Marty glanced at him, eyebrows knit together in genuine confusion. He tried to chew on the words, but they weren't sitting right. "But you're not a Christian. So what do you believe?"

Rust turned his head, finally looking at him, the sharpness of his gaze cutting through the growing darkness. "I believe that people shouldn't talk about this type of shit at work."

"Hold on, hold on." Marty huffed out a half-laugh, part frustration, part incredulity. "Three months we've been together, I get nothin' from you. Today—what we're into now—do me a courtesy, okay? I'm not tryin' to convert you."

Rust held his gaze for a moment, his finger idly tapping against his knee. The silence stretched, just long enough to make Marty think he wouldn't answer. Then Rust spoke, his voice even, deliberate.

"Look. I consider myself a realist, all right? But in philosophical terms, I'm what's called a pessimist."

"Um, okay," Marty said slowly, drawing out the words. "What's that mean?"

Rust shifted in his seat, the faintest trace of dry humor tugging at his voice. "Means I'm bad at parties."

Marty snorted, the laugh unfiltered and quick, before he shook his head with a small smirk. "Let me tell you. You ain't great outside of parties either."

The car rattled softly as it sped down the cracked road, sunlight fading into thin streaks across the wind shield, the silence in the air lingers for a moment. 

Rust turned, his posture shifting as he decided, seemingly out of nowhere, to finally give Marty the full load. Maybe it was the day—the weight of what they saw under that oak tree, the way it clawed at the edges of something he kept buried deep. Or maybe it was just Sophia—the shadow that followed him everywhere, the ghost of her lingering on January 3rd.

His voice broke the steady hum of tires on asphalt, low and measured, a man delivering a eulogy no one had asked for.

"I think human consciousness was a tragic misstep in evolution," Rust said, his eyes locked forward, hand curled against his chin like he was lecturing a room full of empty chairs. "We became too self-aware. Nature created an aspect of nature separate from itself." He made a small gesture with his free hand, deliberate, like he was punctuating a point. "We are creatures that shouldn't exist by natural law."

Marty didn't look at him, his hands tightening slightly on the wheel. "Huh." He snorted softly, a bitter edge to his voice. "That sounds god-fucking-awful, Rust."

Rust ignored the remark, pressing on as if Marty hadn't spoken at all. "We're things that labor under the illusion of having a self. This… accretion of sensory experience and feeling." His words slowed, grinding like stones. "Programmed with total assurance that we are each somebody." He paused, letting the silence sharpen before delivering the conclusion with cold precision: "When, infact, everybody's nobody."

Marty's jaw tightened. His gaze remained locked on the road, though his voice carried the unease Rust's words had carved into him. "I wouldn't go around spouting that shit if I was you," he said. "People around here don't think that way." He raised his voice slightly, the edge of irritation creeping in. "I don't think that way."

Rust didn't wait for him to finish, his tone cutting clean through Marty's rebuttal. "I think the honorable thing for the species to do is deny our programming. Stop reproducing. Walk hand in hand into extinction."

His gaze drifted back to the passing scenery, his voice taking on an eerie softness, like he was speaking a quiet prayer. "One last midnight, brothers and sisters." He blinked slowly. "Opting out of a raw deal."

The silence that followed sat heavy in the car, pressing against them both. Marty stared straight ahead, his face visibly unsettled now, the tension in his jaw drawing sharper. Finally, he broke it.

"So what's the point of getting out of bed in the morning?"

Rust didn't hesitate. "I tell myself I bear witness."

The answer sat there a second too long before Rust continued.

"But the real answer is that it's obviously my programming." He glanced back at Marty, his face devoid of any shift in expression as he delivered the final line. "And I lack the constitution for suicide."

The words fell like a lead weight.

Marty's head turned slightly, his mouth pulling into a grimace that hovered between disbelief and frustration. "My luck, I picked today to get to know you." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Three months, I don't hear a word from you, and—"

"You asked," Rust cut in with a small shrug, unbothered.

"Yeah." Marty huffed, half a laugh, half an exhale. "And now I'm begging you to shut the fuck up." 

Rust didn't answer, just leaned back against the window, eyes following the horizon as if nothing had happened. The car slipped back into silence, the hum of the engine filling the spaces between them. Marty stared at the road, breathing slow and steady through his nose, trying to shake off the conversation.

Rust broke the silence again, almost as an afterthought. "I get a bad taste in my mouthout here." His voice was quieter, "Aluminum. Ash. Like you can smell the psychosphere."

Marty let out a long, deliberate breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I got an idea," he said, his tone a mix of exhaustion and irritation. "Let's make the car a place of silent reflection from now on, okay?"

Rust didn't respond right away. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze catching a sign in the distance—a large billboard with bright white letters against a faded black backdrop. WHO MURDERED THAT LITTLE GIRL?

He turned back to Marty, shifting the topic without warning, as if knowing how far he could push before the thread snapped. "What should I bring for dinner?"

The sudden, normal question threw Marty off for half a second. He glanced at Rust, brows raised, the corners of his mouth twitching into something halfway to amusement. "A bottle of wine would be nice, I guess."

"I don't drink."

Marty rolled his eyes, letting his voice drop back into irritation, though its oftened now. "Well, no, of course not, Rust." He shook his head. "Listen. When you're at my house, I want you to chill the fuck out. Don't even mention any of that bullshit you just said to me. Maggie doesn't need to hear it."

"Of course not, Marty." Rust's reply came quick, his tone flat and humorless. "I'm notsome kind of maniac, all right? I mean, for fuck's sake."

Marty shook his head again, exhaling as the silence returned. Rust turned his gaze back to the window, the fields rolling by as the dark settled in.