"Hello, hero."

"Hello, hero."

"What are you doing up there?"

"Ah! Spectacular of you to ask. We're tossing bottles into this hole."

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

"Why are you tossing bottles?"

"First it was just for fun. But then we figured -- based on a feeling of general speculative interest -- that if you threw enough bottles down there then eventually one of them would make it out alive."

Statistically possible...

"And then this bottle -- supposing such a bottle exists -- would certainly be a lucky bottle. Possibly the luckiest conceivable."

"So then it became a quest for a lucky bottle. Or the end of our beer supply."

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

"Whichever comes first."

"I'd like to believe in luck. I need some."

"Then I hope we find it."

"Though you should prepare yourself existentially for the possibility that we do not."

"Bottles can't be lucky, only people. We're born with a certain amount of it."

"How much did we get, Un?"

"All of it in the world, Deux."

She tosses a bottle, whistles as it falls.

"Difficult to know for sure."

"Luck is a lie for the unskilled."

"Could be, could be."

He throws a bottle.

"Could also be real and living in a beer bottle. So better find out just in case."

"Divine balancing acts would certainly explain a lot of the world's cruelty."

"Precisely. Somebody has to find out if the stars are up to no good."

"We've volunteered."

"You seem quite sober for all that beer."

"We're not."

"If we're quite anything it's good at pretending."

"It doesn't look safe up there."

"You my friend are far too afraid of structures."

"You have the fear of structures in you."

"Overcome it."

Do not.

"About something else..." (Back.)

"As you wish."

"About what you're doing again..."

"What about it?"

"I'm in the market for rocket silo lore if you have any."

"Rocket silo?"

"She means our bottle tossing hole."

"Oh yes, forgot that's what it is. Failed space rocketry, yes? I'm not getting into any of that."

"Nor me. Sorry, our friend! We aren't compelled."

"I'm concerned that time might be false."

"If it's false then you can do with it as you wish."

"Precisely. You could do this, or anything. Not a concern at all, really."

A beer bottle flies out of her hand and into fate's.

"Do you know what MIHO is?"

"Me-ho.... Meeee-ho..." he takes a swig of beer, spouts it out of his mouth into the silo. "Nope. Deux?"

"Afraid not."

"I found an intact bottle down there." (Show the bottle.)

"No! One of them didn't smash, Un."

"I see it, Deux. Must have happened when our attention was elsewhere... Well, our friend, you found it so it's your luck if you please."

There's no such thing as luck.

Luck is the most important tool you have.

"Be cool if you could throw it over here though. And hey -- would put the luck theory to the test."

"You're sure you don't mind I keep it?"

"We'd mind a little."

"Just a touch."

Throw the lucky bottle to them.

You draw back your arm and throw, overarm. The bottle leaves your hand.

It arcs through the air, no spin.

Alternative wording

It cuts a graceful arc through the rain.

Alternative wording

It arcs through the air, undisturbed by the wind.

Alternative wording

It cuts a graceful arc through the night sky, no spin.

Alternative wording

It crosses the sun as it flies, no spin.

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

Sick.

"Got it!"

"Bravo! Bravo!" he laughs, applauds. "What a hero you are."

She weighs the bottle in her hand, grins.

"That was really fucking cool."

You draw back your arm and throw, overarm. The bottle leaves your hand.

It begins to spin in the air, veering dangerously off course...

Alternative wording

It begins to spin in the rain, veering dangerously off course...

Alternative wording

It spins through the air, harassed by the wind, veering dangerously off course...

Alternative wording

It begins to spin, its silhouette like a satellite in the night sky. Destined to crash...

Alternative wording

You quint against the sunlight, barely able to see as the bottle veers dangerously off course...

Fucked it.

Until it reaches the apex of its climb -- where the sleek figure of a seagull dives to meet it, white and grey. The bird knocks the bottle back onto the right path.

No fucking way...

Nobody will ever believe this.

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?

It's a lucky bottle.

It has to be.

"I told you, people are lucky -- not bottles. Watch." (Throw the bottle back down the silo.)

You toss the empty bottle into the depths of the earth.

