Mags Qute looked up from the book she was reading and over at Axie and waited for him to speak. His bright blond hair stood up in messy tufts as the sun streaked through the dark room. Providing light in the abandoned house.
"We've been here for three days now," she stated. Or has it been longer? Placing the tome on the table as she reached for the coffee. "When do we move again?"
Haven't we moved already?
Axie glanced at her and smiled. He had been sharpening his knife on a whetstone. "As soon as Franz and Loner return."
"Maybe they got captured?" Mags stated. They've been captured already, we know they have, so what are we doing here? Back here? "Then what do we do?"
"I guess we can cry over the spilled milk then," he replied.
No, not again...
20151113
20151108
What was that Barthes' essay about killing writers?
When they came for him none of his neighbours were surprised.
For years Mick had been a 6.6-on-the-Richter-scale nuisance in the building. Loud music, loud video-games, loud movies, loud shouting at various gods and goddesses. Aileeza, the tenant in 2B ("Or not to be!" Mick would always shout at her when they passed in the hallway) would often point out that his whole shtick was a knock-off of that character in Warren Ellis' Transmetropolitan. The other tenants didn't get the reference but they got the fact that Mick hated Warren Ellis and therefore hated the comparison, and they took some pleasure in that. Petty maybe, but they had endured and were entitled to some small retributions.
Evicting Mick wasn't an option, despite it being a cause that would have unified Democrat and Republican, Israeli and Palestinian, Team Angel and Team Spike. Mick's residency was secured due to the funding agreements as arranged by the local Arts Council and the local Mental Health Agency. Mick's presence was what kept the rent so low and ensured the other tenants could continue living there.
"'There is no war, there is only the Dalang!'" Mick would shout about the way he both embodied and transcended the dualities of the situation, to which Aileeza would point out that he was only quoting Grant Morrison, another comic writer whom Mick rather liked but nevertheless resented being accused of imitating (although he most certainly was).
And so it had continued until the day it stopped. When they finally came for him. The other tenants weren't sure exactly who 'they' were, or what Mick had done to finally warrant apprehension - for all his sound and fury he never signified anything actually violent.
Of course he did a fair bit of shouting as the men and women in nondescript clothing (the kind of outfits that operatives in those Bourne movies always wore) took him away in their black SUV.
"I fucking made Max! He's nothing without me! If I had never taken that assignment for Opi8 he'd still just be a figment of your fucking imaginations! And who do you think has protected him all this time? Do you have any fucking clue how hard it is for him to even be in the world? If I hadn't kept all you assholes distracted with my rants and my jokes you would have seen right through him and he'd be thrice as fucked as he already is! So you thinking you're helping Max? You're fucking killing him!"
Three or four days later the tenants began commenting to each other on how unsettling the quiet was.
For years Mick had been a 6.6-on-the-Richter-scale nuisance in the building. Loud music, loud video-games, loud movies, loud shouting at various gods and goddesses. Aileeza, the tenant in 2B ("Or not to be!" Mick would always shout at her when they passed in the hallway) would often point out that his whole shtick was a knock-off of that character in Warren Ellis' Transmetropolitan. The other tenants didn't get the reference but they got the fact that Mick hated Warren Ellis and therefore hated the comparison, and they took some pleasure in that. Petty maybe, but they had endured and were entitled to some small retributions.
Evicting Mick wasn't an option, despite it being a cause that would have unified Democrat and Republican, Israeli and Palestinian, Team Angel and Team Spike. Mick's residency was secured due to the funding agreements as arranged by the local Arts Council and the local Mental Health Agency. Mick's presence was what kept the rent so low and ensured the other tenants could continue living there.
"'There is no war, there is only the Dalang!'" Mick would shout about the way he both embodied and transcended the dualities of the situation, to which Aileeza would point out that he was only quoting Grant Morrison, another comic writer whom Mick rather liked but nevertheless resented being accused of imitating (although he most certainly was).
And so it had continued until the day it stopped. When they finally came for him. The other tenants weren't sure exactly who 'they' were, or what Mick had done to finally warrant apprehension - for all his sound and fury he never signified anything actually violent.
Of course he did a fair bit of shouting as the men and women in nondescript clothing (the kind of outfits that operatives in those Bourne movies always wore) took him away in their black SUV.
"I fucking made Max! He's nothing without me! If I had never taken that assignment for Opi8 he'd still just be a figment of your fucking imaginations! And who do you think has protected him all this time? Do you have any fucking clue how hard it is for him to even be in the world? If I hadn't kept all you assholes distracted with my rants and my jokes you would have seen right through him and he'd be thrice as fucked as he already is! So you thinking you're helping Max? You're fucking killing him!"
