# Escape — Annotated Edition

## Escape

Published: renegadestoryteller.tumblr.com · Short fiction · JL

Craft Note · Opening Two sentences doing different work in the same breath. The first is literal — dust on surfaces, settling after violence and abandonment. The second adds a temporal register: the war is old; this place has been empty for a long time. The phrase "long before she arrived" also quietly centres her as the story's sole point of consciousness, before we've even met her. The story opens in aftermath and stays there. As she picked her way through debris and long forgotten miscellanea she tried to imagine this place as it would have been before the war. There were a few stained glass windows still clinging to their frames near the door frame she had crossed on the way in. In the daylight they coloured the dust clouds her scavenger hunt kicked up. Just a few steps in from the door frame were the remnants of a bar. Behind it, a few bottles still stood on the remaining shelves, most of them broken or empty, but she spotted a full bottle of rum, naturally covered in dust, waiting for her on the topmost shelf.

She had to stand on a busted refrigerator to reach it, but it was worth it. She sat on a sturdy looking part of the bar and sipped the fiery drink as she looked around. It was strangely quiet. The cities were in ruins these days, but still populated to a certain degree, so you could always expect to hear something, be it human or animal. Today though, it was quiet. She pulled out a
Object · Repurposed Pocket Watch A pre-war object kept functional — measuring time in a world where time has otherwise come unmoored. She loses track of days between cities; the watch is her anchor to a calendar that barely holds. Its presence alongside a rad counter in the same belt suggests a scavenger who has carefully curated what she carries. Everything must earn its weight. from one of the pouches on her belt. It was still early. Perhaps it was Sunday. She always lost track of the days in between cities.

Craft Note · Ritual & Time In a world without reliable clocks, electricity, or calendars, people have recovered older ways of marking time. Sunday is not determined by a date — it's determined by the sound of communal singing. This is not primitive; it's adaptive. The detail establishes that community persists in the ruins, and that she is navigating by it — close enough to hear it, but not close enough to be part of it. She sat up, concentrating on every sound she could make out, both nearby and in the distance – she even held her breath. At last she heard it, the soft, but unmistakable melody of a house full of people belting out an old favourite with no regard for the actual tune. She took another swig of the rum and relaxed a little. The song had been a little too far away for her liking, but at least it was there. She fished her
World-Internal · Tool Rad Counter A Geiger counter — a device that measures ionising radiation. The tic-tic-tic of a slow count means background radiation is present but not dangerous. Here, the counter's reassurance is inverted: the absence of significant radiation in an abandoned city means it wasn't destroyed by a nuclear strike. Something else emptied this place. The instrument meant to warn her instead deepens the mystery. out of her backpack. The tic-tic-tic told her that she wasn't about to start growing any unwanted appendages and that worried her even more. If there were no rads floating around, why was there no one here?

She slid off the bar to the ground and started looking around. She didn't want to stay here long, but at the same time did not want to pass up the opportunity of finding a good trade. She stowed the rum in her backpack as she passed the two dozen or so tables, in varied states of disrepair, on her way to what looked like a stage.

Craft Note · Structural Pivot Three words. The shortest sentence in the story, and structurally its most important. Everything before this is survival logic: read the environment, check for threats, find tradeable goods. "The piano was beautiful" stops all of that. What follows — the dusting, the keys pressed one by one, the singing — is the story's real subject. The survival frame is the container; this is the contents. The sentence earns its brevity. She used a moth-eaten curtain to clear away most of the dust, and it almost shone. The lid that usually covered the keys was missing, but all the eighty eight were still there. This place had been a jazz bar she decided, it must have been. This city was known for jazz, before the war. She smiled as she imagined what it could be like to be on this stage in its heyday. She pressed down on one of the keys. It was not quite in tune, but near enough for her to press another. She played the keys in sequence, low to high, singing each note softly and trying to remember which note went where.

Craft Note · Privacy & Restraint The story refuses to tell us what she is singing. We get the emotional content — home, comfort, private meaning — but not the lyric itself. This is an act of authorial restraint that the story earns: her interior world has been inaccessible throughout (we know what she does, not what she feels). The singing is the single moment of private softness, and the author protects it by not transcribing it. It belongs to her. It wasn't jazz, but to a girl with nothing and no one, it was a little piece of heaven.

