AN IDOL TO MINDLESS CONSUMERISM, NOW BECOME WHAT IT IS.

It emanates the desperation of the battlefield, the ugly cunning of guerillas fabricating weapons of war from out of nothing but saliva and bolts.

The inside of your skull lights up like a cheap arcade cabinet -- flashing, loud, deeply satisfying.

Don't start thinking that, after your last success, this will be child's play. Model trains can get complex -- it's serious craftsmanship.

It can be finnicky, but you should have the nimbleness of finger to deal with that.

Or they're Constanz's: Another manifestation of the murky impulse that got her mixed up with your people in the first place.

Suspended above, satellites blink slowly, as if on the edge of sleep.

All serenity liquidated. Animal terror.

The auditorium gasps as one. Beyond curtain and cloak snickers the conjuror.

As cold as you've ever felt her.

A fundamental shift, form irrelevant: The difference between deafness and hearing, darkness and light.

Even this fragment is strange and painful, like a dead leaf in midsummer.

UNHEALTHY VOCAL VIBRATO. POPULIST.

Ultras, fly formation.

She has yet to notice it's already stuck in.

The management's changed, but the artist's still on tour.

One of the perks of being the top of the social hierarchy: time becomes a suggestion, not a reality.

For the first time -- just for the life and death of a second -- you see her as a fearful young girl, flinching at every movement outside the door.

A flower on the precipice.

The last thing the peasant class of Saskia saw before the bombs in close-up -- Ultra Violeta's face winking at them from behind her trademark 'V' salute.

SHE WILL BOMB YOU WHILE SHE'S AT IT. REGARDS FROM LA LUZ.

A criminal thrill down the upper inside of your thigh.

The gäng knows gäng when we see it.

Hold up! Timing is too clear cut. She sabotaged the release by disappearing.

SEEMINGLY LAUGHABLE COMING FROM A NO-DOUBT-EUGENICS-OBSESSED MUSO-FASCIST, BUT IN THIS INSTANCE, SHE IS CORRECT.

A communal painting on the courtyard wall of a lunatic asylum.

Sound only -- bold move. Potentially hotter than visuals, if done right...

A likely story. Artists are the world's most unrepentant narcs.

THE PARTY NEVER SLEEPS. IT IS ALWAYS ROUSED. LISTENING TO MUSIC THAT REINFORCES NEGATIVE EMOTION IS BOURGEOIS MOPING.

Disc variants. Branded keyboards. Sellout tours. This sadness thing bankrolls itself.

Don't bother. This assignment doesn't require 'melancholy'. Just a gun and a steady hand.

Life is sad. That's the reason. Starts sad, gets sadder.

Songs can haunt you longer than people. All the way to the end of a life, on perpetual loop in the background of your mind.

Didn't go outside either.

One very at odds with the atmosphere in the room.

FUNERAL PLAYLIST. COFFIN OUTRO.

Four young women bound in holding cells. The interrogations have not yet been violent, but they have been ruthless.

Close enough to touch shadows.

Long-submerged dreams of popstardom float to the surface of your consciousness like drowned corpses.

For a moment, her mind flits to erasing all life through a single song. A communal three-minute ritual of beauty and horror.

You spot one legible button right in the centre of the console. It says 'INTERFACE'.

Evil! Stay away!

The machine is a cyclops. Its other monitors are ancillary, this one watches.

He said that way too quickly. Bet he can't name any.

He thinks he's going to stay there, too.

He's made up his mind.

Wearing a nametag? Idiocy even for a civilian.

GROTESQUE MISUSE OF PARTY COLOURS.

Trying to think of an insult. He doesn't like that your name is cooler than his.

He turns his head to look sideways at you, like one might at a crackhead or a priest.

Checks