Three or four days later the tenants began commenting to each other on how unsettling the quiet was.
20151104
CD Two
Max Cube vs The Interdimensional
Corporate Mofo's
The Soundtrack
(interior artwork: Max suspended upside-down in the position of The Hanged Man from Arcana 12 of the Tarot in front the Tree of Life from the Kabbalah, with the Sephirot replaced by popular icons: Keter = Yin-Yang, Binah = Radioactive, Hokhmah = Watchmen clock, Gevurah = The Invisibles' blank badge, Hesed = The Bat-signal, Tiferet = Peace symbol (on Max's shirt), Hod = Warning sign, Netzah = Crosshairs, Yesod = X-men symbol, Malkhut = Happy Face)
Track 01: ReFlex - The Politics of Dancing
Track 02: Crystal Method - Comin' Back
Track 03: Rolling Stones - Shattered
Track 04: Cardigans - Erase Rewind
Track 05: Limp Bizkit - Break Stuff
Track 06: Fishbone Beat - Goza Goza
Track 07: Air - Talisman
Track 08: Depeche Mode - Personal Jesus (Pump Mix)
Track 09: The Doors - Maggie McGill
Track 10: Juno Reactor - Conga Fury
Track 11: Kajagoogoo - Too Shy
Track 12: Destiny's Child - Bootylicious
Track 13: David Holmes - Gritty Shaker
Track 14: Cornershop - Brimful of Asha (Fatboy Slim remix)
Track 15: Queen - Now I'm Here
20151102
Surveillance
“There's surveillance everywhere! Every-fucking-where I go I'm being watched!”
“Max, okay, let's slow things down,” Angst said softly.
“Don't try and de-escalate me, I'm the one who fucking de-escalates people. You know it's true – they are watching me everywhere I go. And don't you dare cast one of your fucking spells on me. I don't want to be calm.”
“Okay,” she said. “That's fair.”
Max could tell he was scaring her. He took a deep breath and activated the appropriate implant. The equations began processing.
“I'm sorry, Angst. I'm not mad at you. I just got scared.”
Her posture relaxed slightly. “I know. And you're not wrong – you are being tracked. We know that.”
Max rubbed his forehead. “Do we? I mean... Jesus, it's just that everywhere... It's so loud everywhere, you know? All I hear is alarms and cries for help. And even the silences between them are just spaces for more alarms to fill. And I'm trying to figure out this whole System thing, and the Counter-System. If they're even fucking real. How do I know? It's something Control told me, but what if it's just another thing I made up. Like Maggie.”
Angst tensed again. “Maggie's real, Max. I've met Maggie.”
“How do I know you're real?” He looked at her, his eyes wide.
“Max, okay, let's slow things down,” Angst said softly.
“Don't try and de-escalate me, I'm the one who fucking de-escalates people. You know it's true – they are watching me everywhere I go. And don't you dare cast one of your fucking spells on me. I don't want to be calm.”
“Okay,” she said. “That's fair.”
Max could tell he was scaring her. He took a deep breath and activated the appropriate implant. The equations began processing.
“I'm sorry, Angst. I'm not mad at you. I just got scared.”
Her posture relaxed slightly. “I know. And you're not wrong – you are being tracked. We know that.”
Max rubbed his forehead. “Do we? I mean... Jesus, it's just that everywhere... It's so loud everywhere, you know? All I hear is alarms and cries for help. And even the silences between them are just spaces for more alarms to fill. And I'm trying to figure out this whole System thing, and the Counter-System. If they're even fucking real. How do I know? It's something Control told me, but what if it's just another thing I made up. Like Maggie.”
Angst tensed again. “Maggie's real, Max. I've met Maggie.”
“How do I know you're real?” He looked at her, his eyes wide.
20151031
Happy Halloween 3
Previously on Halloween...
