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For fuck's sake. Leave these people to their madnesses.

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Squatters Convice To Leave

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Show them that the building is dangerous.

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For fuck's sake. Leave these people to their madnesses.

Statistically possible...

Wandering from one peccadillo to another like an inverted travelling circus; the world is their clown.

There's no such thing as luck.

Luck is the most important tool you have.

Throw the lucky bottle to them.

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The angels stop their shimmering and turn to watch this one perfect throw.

Told Eszti that fucking seagull was watching us! But shit, it's helping?

Seagulls are territorial. It was defending its airspace.

It was fucking magical!

That's twice you've been saved by a trash animal. Kin?

Hush as it falls.

Inevitable yet strangely crushing.

He waves his hand in a circular motion, tracing the course of lost interest that will one day return.

Perfect zone. Look at the view! No trees, ocean, or mountains getting in the way. Pure, uninterrupted structure.

True shock in her voice.

She winks at you.

Amused by her own obscurity.

She'll be in Novessa's underground dancehalls by spring.

A joke. They don't care about 'winning'.

It wants to fall on them. It wants to smash bone.

Obsidian, reflective, a pool of blood spills out beneath a mound of broken concrete. The sound of a keyboard comes from somewhere within, stuck on a diminished C.

Get them out of here. You're all going to be crushed.

THE BUILDING HAS SUMMONED THESE MUSICAL YOUTHS TO CREATE A NEW PARTY. ASSIST THEM IN THEIR FUNK ENDEAVOUR.

No smell of gas, though a person suffering from chemical hallucinations would be unlikely to suspect themselves of the fact.

The kind of song that you can only write if you know how to hope for things.

Portofiro has been like this since before they were born. They can't remember a different world -- but the song brings it to them.

The bomb vibrates happily in your hands.

The bomb sure does.

PLAY IT. IF THE BOMB GOES OFF THEN OPT NOT TO DIE.

The bomb vibrates, pulsing in time with the concrete tremors.

Your lips move, muscle memory. You know this song. You know the next line...

Of course! But what is the song?

Let your mouth sing along.

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Novessa, 81. Vodka, three-day old outfits, cigarettes. You all danced together to a half-broken speaker system in someone's kitchen. It was happiness, all the sweeter because it felt stolen.

You danced with a lover, in the nascent stages. Lingering moments, a meeting of flesh that only you could feel. Brief enough to deny, long enough to know.

So if you had the real recording of 'Superbloc, Baby', you'd also have a bomb...

A song that would have blown Sweet Nestor to pieces had he not changed his plans.

One hit wonder by the False Midnights, who were blacklisted in the Superbloc for the song's irreverent lyrics about dating a communist girl. This only made the song more popular among Novessa's youth.

OVERTURES ARE BOURGEOIS.

Upstairs, something screams.

You feel chalk dust settle over you.

You hear the clear sound of a drum from upstairs. Something replied.

See how focused they are on their task? Melita wouldn't have to use her disappointed voice if you were like that.

Excitement high enough to render danger irrelevant.

The musicians Septimus told you about.

Show them that the building is dangerous.

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Droplets of rain break in to party with the dust.

THEN FALL IT MUST. NOTHING THAT CANNOT BE RADICAL CAN BE CALLED COMMUNIST. THIS WAS THE PARTY LINE ALL ALONG.

Moonlight peers in to see what you're doing.

You glimpse the sky through a concrete frame, grey teeth with a grey maw.

A missile flies through the sky, screaming its arrival. They pick up their instruments one last time.

The metal stripper.

Fucking embarassing. We've been stripped like copper!

A sacrificial offering. Better than a pigeon.

Smells like blood.

These people are like human dowsing rods for architecture that wants them dead.

Born into decay, they will always be drawn to it.

Good hands would've found a purpose for it already.

A few seconds later, you hear it crash.

Five seconds between release and shatter. The bottom of the silo is approximately eighty metres below ground.

The hand on its oscilloscope twitches in recognition of their voices.

Wagging its tail.

Half-laughing, as if firearms are ridiculous at a conceptual level.

Not dead enough.

Or in the walls.

Check out the sound gear -- this is top brand, fancy stuff.

He decorates the word 'song' with a wiggle of his fingertips.

Dark firelights and digital snow dance behind your eyelids. Within your breast, a thrum stirs stray metal -- a deep bassline, plucking strings of pectoral muscle.

It's just the old pipes.

Has to be a rational explanation, there's a source in here somewhere.

Faintly, a round of offended cooing from the rafters.

Your own breath. Loud in your ears, uneven.

Could be challenging. You've never been very good at finding a groove, body-wise.

Thump, thump, thump -- your arteries, or a bassline? It's hard to tell the difference, but something thrums through your body, a vibration from deep within the walls.

You can't hear a thing.

Their audio equipment's all bootlegged shit, inverted logos and backward numbers everywhere.

For fuck's sake. Leave these people to their madnesses. - ZERO PARADES Checks