Devon Duncan's world was a silent scream.
Not a cry of fear. One of persistent deliberate importance. It thrummed against his teeth. It beat behind his eyes a force from Cognitive Engagement Scores that blinked, green and reproachful on every digital display. His personal score—a 68%—shone from a corner of his apartment's primary window throwing a ghastly light over Brussels at daybreak. Beneath Dynamic Municipalities buzzed. Augmented-reality murals, on the walls of buildings morphed, calling for analysis. Public seating provided talks about civic responsibility if you remained seated, for an extended time. Monotony wasn't merely unsociable; it was a disorder. Attention Deficiency Disorder— Variant. A condition that could be treated.
He worked as an analyst, within Europol's Metaphysical Threat Division, a designation that seemed more and more like a farce. His role involved tracking remnants of a conflict his parents generation had defeated. Somnum had collapsed. Belphegor was widely accepted as a legend. Still there he stood, analyzing reverberations.
Burnout was once an expression. Nowadays it was termed "Engagement Fatigue " accompanied by a treatment plan involving patches and compulsory interactive therapy. Devon removed the patch from the night its synthetic boost worn out exposing irritated skin. He sensed emptiness within, a container eroded by pointless stimuli.
Before he had completed his synthetic coffee, his manager, Pamela Pauline showed up on his wall-screen. Her picture was clear. Her Engagement Score was a perfect 94%.
"Duncan. Have you reviewed the Brussels case file? Kale Kane. Philosophy professor at the Free University. Discovered unresponsive and catatonic. No evident physical reason. His public participation statistics…" she hesitated, a flash of bureaucratic disdain crossing her expression "…had been exceptionally poor, for several months. Initial diagnosis is severe ADD-A. Yet there's an irregularity."
Devons personal poor score lingered at the edge of his mind. "Irregularity?"
"His personal manuscript. Not digitized. Handwritten. Our scanners detected… symbols along the edges. Mathematical, yet not quite. I'm marking it for you to examine. It might be nothing.. It could represent some novel aesthetic cult." She uttered ' cult' like others might say 'waste disposal.' An irritant. "Your on-site attendance is necessary at his apartment. Something, in the scene doesn't register correctly with our sensors. Maybe a human observer will catch what algorithms overlook."
Her picture vanished. A command appeared instead: Attend. Observe. Participate.
Kale Kane's apartment resembled a gallery of silence. That was the impression Devon had—a deep plush stillness that absorbed the constant city drone beyond the walls. It seemed not merely a lack of noise. Rather an existence. A weightiness.
The forensic scanners had. Left their flashing lights no longer present. The apartment was compact and minimalistic. No moving wallscreens, no decorations. Only old paper books, a breach of the Dynamic Content Ordinances. At the heart of the wooden floor a slight mark endured where a body had rested.
Devon's heartbeat felt thunderous in this space. He approached a desk. Kane's manuscript rested beneath a plastic cover. The writing was thick contemplative: "On the Ethical Duty of Doing Nothing in a Society.". The margins… Pamela had been correct. They teemed with twisting annotations. Curves bent, into unfathomable shapes. These were not problems to be cracked; they were puzzles to be… embraced. Gazing at them caused Devon's mind, a restless hummingbird to slow down. It felt heavy. A deep unwelcome tranquility washed over his bones.
With a finger he followed a symbol—a lengthy downward arc that appeared to devour its own end. His weariness, coupled with a bitterness towards the constant upbeat insistence, to care to engage surged abruptly. For a overwhelming moment giving up didn't feel sinful. It felt like a intimate reality.
A gentle whisper echoed from the entrance.
Devon spun abruptly his training rushing back the unusual tranquility breaking apart.
A woman remained in place. Pale, in her mid-thirties possessing the darkened eyes of a code-shifter. She donned the grey attire of a city service employee yet her stance was tense throughout.
"They mentioned you would arrive " she murmured, her tone hoarse, from neglect. "The ones who observe the observers."
"Who might you be?" Devon's hand shifted slightly toward the recorder, on his hip.
"Nathania. Nora. I… I studied under him. He aimed to assist me. Before he… ceased." She came in uninvited her eyes fixed on the manuscript. "They named it apathy. It wasn't that. What he discovered what he instructed… it was a form of focus. An intense focus. On nothing."
"Who do you mean by 'they'?" Devon inquired, his analyst's mind noting her shaking hands and enlarged pupils. Exhaustion. Severe.
"The Silent Council. They discovered his efforts. They claimed he was prepared to witness the calculus." A tear rolled down the dirt on her face. "They told him it was a blessing. To be free of burdens.. After their arrival he became… hollow. As if he had glimpsed a solution stunning it rendered every question foolish."
"Where might I locate them?"
She shook her head desperately. "You don't seek them out. They sense the exhaustion. They sense those who no longer can fake it." Her gaze locked with his and within them Devon perceived an acknowledgment. "You understand don't you? That pain behind your eyes. That silent scream within your mind. They possess a remedy, for that."
"It's not a remedy " Devon caught himself stating, the tone chilling. "It's a prognosis."
Nathania recoiled as though hit. Then her shoulders dropped, the intensity fading. "Perhaps.. It's a silent one. He… he didn't resist. In the end he simply… lay down.. Smiled." She spun around. Left, vanishing into the loud echoing hallway.
Devon remained solitary in that enclave of silence. His gaze shifted between the signs on the sheet and the subtle contour on the ground. A man had voluntarily reclined there allowing his awareness to fade. Not due, to sickness.. Because of a resolution.
His comms beeped. Pamela. "Duncan? Status update. Sensors indicate your vital signs have fallen into low-activity ranges. Are you, under threat?"
He gazed at the emblem of the swallowing curve. He reflected on his 68% mark, the coffee and the loud significant world, beyond.
"No " he replied, his voice feeling away. "The area is empty. Just… an exhausted man who, at last discovered a place to relax."
But as he sealed the manuscript into an evidence bag, the silence of the room clung to him. It felt less like an emptiness now, and more like a first, tentative breath.