The Dragons' Costumes (version.Sense8)
(Max, Tatter, Suki, Goner, Frank, Angst, Marshal, Maggie)
The Professor and Morganfokker's Costumes (version.Sense8)
Morganfokker's Costume (vesrion.HalfLife)
Max's Costume (version.Multiversity)
20151028
FLASHBACKORFORWARDORSIDEWAYS
Max snapped a fresh clip into Joy then another into Pain. He blinked his eyes, steadied his breathing. The wall was cold against his back, and for a second he flashed on a vague memory of being in some sort of Dome, like a sci-fi underworld. Sometimes the flashes of alternate versions shook him to the core, left him dizzy and spinning. And other times they reminded him that he was a superhero after all. Max spun into the hallway and started sighting, squeezing, repeating, breathing. The guns sounded like a giant beating a drum, shattering the air, the arms and chests of the targets shattering, their black suits exploding in red, their sunglasses hiding eyes gone wide and empty. Max was graceful in the violence because he wasn’t really there; his mind was drifting in a vision of reciting poetry to a shining hologram of his one true love. The rhythm of the words and the rhythm of the weapons ended and the hallway was quiet, the LEGACY hit squad destroyed, Max breathing steadily.
Speakers imbedded in the walls crackled on. “That’s quite alright Mr. Cube. Even as you stand there reloading and no doubt indulging in some fancy psychic technique the nanofabric of the carpeting is absorbing DNA from the blood you have spilled and funneling into microtubes that will be launched into orbit, retrieved by one of our satellites, and bonded to alien-robot hybrid hunters we have in stasis. They will be set loose to track you down, all their superkilling talents infused with the vengeance of the guards you just killed.”
“That’s actually really cool,” Max said.
The speakers crackled. “… Um, sorry?”
“I said that’s really cool. How you’re doing all that stuff with all your crazy technology.”
Speakers imbedded in the walls crackled on. “That’s quite alright Mr. Cube. Even as you stand there reloading and no doubt indulging in some fancy psychic technique the nanofabric of the carpeting is absorbing DNA from the blood you have spilled and funneling into microtubes that will be launched into orbit, retrieved by one of our satellites, and bonded to alien-robot hybrid hunters we have in stasis. They will be set loose to track you down, all their superkilling talents infused with the vengeance of the guards you just killed.”
“That’s actually really cool,” Max said.
The speakers crackled. “… Um, sorry?”
“I said that’s really cool. How you’re doing all that stuff with all your crazy technology.”
“You mean you aren’t scared by it?” the speakers blurted.
“You’re going to all that effort to customize an advanced multi-type team of assassins from space just for me. I’m flattered. And slightly insecure that I won’t live up to the hype.”
The speakers fuzzed and went quiet. Just then Max’s cell rang. The Professor’s voice barged in as soon as the phone flipped open.
“Max, while you’ve been battling LEGACY in their Tower Maggie had been targeted by another supervillain! I believe the villain may be in league with Morganfokker! Her name is-“
“The Cheerleader. I know her. We’ve actually met.” Max lit a smoke.
“You’re going to all that effort to customize an advanced multi-type team of assassins from space just for me. I’m flattered. And slightly insecure that I won’t live up to the hype.”
The speakers fuzzed and went quiet. Just then Max’s cell rang. The Professor’s voice barged in as soon as the phone flipped open.
“Max, while you’ve been battling LEGACY in their Tower Maggie had been targeted by another supervillain! I believe the villain may be in league with Morganfokker! Her name is-“
“The Cheerleader. I know her. We’ve actually met.” Max lit a smoke.
“Max, this is serious! All the data I have on The Cheerleader indicates that she is an Omega Level- waitaminute… You’ve met her?”
“Listen Prof, I’m not surprised to hear Maggie’s going at it against DeeGee.” He inhaled, staring down at the carpet, imagining the tiny robots in the carpet gathering up the molecules of blood. It was beautiful in a way. Maybe when the alien-robot hunters finally caught him they could figure out a way to reprogram them or something. A way to give even a bit of these guards a second chance.
“DeeGee?!?! Max what are you talking about?”
“Maggie’s undergoing a ritual and-“
“Another one? She just got out of the Initiation Chamber?!?!”
“Calm down, Prof. She’s invoking the arcana of the High Priestess in order to attain a greater level of wisdom, self-understanding and inner peace. Sacred combat against her shadows and dark sides is part of the ritual. Maggie’s no doubt engaging the Cheerleader to serve as an iconic manifestation of that darkness.”
“Ahh…” The Professor went quiet for a moment and Max could hear the sound of typing and some beeping. “I’ve updated my file, but I still think we have a problem and that Mags might be in danger.”
Max pushed the button on the elevator. Getting out of the LEGACY tower would be a hard job, even with the initial hit squad stopped.
“Why’s that?” Max’s tone grew serious.
“Based on my readings Maggie’s psychic waveform is oscillating between her identity as Ms. Magenta and, if you can believe this…”
The elevator doors slid open. “Think who you’re asking.”
