Oriole's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The mutant doesn't leave. Oriole watches it through the gap in the door frame, that massive body settling into a slow circuit around the building. Three times in the first hour. Four in the second. She carves while she waits, but the names blur together after a while, and her hand starts to cramp. The creature has nowhere else to be, apparently. Neither does she. But sitting still has never been her strong suit, and the broadcasting equipment along the back wall catches her eye. Dusty and old, sure. But the bunker taught her how things like this work. If she can get it running, she might be able to do something with it. Leave her voice somewhere it can't be erased. The mutant can wait outside all it wants. She's got work to do. The transmitter box is heavier than it looks. Oriole drags it away from the wall, checking the cables that snake behind it. Most are frayed, but a few look intact. She finds a power source in the corner, a generator that coughs twice before turning over. The lights flicker on overhead, dim and yellow. The box hums when she flips the first switch, then the second. A dial glows green. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. On the shelf beside the equipment, a rack of old albums leans at an angle, cases cracked and faded. She pulls one free and slides the disc into the player. Music was something they had in the bunker, played through crackling speakers during meals. If this works, someone might hear it. Might know people were here once, making noise. The first track starts with static, then a guitar. Oriole adjusts the frequency dial until the sound clears. She cranks the volume up and watches the meters jump. Outside, the mutant stops mid-step. Its head swivels toward the building, nostrils flaring. The music spills out through cracks in the walls, through the broken window high up near the ceiling. The creature moves closer, then stops again. It doesn't attack. It just stands there, listening. Oriole keeps her hand on the dial, her heart pounding. The song builds, drums and bass filling the small room, and she realizes she's smiling. This is louder than any name carved into concrete. This is proof that fills the air, that travels farther than she ever could on foot. The mutant shifts its weight but doesn't circle anymore. It stays put, ears twitching. When the song ends, Oriole doesn't turn the equipment off. She queues up another album, then another. The mutant settles onto the sand outside, massive and still, like it's waiting for the next track. She doesn't know if it understands music or just finds it strange, but it doesn't matter. What matters is this: anyone passing through this empty stretch of desert will hear something human. They'll know someone was here, choosing songs, turning dials, refusing to be silent. The broadcast might reach for miles or just a few feet. Either way, she's not just carving her existence into walls anymore. She's sending it out into the world, and the world is going to listen whether it wants to or not. When dawn comes and the mutant finally moves on, Oriole will still be here, playing every album on that rack until the generator runs dry.