When she stopped, she realised that she had lost track of time, had been almost completely lost in her own little world, far away from here. For too long – far too long. She looked back toward the window. It was well past noon; she needed to get moving. The light caught the dust as it started moving. She wouldn't have noticed it had she not heard the mechanical whisper of a
World-Internal · Pursuit Vehicle Hornet A pursuit vehicle used by the Emperor's forces — small and fast, with engines designed to be nearly inaudible. For her, those engines carry a specific weight: she has heard them before at the deaths of people around her, and forged what the story calls "an unshakeable link between that sound and the death of those around her." Hornets never hunt alone. Their silence is the threat. outside. The engines of a Hornet are incredibly hard to hear, but for her, they were even harder to forget. She had forged an unshakeable link between that sound and the death of those around her. Now she was alone, and more terrified than she had ever been.

Fear, however, cleared her head. Instinctively, she ducked behind the old piano. She had to get out, fast. If it saw her, it could track her. She checked for exits. The way she had come was not an option – it led on to the street, where the Hornet, and more importantly, its rider, had definitely landed. Out through the back wasn't an option either; Hornets never hunted alone. She spotted a flight of stairs through what used to be the kitchen. She didn't like the idea of going up instead of out, but the buildings in this area were close together, so there was a chance that she could traverse the next few buildings and head out further down the street while they were still searching here. Falling to her death would be better than being caught by a
World-Internal · Enforcer Purifier The Emperor's elite military enforcers — fewer than a hundred of them won the entire war. They wear black biomechanical exoskeletons: armour that integrates with the body and amplifies it, allowing them to tear through entire platoons in minutes. The story is careful not to confirm they are fully human. The name "Purifier" carries ideological weight: these are not soldiers carrying out orders, but agents of an ideological cleansing. The title is the function. , the Emperor's most fearsome and most deadly enforcer. She wasn't even sure they were entirely human, in their black
Technology Biomechanical Exoskeleton Powered armour that integrates mechanically and biologically with the wearer's body — augmenting strength, speed, and endurance beyond human limits. The "biomechanical" qualifier suggests the integration is deeper than a suit: it interfaces with the nervous system, or with the body itself. This is why the story hedges on whether Purifiers are still entirely human. The armour doesn't just cover the person; it may have replaced parts of them. → Wikipedia: Powered Exoskeleton that allowed them to tear through entire platoons in mere minutes. The Purifiers had won the war. Less than a hundred of them. She slipped her backpack silently onto her shoulders as she counted under her breath.

One.

It was silent again. The Hornet's engines were off; the Purifier would search for life until it found something to kill.

Two.

She was sure there was another one, but she couldn't hear it. She couldn't hear anything beyond the pounding of her heart.

Three.

The crunch of glass being broken underfoot greeted her from the door frame out front as she dashed for the single saloon door that guarded what used to be the kitchen. The piano disintegrated behind her with such force that she took the saloon door with her as she crashed into the kitchen. Her ribs screamed at her in pain, but she didn't have time to scream back. She vaulted over the skeleton of a hob and ducked as the air above her crackled with another blast from whatever the Purifier was trying to kill her with.

She reached the stairs as something clipped her backpack, sending her over the balustrade into the wall. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pain and blinking blood out of her eyes. A quick glance told her that the monster wasn't running. She threw the tattered leftovers of her backpack at the advancing beast and took the stairs three at a time. Her backpack was reduced to dust in mid-air.

On the landing she was met with a corridor that ended in sky. She could see the rooftop of the next building at the other end, just beyond the point where roof of this building had been blown away. She ran, focusing entirely on the flat cement on the other side of the gap, and then jumped. For less than a second, she was flying free.

She did not land gracefully. As her feet hit the cement she felt her leg break, and she crumpled, tumbling to a stop in the centre of the rooftop. She cried out in agony but bit back the tears and pulled her broken leg up to her chest, gripping her knee with both hands and trying to focus. She wouldn't jump again, and she couldn't run. But if she could get inside, she might be able to hide. It was a slim chance, but better than nothing.

