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Uh oh. She's kind of digging this star-fucking business.

As old as her. She is L-Pop.

Maybe conceived to it too. Hot. Sad and hot.

Then, not understanding how it happened, but very happy that it did, the Grown-Ups sidle up and cream their share off the top.

Not fading. Shimmering.

No bass? Lightweight.

A little grave in the heart.

Fluent in memory. Speaks ghost. Has conversational dream.

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.

THE WORKING CLASS.

Yours don't seem to require the spotlight.

Another curse of being hyper successful, and existentially beautiful.

A six-year-old girl slowly lifts the corner of a heavy white sheet with frayed edges. Behind the sheet is a mirror. There is no one else in the living room. The girl catches a glimpse of herself and drops the sheet in shock.

True dark. No light in the night sky but the dead stars.

You're speaking with its champion soldier. Its glass cannon.

You can pull it free or kick her back in.

One foot in the empire. One foot in a shadow.

THIS FOOLISH GIRL IS CONFUSING REVOLUTION WITH HOMICIDE.

UNTHWARTABLE SCHEMES TEN THOUSAND YEARS.

Another thing she's trying to outrun.

She's a state asset. The Weeping Eye would handle any external threats, with prejudice.

Didn't go outside either.

Now she's fan-shifting as Tempo, a gay middle-aged criminal.

A fugitive from one empire or another. Do angels ever truly know if they're moving through the living or the dead?

One very at odds with the atmosphere in the room.

SALT THE EARTH. REJECT 'YOUTH CULTURE'. THE SPELL OF THE NEW IS THE TRICK OF THE ENEMY.

A couple she's very proud of, even.

It reminds you of the final line of a poem.

FUNERAL PLAYLIST. COFFIN OUTRO.

THE ANSWER IS OBVIOUS. TO KEEP THE MASSES UNDER DIM SEDATION.

No contempt, just a light sadness.

'Solo'? Mega disregard for the sound-gäng and their contributions!

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

Close enough to touch shadows.

Close enough for it to hurt.

The photograph is hard to look at, but easy to touch. When your fingers find its edges, a kind of strength charges through them.

You shouldn't have kept this photo. You should have left it where you found it, stained in your ally's blood, smashed upon the ground, sealed behind a locked door.

This girl is adrift and in dire need of a collab! Time to make your mark. Culturally.

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

Desolation in different seasons.

A melancholic sledgehammer. The musical world would find itself ill-prepared.

Bending the gear to her will. Nice.

You watch her nose physically turn upward a few degrees.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 138 of 197