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petronia2nd Gig timeline (i.e. political like WHOA). My new gambit appears to be writing muzakblog journalism and pretending it's fic. >_>
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starlighter: Saitou and Pazu
Pazu lifts posts from the refugee-frequented messageboards. He filters them of shock and rage and grief until only the lyrics are left, and scrolls them alongside the looping bitstream that is Densetsu's music. It is a spare sound, in which moments of lushness abide like greenery in a canyon of rust-coloured stone turrets. Machine noises skitter and whine. The bass throbs and shuffles, stops, starts.
You a soldier
I say
You a soldier
Smoke from the fire and the legend's brewing
(Born on its feet, yeah)
See the signal
Fight the signal
Sun at my back and the beat is rising
Fire fire fire fire fire
Fifty-five hundred thousand voices rising in your mind
Pull down those fences
I say
Soldier pull down
"How long shall they kill our prophets, while we stand aside and look," Saitou says.
"Prophets, is it?"
"Bob Marley," says Saitou. He lifts the rifle and sights down the barrel. In the greenish illumination of the van's interior the light-absorbing nylon of his gloves blends seamlessly with the matte metal of the weapon, as if one is an outgrowth of the other. "Toss that one in the regression analysis."
"Generals make kings but snipers make prophets," says Pazu. "Isn't that the individualist ideal?"
"Amateurs one and all," Saitou says.
starlighter: Saitou and PazuPazu lifts posts from the refugee-frequented messageboards. He filters them of shock and rage and grief until only the lyrics are left, and scrolls them alongside the looping bitstream that is Densetsu's music. It is a spare sound, in which moments of lushness abide like greenery in a canyon of rust-coloured stone turrets. Machine noises skitter and whine. The bass throbs and shuffles, stops, starts.
You a soldier
I say
You a soldier
Smoke from the fire and the legend's brewing
(Born on its feet, yeah)
See the signal
Fight the signal
Sun at my back and the beat is rising
Fire fire fire fire fire
Fifty-five hundred thousand voices rising in your mind
Pull down those fences
I say
Soldier pull down
"How long shall they kill our prophets, while we stand aside and look," Saitou says.
"Prophets, is it?"
"Bob Marley," says Saitou. He lifts the rifle and sights down the barrel. In the greenish illumination of the van's interior the light-absorbing nylon of his gloves blends seamlessly with the matte metal of the weapon, as if one is an outgrowth of the other. "Toss that one in the regression analysis."
"Generals make kings but snipers make prophets," says Pazu. "Isn't that the individualist ideal?"
"Amateurs one and all," Saitou says.