She spotted the fire escape. It wasn't far.

She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up, pulling her good leg under her and struggling to her feet. She stumbled, and almost fell over. The air once again crackled over the spot where her head had been a moment before. The Purifier was advancing down the corridor, still refusing to run. She hobbled and hopped as fast as she could away from the creature of flesh and steel. She reached the fire escape. And then she heard it.

The engines of a Hornet are quiet, but unmistakable. Hornets never hunt alone. The thud behind her told her that the Purifier behind her had made the jump without breaking any bones.

Craft Note · Final Line The story ends not on the Purifier, not on the broken leg or the burning city, but on the piano. Surrounded, she reaches for the only thing that was hers in this story: the tune she played in the empty bar. The line echoes "trying to remember which note went where" from the piano scene, but the context has transformed it entirely — what was idle practice is now a last act of interiority. She does not pray or fight or surrender. She remembers beauty. The story calls that enough.

## The World

What the author has built — its rules, its politics, and how survival works inside it

The story withholds almost everything about the war's origin, duration, and combatants. What we can infer: it was catastrophic enough to reduce cities to ruins; it was recent enough that people remember the cities as they were, but long enough ago that the dust has long settled. It was not primarily nuclear — the rad counter finds no dangerous radiation, meaning the destruction was caused by other means (the Purifiers' weapons, conventional ordnance, or something else entirely).

Most significantly, the war was won. By fewer than a hundred Purifiers. A conflict that depopulated entire cities and left the survivors scavenging through ruins was ended not by negotiation or exhaustion, but by a small elite force acting on behalf of an Emperor. This is not the aftermath of a mutual catastrophe — it is the aftermath of a conquest.

The Emperor is named but never described. We know only that they command the Purifiers, that they prosecuted (and won) the war, and that they maintain an enforcement presence in the ruins — Hornets still patrol cities, Purifiers still hunt survivors. The war may be over but the violence continues, which means the Emperor's goal is not simply victory but elimination of remaining resistance.

The title "Emperor" carries ideological weight that "President," "Chancellor," or "Commander" would not. It implies absolute authority, permanence, and a claim to territory that is not merely political but total. The story doesn't need to explain the Emperor's ideology — the name, the Purifiers, and the ongoing hunt supply the picture.

Fewer than a hundred Purifiers won the war. That number is the story's most chilling detail. A conventional army requires tens of thousands; the fact that fewer than a hundred of these beings — wearing black biomechanical exoskeletons, capable of tearing through platoons in minutes — ended the conflict suggests a lethality that lies outside ordinary military logic.

The story is careful to hedge on their humanity: "she wasn't even sure they were entirely human." The biomechanical exoskeleton is not armour worn over a person but something more intimate — a system that may have altered what the person is. The Purifier in the story never runs. It glides, advances, disintegrates objects at range without apparent effort. It does not pursue her; it simply closes the distance, unhurried. That unhurriedness is its own kind of horror.

The name is ideological. "Purifier" suggests not a soldier doing a job but an agent performing a cleansing — removing what is impure from a world the Emperor is reshaping. She is not a combatant to be defeated. She is an impurity to be removed.

The story gives us a rich picture of how ordinary life has reorganised around survival. People move between cities — staying nowhere long enough to be tracked. They scavenge (she is looking for tradeable goods, not just things she needs). They maintain a barter economy substantial enough that "a good trade" is worth the risk of delay. They track radiation to distinguish safe zones from dangerous ones.

Crucially, communities still exist and still hold ritual time. Sunday is not gone — it has simply been redetermined by sound rather than calendar. A house full of people singing badly together is a marker of collective life that has refused to disappear. She navigates by it: the song too far away means she's more isolated than she'd like. The persistence of Sunday in a world the Emperor has conquered is itself a form of resistance, even if it's not intended as one.

The rad counter's low reading is the story's first mystery: if the city wasn't nuked, why is it empty? The arrival of the Purifier provides the retroactive answer — this area is either an active patrol zone, or has already been cleared. The absence of people is not evidence of safety but of prior violence.