“Listen Prof, I’m not surprised to hear Maggie’s going at it against DeeGee.” He inhaled, staring down at the carpet, imagining the tiny robots in the carpet gathering up the molecules of blood. It was beautiful in a way. Maybe when the alien-robot hunters finally caught him they could figure out a way to reprogram them or something. A way to give even a bit of these guards a second chance.
“DeeGee?!?! Max what are you talking about?”
“Maggie’s undergoing a ritual and-“
“Another one? She just got out of the Initiation Chamber?!?!”
“Calm down, Prof. She’s invoking the arcana of the High Priestess in order to attain a greater level of wisdom, self-understanding and inner peace. Sacred combat against her shadows and dark sides is part of the ritual. Maggie’s no doubt engaging the Cheerleader to serve as an iconic manifestation of that darkness.”
“Ahh…” The Professor went quiet for a moment and Max could hear the sound of typing and some beeping. “I’ve updated my file, but I still think we have a problem and that Mags might be in danger.”
Max pushed the button on the elevator. Getting out of the LEGACY tower would be a hard job, even with the initial hit squad stopped.
“Why’s that?” Max’s tone grew serious.
“Based on my readings Maggie’s psychic waveform is oscillating between her identity as Ms. Magenta and, if you can believe this…”
The elevator doors slid open. “Think who you’re asking.”
“Well. Maggie, even as she is in combat with The Cheerleader, is phasing back and forth into a tiny little faerie named Misfit…”
Max stepped into the elevator. “Gotcha. I’ll give her a call.”
The cellphone signal sputtered slightly inside the shielded elevator. The Professor’s voice warbled, “Which one?”
Max flicked the cigarette through the closing doors. “Think who you’re asking.”
Max stepped into the elevator. “Gotcha. I’ll give her a call.”
The cellphone signal sputtered slightly inside the shielded elevator. The Professor’s voice warbled, “Which one?”
Max flicked the cigarette through the closing doors. “Think who you’re asking.”
20151026
Sympathetic Magic
In talking about it, and writing about it
he placed his burdens
on display, the fashion of anguish.
Making the effort to extend and externalize,
begging to be objectified, handled,
caressed, placed on her night-table,
the last thing seen before sleep,
a dream totem. Small and easily held,
her hands all about him.
He was counting on the gravity of his suffering,
the exquisite curvature of his past and future,
drawing her deep into the well of his now,
like a pit, like euclidian trajectories bent
into the circles of inferno. He felt warped,
and warping, and needed someone to act
as the planet, the source of his distortion,
its cause become the effect,
a want into need like matter into energy.
In his behaviour he offered up his troubles
in a performance to imaginary gods
in the covert hope she'd arrive to reveal
that they were in fact alone and therefore only together
and therefore his troubles hers and hers his only,
and he pretended his performance of faith
only for the day when she
might come to break it, another faith hidden
and nesting within the hollow husk.
He imagined it might be like the spreading of
an infection, his burdens passed onto her
and they becoming alike in swelling and fever.
he placed his burdens
on display, the fashion of anguish.
Making the effort to extend and externalize,
begging to be objectified, handled,
caressed, placed on her night-table,
the last thing seen before sleep,
a dream totem. Small and easily held,
her hands all about him.
He was counting on the gravity of his suffering,
the exquisite curvature of his past and future,
drawing her deep into the well of his now,
like a pit, like euclidian trajectories bent
into the circles of inferno. He felt warped,
and warping, and needed someone to act
as the planet, the source of his distortion,
its cause become the effect,
a want into need like matter into energy.
In his behaviour he offered up his troubles
in a performance to imaginary gods
in the covert hope she'd arrive to reveal
that they were in fact alone and therefore only together
and therefore his troubles hers and hers his only,
and he pretended his performance of faith
only for the day when she
might come to break it, another faith hidden
and nesting within the hollow husk.
He imagined it might be like the spreading of
an infection, his burdens passed onto her
and they becoming alike in swelling and fever.
20151022
Decipher
"Maybe we should be out looking for Darius instead," Dexter said.
Wraith poured herself a glass of wine. "He can handle himself. You never really believed that, did you?"
"It's the cop in me," he replied, a self-conscious shrug.
Callan entered with a large cardboard box, placed it on the couch. Wraith had charged the suite to the media conglomerate she was currently under contract with. They thought she was working on a story about the latest Big Pharma scandal - a rash of medicines proving toxic after they hit the market. Maybe I am; maybe it's all connected, she thought.
