At the corner of North and East, the two seemed to glow in the mild darkness of the fogged air. What then seemed to the man like weeks previous, the intersection was of quick fire and shame, of old, lethal arguments, of bodies in the heat of expensive suits - on the ground by their hot guns and their gold shells and their own puddles, each a form frozen by their own meaning, by their own definitions dead and lifted off from safety to bitter violence and then slipped under a silent causeway, a dark and calm, velvet curtain.
Now, the corner seems without time. Like the unremarkable blank white of a photograph's plain paper backing, there seemed to be a quiet nothing, now, behind the bizarrely faded world around the two of them. Everything seemed simple and archaic and without any real process.
A backdrop, he thought.
"There anybody else? Are we it? Is there anybody else?"
Before him, the figure paused for a moment before raising his hand without hesitation.
Yes, that was it - a signal, the man thought.
They were it.