He wandered out into the runoff zone, his feet tapping tango on the travelators, a tattoo of indelible sadness.
The sentinels gave him grace, knowing him to be a man without political purpose; knowing from the data in his chip.
How was she to know that he would not be returning? She, like all the others, had to trust that the PTB had some system; some consistent parameters for the harvesting of malcontents.
He was dragged through the night puddles with blood on his knees, buildings obstructed the moon, cast black shadows across his kicking legs.
How was he to know that the PTB held no allegiance to process; their techniques were distilled from centuries of subtle manoeuvring; manifest in the duality of presentation to the public by the voice of reason; obscuring the machinations of power?
She wandered out into the runoff zone, searching for his footprints; for scuff marks on the travelators; for blood on the concourse.
The sentinels gave chase: her chip flagged a ballot violation.
How was he to know that she would follow him into the fray? He trusted her judgement when it came to the laws of probability.
She was dragged before the Kangaroo, charged and sentenced with blood still copper on her tongue and the moon was a silver echo in her mind as she was taken into darkness.
How was she to know that the PTB held no allegiance to reason; their techniques were distilled from centuries of subtle manoeuvring; manifest in the duality of presentation to the public by the guidelines of process; obscuring the machinations of power.
The sentinels gave him grace, knowing him to be a man without political purpose; knowing from the data in his chip.
How was she to know that he would not be returning? She, like all the others, had to trust that the PTB had some system; some consistent parameters for the harvesting of malcontents.
He was dragged through the night puddles with blood on his knees, buildings obstructed the moon, cast black shadows across his kicking legs.
How was he to know that the PTB held no allegiance to process; their techniques were distilled from centuries of subtle manoeuvring; manifest in the duality of presentation to the public by the voice of reason; obscuring the machinations of power?
She wandered out into the runoff zone, searching for his footprints; for scuff marks on the travelators; for blood on the concourse.
The sentinels gave chase: her chip flagged a ballot violation.
How was he to know that she would follow him into the fray? He trusted her judgement when it came to the laws of probability.
She was dragged before the Kangaroo, charged and sentenced with blood still copper on her tongue and the moon was a silver echo in her mind as she was taken into darkness.
How was she to know that the PTB held no allegiance to reason; their techniques were distilled from centuries of subtle manoeuvring; manifest in the duality of presentation to the public by the guidelines of process; obscuring the machinations of power.
4 comments:
I had to read this twice before I saw the pattern correlation... then the "a-ha" moment.
Good stuff.
I miss coming here
Wonderful
marvelous; rage against the machine.... or not; in this reality, does it matter? what does matter? what is matter....
i like the way you weave a story.
Jeff: I'm glad it wasn't obvious :D
Spit: Why'dya stop coming then~? ;]
Harelequin: The machine eats everything >oooD
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