Callan said, "I told the girl at the print shop that I was working on my Ph.D thesis and needed a hardcopy backup. Hm, maybe I am; I could probably get a doctorate out of trying to explain Max."
Wraith noted the similar phrasing: 'maybe I am'. This kind of thing tended to happen when Max was involved.
"Is this so we can't get hacked while we're researching?" Dexter asked.
"In part," Callan said as he started to unpack the file folders from the box, arranging them on the coffee table. "There's a different magic to paper too."
It is like a spell of sorts, Wraith thought, taking a sip of wine.
All the blog posts, all the letters and emails, all the writing by the man they knew as Max Cube that they could get their hands on. This was phase one; the next step would be to hit up all of their contacts for relevant police reports, psychiatric files, military records and so on. That, however, was a move that wouldn't go unnoticed.
Dexter watched Callan laying out the documents. "The hardest part is going to be figuring out what are journal entries, what are essays, what are short stories and what are delusions..."
Wraith poured herself a glass of wine. "He can handle himself. You never really believed that, did you?"
"It's the cop in me," he replied, a self-conscious shrug.
Callan entered with a large cardboard box, placed it on the couch. Wraith had charged the suite to the media conglomerate she was currently under contract with. They thought she was working on a story about the latest Big Pharma scandal - a rash of medicines proving toxic after they hit the market. Maybe I am; maybe it's all connected, she thought.
Callan said, "I told the girl at the print shop that I was working on my Ph.D thesis and needed a hardcopy backup. Hm, maybe I am; I could probably get a doctorate out of trying to explain Max."
Wraith noted the similar phrasing: 'maybe I am'. This kind of thing tended to happen when Max was involved.
"Is this so we can't get hacked while we're researching?" Dexter asked.
"In part," Callan said as he started to unpack the file folders from the box, arranging them on the coffee table. "There's a different magic to paper too."
It is like a spell of sorts, Wraith thought, taking a sip of wine.
All the blog posts, all the letters and emails, all the writing by the man they knew as Max Cube that they could get their hands on. This was phase one; the next step would be to hit up all of their contacts for relevant police reports, psychiatric files, military records and so on. That, however, was a move that wouldn't go unnoticed.
Dexter watched Callan laying out the documents. "The hardest part is going to be figuring out what are journal entries, what are essays, what are short stories and what are delusions..."
20151019
The Man With The Many Names
"Who's that?" the child asked as she leafed through an old book and a faded picture fell onto the floor. The child picked up the photo and looked at it and then showed it to her mother.
"Just someone that I used to know," the mother replied. "A long, long time ago."
"He looks like he was lost," the child stated.
"In a way he was," the mother answered. "But, he still went out and did what he had to do, because the world - or one of the worlds - needed him."
The child flipped the photo over to see the names Machs, Mexx, Maxe, Max, M'aX, Mech, Matt, written on the back with lines drawn through them.
"Just someone that I used to know," the mother replied. "A long, long time ago."
"He looks like he was lost," the child stated.
"In a way he was," the mother answered. "But, he still went out and did what he had to do, because the world - or one of the worlds - needed him."
The child flipped the photo over to see the names Machs, Mexx, Maxe, Max, M'aX, Mech, Matt, written on the back with lines drawn through them.
20151016
The Observed
I hate the way you watch movies
as if they're a mirror painted
black set before candlelight
as if they are in endless conversations with you,
like you see them as teachers, as if
the mountaintop has been blasted into fragments and
scattered about our living rooms, 500 Guru Universe,
because you never talk to me or listen to
me like that.
You go on and on about the way that
animals talk in commercials, how that is
proof we live in shamanic times, but
you never read omens in the way I look
at you or do my hair before we go out.
And you complain that magic is real but misused
but you never think that maybe just maybe i'm just
in love with you.
And I hate the way you're always reading
articles on the internet or
checking your email account like
you are waiting to be rescued.
I watch you constantly silently
plotting strategies for you to arrive in
the culture, to hold a talk and have an audience and
make people like you and agree with you and want to
hear you, pay money for your words and hope
for your ideas, when you're staring into space
I can hear you imagining that happening, but
I want you and when
did you stop imagining this happening?
as if they're a mirror painted
black set before candlelight
as if they are in endless conversations with you,
like you see them as teachers, as if
the mountaintop has been blasted into fragments and
scattered about our living rooms, 500 Guru Universe,
because you never talk to me or listen to
me like that.
You go on and on about the way that
animals talk in commercials, how that is
proof we live in shamanic times, but
you never read omens in the way I look
at you or do my hair before we go out.