Hush as it falls.

And a distant shatter as it hits the bottom.

Inevitable yet strangely crushing.

"That felt bad for some reason."

"Well, all you did was prove that it's one of us who's lucky, not you." She grins. "But there's no way of knowing which."

"We'll just both have to do our best to share it."

"See?"

"I do indeed... it's one of us who's lucky, Un." She grins. "But there's no way of knowing which."

"Boom!"

"Ahaha! I didn't hear it break."

"I did. But that's okay. It survived a forty metre fall once and got to meet the three of us on the way -- that's more than enough proof for me that lucky bottles exist, even if its luck ran out in the end."

"I told you, luck isn't real." (Throw the bottle back down the silo.)

"I need the luck; I'm going to keep it." (Keep the bottle.)

"It is yours."

Un salutes you dutifully.

"I have questions about you two..."

"Ask them."

"How did you end up in the Pitol Tract?"

"We don't recall."

"Been on an excitement-induced bender since the Palace of Culture."

"Aren't you supposed to be with Septimus?"

"Ah, eventually."

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

"Never heard of you."

"We get that a lot."

"Not much else, in fact."

"We're doing our best."

"Where are your instruments?"

"Under the scaffolding down here. Nice zone, cozy."

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

"What's scumsynth?"

"Would you like the epic or the ditty version?"

"Epic."

"It all began when a ten-year-old with the special foresight afforded only to the delinquent genius stole a keyboard from an electronics shop."

"It was me."

"It was her. Afraid of her crimes we hid it under our bed, where it lay for almost three years. During this period, we developed a dance style called 'minimal body vibrato', while the keyboard itself developed a patina."

"At the two year nine months mark I exhumed the keyboard and successfully harangued him into playing the snare drum."

The sound didn't call to her until it had begun to decay -- they'll imbue the world's rot with a neon life.

"But the genre itself wasn't fully formed until a week or so later, upon the discovery of 'preset three'. There you have it -- scumsynth."

"It's just us."

"Ditty."

"Synth played by scum."

Should've gone epic.

Epic, epic!

"Where will you go now?"

"We never know."

"Somewhere quiet."

"Septimus told me about you guys."

"He did?"

True shock in her voice.

"Deux... we've officially been discussed."

"Un... one day we may even be photographed."

She winks at you.

Amused by her own obscurity.

"Are Un and Deux your real names?"

"Can a name be real? And if it can then what does it depend on -- origin, sound? Our mother named him 'Feral Jim'."

"Ate my own umbilical cord."

"He ate his own umbilical cord. But that's beside the point -- which is that our names are Un and Deux."

"What do you think of the Culture Blockade?"

"Pointless. Culture's atomic. It's in the air."

"If that's the case, this whole island should be quarantined to contain the Luzian mania."

"Too late for that. They're dancing to Ultra Violeta in the Eastern Republics."

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

"If it's already here, might as well enjoy it."

"Nnnttss-nnnttss-nnnttss."

"I guess whichever culture is the best is the one that'll win."

"We're rooting for synth."

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

"What brought you to this shithole in the first place?"

"We were on the hunt for a music video location and we've broken into real shit instead."

"It's awful in here. Go see the basement bathroom -- divine."

"Why did you pick Quisach for your music video location?"

"Dereliction. Second only to the Pitol Tract in terms of."

"GM says the building's going to collapse, you should leave." (Proceed.)

"The GMs are disregardable at best."

"Disregard them."

"There's a mystery in these walls -- don't you want to figure it out?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the balcony above them is tilted slightly.

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.

"That balcony is going to fall on you -- leave."

"We're going to keep on trying to figure out the song."

"Look around, see the place. You'll hear it."

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.

"Sure about the speakers? What you're hearing must be coming from somewhere."

"We're sure. You'll be able to hear it too eventually. It's less sound more... suggestion." She tilts her head. "It's coming from the building itself. I'm sure of it."

"Awesome. Talk me through your theories so far."

"Well! So. Sound alters space -- motion transfers between particles... Maybe the concrete's vibrating, and the particles are arranging themselves in a way they never have before."

