Edwin Morari Eternity

It’s quiet here, now.

The machinery rolls on, of course. The gentle whir of ventilation, the rhythmic clanking of the pipes, the hum of the lights that never quite succumb to inattention - Bibere will never be silent. But somehow, at last, it’s… peaceful.

Much of the day-to-day engineering and processing works are conducted Overground, now, and the few that remain bound to the station have been almost entirely automated. There is no shortage of work for mechanics and the like, of course, and those who once worked diligently in the dim, fogging tunnels, elbow-to-elbow on poorly-supplied installation and fixing jobs, still return to their beds weary and oil-stained as ever. But Bibere as it was is almost unrecognisable.

Apart from the workstation, that is. The ‘war-room’, as some once knew it, stands no more, maps and papers and planning removed and stored somewhere deep within the Archives, and the engineering bench has been restored to its prior glory. Well, perhaps only a ‘glory’ to some - the surface is dusty, stained with varnish; the tools are scattered and rusting; the blueprints lie half-folded and penmarked. Just how it should be. Just how it shall remain.

Although, the workbench is not quite as it was. A sprinkler, one of many made in the weeks following the Emergence, lies pristine and perfect upon the forever-frozen scraps of work. A small plaque sits alongside, words etched painstakingly into its copper surface. It is not a headstone, nor a mark of celebration, but could perhaps be considered a memorial. A remembrance, of sorts, boasting a message of quiet simplicity - just seven gentle words.

Edwin Morari. The final casualty of Bibere.

For Bibere no longer wields the power it once did. This station will not take another life. The fumes are gone, now.

As is their victim.

Ada’s whole family were engineers. Her lullabies were the hum of electric generators and the gentle chatter of her sibling. Her parents had taught her themselves, just as their parents had taught them, and at the earliest chance she could, she joined the engineering team of the trains. She gave her whole life to the Underground.

And the Overground gave it back.

She did not travel, at first. She was determined, as ever, to help, and refused to back down at that final, crucial moment. Despite it all. Despite her grief. Despite her injuries. She helped. She never gave up; never caved under the pressure, never lost her cool or surrendered her eternal kindness. Eventually, finally, that help paid off, and Ada was, at last, granted rest and recovery. The months passed and, as the gentle breeze of spring gave way to shining sun, she was well enough to explore. To learn. To move on.

And move on she did. She could never bring herself to move away permanently, to leave the only home she’d ever known in her past, but she travelled. She studied. She created. She taught generations of children, in fact, alongside her very first student - Engineer Nikola Dobos. The two of them worked side by side for years and, when the time inevitably came that Ada began to slow, to tire, her protégé vowed to forever continue her legacy. To remember.

To remember them both. Sister and Sibling, together once more beneath the stars.

At peace. Ad aeternum.