The jazz bar itself carries the city's pre-war culture in concentrated form. The city "was known for jazz, before the war." Music, specifically a Black American art form born out of communities navigating violence and displacement, is what survived in this venue. The piano still has all eighty-eight keys. The bottles — mostly broken — still include one full of rum. The things that endure in ruins are not always what you expect, and the story finds something almost miraculous in this particular survival.

## The Craft

Structural choices, genre tradition, and what the author is quietly doing throughout

Post-apocalyptic fiction as a serious literary genre dates at least to Mary Shelley's The Last Man (1826), but its modern form was shaped by Cold War anxiety: the bomb, the aftermath, what humans do to each other and to themselves when civilisation's structure disappears. Cormac McCarthy's The Road (2006) is the genre's recent high-water mark — sparse, brutal, lit by a single strand of paternal love in absolute darkness.

Escape works in a slightly different register from The Road's stripped-down bleakness. It has genre furniture (the Emperor, the Purifiers, the biomechanical exoskeletons) that edges it toward dystopian science fiction — closer to 1984's totalitarian structure than McCarthy's civilisation-less aftermath. But its sentimental register — the piano scene, the singing on Sunday, the final recalled note — places it in the tradition of post-apocalyptic fiction that argues for the survival of interior life as a form of resistance.

Station Eleven (Emily St. John Mandel, 2014) is the most prominent recent example of this mode: "survival is insufficient" is its thesis. Escape enacts something similar in miniature. The rum and the trade goods are survival. The piano is the thing that makes survival mean something.

Sound organises the story from the first paragraph to the last. She checks for life by listening — the singing that marks Sunday; the suspicious quiet that signals danger. The rad counter speaks in sound (tic-tic-tic). The Hornet's engine is "incredibly hard to hear" but unforgettable. The Purifier announces itself by the crunch of broken glass.

The piano scene sits at the story's acoustic centre: in a narrative structured around listening for threats, she produces sound instead of reading it. She makes music. Then the Hornet's engine — the story's signature threatening sound — ends the scene, and the chase that follows is filled with violence as sound: crackles of energy weapons, the disintegration of her backpack, the crump of her leg breaking on cement.

The final line returns to the piano — not to the sound itself, but to the act of trying to recall it. The story ends in interior silence, with her reaching for a remembered melody. Sound is the medium through which she experiences both beauty and mortal threat, and the final image holds both at once.

She has no name, no backstory we can verify, no stated origin. We know she moves between cities, carries specific tools, understands the world's dangers, and once had people around her whom the Hornets helped kill. That is all. The story never grants us the intimacy of a name.

This anonymity serves the genre: post-apocalyptic fiction often uses unnamed or barely-named protagonists to suggest that the individual story is also a universal one — that what happens to this person could happen to anyone who survives into such a world. It also maintains a specific kind of emotional distance: we observe her from close range but cannot fully inhabit her. The moment the story comes closest to her interior — the singing, the "gentle string of words that made no sense" — it protects her privacy by not transcribing the lyric. She remains hers, even to the reader.

The three numbered paragraphs — single words, given their own space — are the story's most formal structural gesture. Each number carries a sentence of exposition between it and the next, but the whitespace around each numeral creates a silence that mirrors hers: she is counting under her breath, controlling fear through rhythm, preparing herself for movement.

The countdown is also a rhetorical contract with the reader: something will happen at three. It does — glass breaks at the door frame, and the chase begins. But the story uses the countdown to slow the pace just before it accelerates, which means the eruption of violence feels like a released breath rather than a sudden shock. The numbers are not a gimmick but a precision instrument for managing the reader's physiological response.

"She closed her eyes and tried to remember which note went where." The phrase echoes the piano scene exactly — "trying to remember which note went where" was how she described learning the tune. Its return in the final line is not coincidence but architecture: the story has been building to this repetition.