"Could just be magic."

"We're covering all bases, really."

"Poor building. Who knows how long it's been playing to no audience? Explore the place a little, let yourself feel the rhythm, let it sing to you..."

"Maybe there's a gas leak and we're breathing in fumes."

"No! I know it looks like shit in here but this is really happening, it's not a hallucination."

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

"You have to try to connect on an artistic-historical level with the building."

"Why do you care?"

"I cannot even begin to imagine what you mean by that question."

"His imagination won't start."

"We need to record this song. The room itself is singing! Possessed, deranged, alight! Look at this building. What do you see?"

"Not much. It's dark."

"You see bullshit."

"Complete bullshit. Like the rest of the city. Ruins, someone else's plan in ramshackling pieces all over the place. Unescapable, doom foregone. But the song sounds so... happy."

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.

"Cracked concrete."

"Spider zone."

"There have to be speakers somewhere."

"Nope. Plus the power is completely dead in here, so even if we had found speakers in here, they couldn't have been running."

"It's coming from the building itself, somehow... I think."

"Found a bomb." (Show bomb.)

Alternative wording

"Brought you the bomb, look." (Show bomb.)

"Hey little guy," she coos to the bomb. "Oh wow -- you hear that? She's done it! This is our singer."

The bomb vibrates happily in your hands.

"We have so much of the song down now, want to hear?"

The bomb sure does.

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

"I think the bomb's rigged to blow when the song plays."

"Awesome. Hit it, Deux."

She hits play. Dust streams from the ceiling, the balcony quivers.

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

"Aha, see! It's dancing!"

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

"I know this song..."

"No way! What is it?"

She flips the switch off. The building settles in silence.

"The bomb was moving in time with the song."

"Well, look at the little darling. It has a microphone -- it's listening. Bet you our first keyboard that this song is supposed to be its trigger."

Of course! But what is the song?

Let your mouth sing along.

You stop trying to think, you just let yourself join in. Half-remembered lyrics, mumbled syllables.

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.

You know the words, you know the melody. It's a Superbloc pop song: 'Superbloc, Baby'.

"It's 'Superbloc, Baby'."

"Wait... I have heard that before. 'Superbloc, Baby' is an old pop song!"

"Ahaha, your bomb is triggered by pop music! What a fabulous creature."

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

"A song that would have destroyed the building... Reconstructed as its eulogy."

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

"This is going to be the remix to end all remixes. 'Superbloc, Baby (Bomb Version)'. Let's get out of here and get to work."

You can hear the song constantly, now. In the back of your mind like it isn't truly there.

"I'll miss this place when it falls. But we're going to make people dance on the rubble."

"Your bomb was going wild for it... and look, the little darling has a microphone. Bet you our first keyboard that 'Superbloc, Baby' was supposed to be its trigger."

"Aren't you disappointed it's someone else's song?"

"Not at all! We can reconstruct it for Portofiro, for now, for us."

"This is going to be the remix to end all remixes. Let's get out of here and get to work."

"It's not the building, it's a bomb. The song was supposed to be the trigger but it never played."

Alternative wording

"The song is its trigger; it just never played."

"It's actually coming from this bomb." (Show bomb.)

"Splendid."

"Makes sense for a communist headquarters."

"We should have known!"

"Now you know the song will you leave?"

"With alacrity!"

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.

Why did the delegation bring a foreign song which the Party banned?

A display of willingness to interact with the rest of the world on its own terms -- a first step on the path to being 'game'. They never took another.

OVERTURES ARE BOURGEOIS.

Sing the second verse.

"Yes, you got it!"

Your body knows but you don't. Perhaps it's from the future, or you'll only hear it when you're dead.

Yeah, it's a secret song for ghosts.

Maybe it's songs from ghosts? And if you hear the second verse or another chorus, you're forced to join their ranks.

I won't die.

There's only one way to test the theory of immortality and it's upsettingly permanent if you're wrong.

"Forget the song. You need to get out of here."

"Shit..." She brushes dust from her hair. "I think she might be right, this place is coming down."