The junction was like a stadium, wide and high-ceilinged.

Sunlight filtered in from windows in the top, made bright grey by the years of grime that had accumulated on the glass. Motes of dust danced in the silent emptiness.

The track that ran through the junction created a deep, L-shaped ditch, cradling a platform in its bend. It ran on like a river, meandering, splitting, merging, going in and out of the dark. Perhaps it even ran to the surface. Who knows?

The heart of the network lay far behind, but the junction was like its memory. On the dust-covered walls were pictures: legends, stories, hopes and dreams of the people living in the world outside.

The artists were elusive, if they existed at all. But no one asked questions. The paintings would simply... appear, disturbing nothing in the new place they found themselves in. They grew out from beneath the vines and dust, seeming at once vivid and bright, but also like they had been there for years, like they belonged.

The paintings were each distinct, but shared threads with the ones adjacent. High up on one far wall, there was a large, spanning mural, pulling threads from all the others. It was a massive, golden, sun, with white-daubed clouds swirling around. It sat, jewel-like, in a setting of bright, sky-blue, that slowly gave way to bright grey concrete. It's not a sun, whispered a hundred little insistent letters.

And high above the dust of the platform, undisturbed for years untold, came the sound of quietly whirring servos. It was the sound as familiar to these old walls as dust and sunlight.

He had many names: Prototype 47, The Custodian, Obscura, and The Acrobat, to name a few. The Acrobat was part of the junction, and no one ever questioned that. Not that anyone ever would. He was there, wearing tracks in the ceiling, as he always had been.

He moved along a network of rails, just like the trains that had once glided through this junction did. An open track spanned the ceiling, and he hung from a motorised rig. Thick cables hung from the rig, and fit into a metal band that fit tightly about his waist.

It was sure that if the Acrobat were to be among those on the ground, he would stand out. Not all in a good way.

For one, he hadn't the first clue how to walk. For two, he could not, no matter how hard he tried, remember talking to another person. He couldn't even remember how he knew there were other people.

And on the other hand, we have his appearance. He was not impossibly, but improbably tall and thin, with a lithe build, much like a greyhound. His skin was sallow as milk, but his hair was dark, and hung down past his waist. He was dressed in a simple black tunic, and leggings. All of his clothing was tight-fitting, befitting his lifestyle, but, despite its neatness, its color faded into dark grey.

Besides the reasonably-unkempt tresses that hung off his head, he was largely hairless, possessing both no need and no means to shave. His features were slim and refined, like the rest of him, with high cheekbones, an upswept jaw, and a diamond-tip nose. His eyes were set at an elegant angle, and were dark black, from corner to corner.

Those eyes watched over the junction with an ever-present glint in them. The Acrobat loved his work. It wasn't even work, per se, but his daily life. He was to watch over the junction, and watch over the paintings. He wasn't sure how he knew that. He had just known it, ever since he could remember.

He just hung there, tracing patterns in the ceiling tracks, and picking out new details in the paintings, ever since he could recall. And life was good. Life had been the same, and it was peaceful.

He had ways of making it fun, things to do. Mostly in his head. He would make hypothetical puzzles, little mathematical thought-experiments, to pass the time. He would talk to himself, occasionally. Most anyone else in that situation would talk to themself far more often, but the Acrobat was not a particularly talkative person.

And, when he was in need of something a little more exhilarating, there was the cable deployment button. Whoever had put him there, long ago, had been merciful to include that little feature.

Being particularly tired of just thinking, he proceeded to press a little silver button on the metal band that fit about his waist, and the cables that suspended him from the ceiling unfurled into two long skeins of silk, deep and vivid blue like the ocean.

A smile broke out across his face, crinkling the corners of his ebon eyes. He took his legs and wound the silk around them, making the material ripple and sway like the waves made by a storm. Once it was secure, he detached the band, which fell in two halves away from his body. And, like a stray rung in Jacob's Ladder, he let himself drop.

He stopped himself at the end with a jolt, the ends of the skeins wound tightly around his ankles. There he hung, the ends of his hair barely above the dust-carpeted floor. Shifting his weight in just the right ways, he caught hold of momentum and began to swing himself through the massive, open space.

Despite himself, the Acrobat let out a peal of giddy laughter. He had learned to not let things get old, but this? This needed no effort. Chest heaving with exertion and exhilaration, he let himself slow, momentum carrying him in diminishing spirals until he came to rest in the center of his castle. He felt the dull press of blood rushing to his head, and, with practiced ease, bent to right himself.

The silks snapped into place, and he was balancing between the skeins, ankles and wrists secured by soft, strong ocean-blue. He worked his way back up to the ceiling, letting the smile drain out of him, replaced by calm and satisfaction.

Pressing down the catch, he joined the two halves of the band together, and fastened it about his waist once again. At a command spoken not aloud, but in his mind, the silks were sucked back up into the ceiling like water falling in reverse.

With a sigh, the Acrobat hung back in his harness, and smiled.