And you complain that magic is real but misused
but you never think that maybe just maybe i'm just
in love with you.
And I hate the way you're always reading
articles on the internet or
checking your email account like
you are waiting to be rescued.
I watch you constantly silently
plotting strategies for you to arrive in
the culture, to hold a talk and have an audience and
make people like you and agree with you and want to
hear you, pay money for your words and hope
for your ideas, when you're staring into space
I can hear you imagining that happening, but
I want you and when
did you stop imagining this happening?
20151014
"Kaze Wo Kirutabi Kimochi Yokutte" [version.Upgrade]
The Sidhe had dispatched a Sluagh hit-squad after Max. He didn't know if that meant the Unseelie Court had ties to the System or if it was just another unlucky roll of the dice. He did know that if the whispering swarm of sharp-edged shadows caught up to him he would at best be captured, more likely changed...
They had managed to herd him to the bridge over the river that split the village. He knew they'd catch up to him if he tried to run across. He couldn't risk jumping in the water; the elemental transition would only make him more liminal and more vulnerable to the faeries' magic. Sometimes he still regretted giving up Joy and Pain. A last stand at the bridge would at least make a good story.
Suddenly a light flared in the night sky and something large and heavy crashed into the approaching Sluagh like a meteor. Some of the creatures were crushed, others disintegrated in a wave of energy that washed off the massive object. The remaining fey assassins began to take cover.
Max grinned as he watched the object rise and unfold from the crater it had made: a fifteen foot tall mecha. He had been trying to be stealthy but the villagers would be awake now with a tale to tell (a better one than my last stand).
The surviving Sluagh started to rally, hissing and shimmering, when the panels on the bulky forearms of the robot warrior slid open and dozens of micro-warheads launched like a swarm of furious fireflies. They swirled and buzzed until they locked on their targets, their trajectories becoming lethally straight. The creatures became ash upon impact.
The panels on the back of the mech unfolded and Aqua climbed out. She perched herself on the robot's shoulder. She was wearing cool goggles. She smiled.
"Bishop helped me build it out of the wreckage of the subway car. Re-purposed 'The They' technology. I based the design off of those Golems from that Citadel videogame you always used to play. So there's a full-suite of offensive and defensive armaments and yeah, it can can still travel between dimensions.
"Sometimes you need more than just gauntlets and only a brand new outfit will do."
Max grinned. "I missed you."
They had managed to herd him to the bridge over the river that split the village. He knew they'd catch up to him if he tried to run across. He couldn't risk jumping in the water; the elemental transition would only make him more liminal and more vulnerable to the faeries' magic. Sometimes he still regretted giving up Joy and Pain. A last stand at the bridge would at least make a good story.
Suddenly a light flared in the night sky and something large and heavy crashed into the approaching Sluagh like a meteor. Some of the creatures were crushed, others disintegrated in a wave of energy that washed off the massive object. The remaining fey assassins began to take cover.
Max grinned as he watched the object rise and unfold from the crater it had made: a fifteen foot tall mecha. He had been trying to be stealthy but the villagers would be awake now with a tale to tell (a better one than my last stand).
The surviving Sluagh started to rally, hissing and shimmering, when the panels on the bulky forearms of the robot warrior slid open and dozens of micro-warheads launched like a swarm of furious fireflies. They swirled and buzzed until they locked on their targets, their trajectories becoming lethally straight. The creatures became ash upon impact.
The panels on the back of the mech unfolded and Aqua climbed out. She perched herself on the robot's shoulder. She was wearing cool goggles. She smiled.
"Bishop helped me build it out of the wreckage of the subway car. Re-purposed 'The They' technology. I based the design off of those Golems from that Citadel videogame you always used to play. So there's a full-suite of offensive and defensive armaments and yeah, it can can still travel between dimensions.
"Sometimes you need more than just gauntlets and only a brand new outfit will do."
Max grinned. "I missed you."
20151013
CD Five
To The Max
(cover art: a black and white photo of people boarding and exiting a subway car)
Allandean - Rapture Riders
Jeff Wayne - Brave New World (Remixed)
Atomphunk - Boogie Down (Kneedeep Mix)
B.B. King - Messy But Good
Barry Devoran - The Warriors Three
Jeff Beck - Where It's At
Berlin - The Metro
Taco - Putting On The Ritz
The Grid - Swamp Thing
New Order - Ruined In A Day
Holyman - Counterstriked
Bill Withers - A Beautiful Day
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