The ending is deliberately ambiguous about whether she survives. Two Purifiers, a broken leg, no weapon, no escape route. The story does not tell us what happens next because the ending is not about what happens next — it is about what she chooses to do in her last conscious moment. She does not pray. She does not fight. She does not surrender. She reaches for the music. The story's argument is compressed into that gesture: that beauty, remembered in extremity, is not escapism but a form of humanity the world has been unable to take from her. The story earns this on the strength of the piano scene. Without it, the final line is sentiment. With it, it is earned.

## Further Reading

Genre history, comparative texts, and the tradition this story is in conversation with

### The Post-Apocalyptic Tradition

The Last Man — Mary Shelley (1826) The foundational text of the genre; a plague-annihilated world and one surviving narrator. The Road — Cormac McCarthy (2006) The contemporary genre benchmark; survival reduced to its bleakest essentials, lit by love. Station Eleven — Emily St. John Mandel (2014) "Survival is insufficient" — the closest thematic cousin to Escape's argument about art in ruins.

### Sentimentality as Resistance

Parable of the Sower — Octavia Butler (1993) A survivor navigating a collapsed California; community and ritual as survival tools. A Canticle for Leibowitz — Walter M. Miller Jr. (1959) What survives civilisation's collapse: the preservation of knowledge as a sacred act across centuries.

### Totalitarianism and the Emperor

Nineteen Eighty-Four — George Orwell (1949) The canonical portrait of totalitarianism as a lived system; the Emperor's world as a descendant. The Handmaid's Tale — Margaret Atwood (1985) A conquered society's internal logic; what an authoritarian regime does to the people who survive inside it.

### The Author's Work

Renegade Storyteller — Tumblr The full archive of challenge-response fiction by JL.
Post-Apocalyptic Sentimentality

### The Genre's Two Modes

Post-apocalyptic fiction tends to operate in one of two registers. The first is bleakness: a stripped, austere world in which survival is the only value and beauty is a luxury that ruins will not sustain. McCarthy's The Road is the archetype — a world of ash and grey, where the only warmth is between a father and his son, and even that ends.

The second is preservation: the argument that what makes survival meaningful is the survival of something beyond the body — art, community, memory, ritual, love. Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven built its entire architecture on this thesis, sending a travelling symphony through a devastated North America because "survival is insufficient." The novel argues that theatre and music are not decorative but essential — that what distinguishes human survival from animal survival is the persistence of meaning-making.

### Where Escape Sits

Escape works in the second mode, but in miniature and without declaring itself. It doesn't argue for art — it simply shows a woman who, in a ruined jazz bar, dusts off a piano and plays it. The argument is structural rather than stated: the story gives more space to the piano scene than to any single action sequence. What the author chooses to slow down for is itself a position.

### Sentimentality vs. Sentiment

There is a distinction worth drawing. Sentimentality (in the pejorative sense) is emotion that hasn't been earned — feeling produced by gesture rather than by reality. Sentiment is earned emotional weight. The final line of Escape is sentimental in the good sense only because the piano scene came first and was allowed to breathe. The story earns its ending by doing the groundwork.

The Emperor & Purifiers — Real-World Resonance

### The Pattern

Post-apocalyptic fiction about totalitarian conquest does not emerge in a vacuum. The specific elements in Escape — an Emperor who won a war through a small elite force called "Purifiers," who continue hunting survivors in ruined cities — map onto recognisable historical and contemporary structures of authoritarian suppression.

### Elite Forces as Ideology Made Physical

The Purifiers are not an army. Armies fight other armies. The Purifiers — fewer than a hundred of them — won a war, and then stayed to hunt the survivors. This is the logic of the purge rather than the battle: the goal is not the defeat of a military opponent but the elimination of a population deemed unacceptable. The name "Purifier" makes this explicit. The fiction does not need to specify the ideology; the structure of the violence communicates it.

### The Ongoing Hunt

The war is over, but the Hornets still patrol. This is the detail that distinguishes conquest from governance. A regime that wins and then administers has a different shape from one that wins and then continues to hunt. The latter is not interested in the survivors as subjects — only in their elimination. She is not a citizen being managed; she is a remnant being removed.

The story resists allegory by not specifying its referent. But the pattern — totalitarian victory, ongoing suppression, elite force with an ideological name — is legible to any reader who wants to read it.