Got this bird's eye view and it's in my brain
Clarity has reared its ugly head again
So this is real life you're telling me
And everything is where it ought to be
~ Magazine ‘Definitive Gaze’ 1978
Clarity has reared its ugly head again
So this is real life you're telling me
And everything is where it ought to be
~ Magazine ‘Definitive Gaze’ 1978
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| Detail from 2000ad No.586 Cover Art by Simon Bisley |
He sucks on a roll-up as the wind blows a spiral round the gun-tower; the exhaled smoke swirling together with his hair in a brief and fragile ballet.
The same wind that allows the clave’s kite to gain enough height to gather power from the sunlight, causes the aluminium tree at Metal’s hub to flutter its leaves in reflective murmurations that power the engine of time; it being so-named because the energy provided by the movement of these metallic leaves powers the mechanism that drives the huge analogue clock adorning the glass spire at the hub where all roads converge at Metal’s geographic core.
The engine of time has no bearing on Metal’s survival since time is a luxury that nobody aspires to anymore. Besides, the clock only tells minutes since some joker nicked the hour hand and welded it to the groin of the statue of Alice Cooper Crucified that hangs below the clock.
The tree is a folly, a small-fry energy source when compared to the pressure-voltaic surfaces that pave all of Metal’s transport, pedestrian surfaces and roofs, able to generate current even from the fall of rain upon their surface.
Metal is an energy-junkie, using it almost as quickly as it makes it.
Its citizens see no merit in saving for the future since they’re all well aware that this is the future; that there is nothing beyond the spectre of now.
Metal’s stockpile of batteries is a result of raided warehouses on the outskirts of the two nearest cities back near the end of the collapse when the last scattered military units had been whittled down to scraps of confused and under-trained soldiers.
The energy stored is spent on the creation of whatever-the-fuck-it is that people want. Besides the basics of heat and light: furnaces for glass, for smithing; ovens for potters and sculptors; the continued development of fetish; rock ‘n’ roll unhindered by commerce; and weapons, lots of weapons.
The maxim “The same wind that blows over metal, blows over mud and while metal may rust, mud remains” is attributed to the turn of the century death metal band Pythagoras, and in Metal they believe this to be a fundamental truth.
Well, maybe not everyone in Metal believes this. Actually, nobody except Axel (not his real name) believes that kinda Paulo Coelho bullshit.
The wind whips him in the face with his hair, orange stars escape the end of his rollup, briefly peppering the dusk with light and heat.
His black T-shirt is Kevlar-padded for the just-in-case and proclaims the legend ‘Death is the last resort’ over a teddy bear with X’s for eyes and a cocktail in its hand.
Through his ‘scope, zoomed to the max, he watches the lone figure negotiate the maze; she is a grainy black silhouette scratched against the grey plateau.
His shield tracks her co-ords in a field-of-fire grid overlay on the retina of his left eye.
All weapons are cocked.
The same wind that allows the clave’s kite to gain enough height to gather power from the sunlight, causes the aluminium tree at Metal’s hub to flutter its leaves in reflective murmurations that power the engine of time; it being so-named because the energy provided by the movement of these metallic leaves powers the mechanism that drives the huge analogue clock adorning the glass spire at the hub where all roads converge at Metal’s geographic core.
The engine of time has no bearing on Metal’s survival since time is a luxury that nobody aspires to anymore. Besides, the clock only tells minutes since some joker nicked the hour hand and welded it to the groin of the statue of Alice Cooper Crucified that hangs below the clock.
The tree is a folly, a small-fry energy source when compared to the pressure-voltaic surfaces that pave all of Metal’s transport, pedestrian surfaces and roofs, able to generate current even from the fall of rain upon their surface.
Metal is an energy-junkie, using it almost as quickly as it makes it.
Its citizens see no merit in saving for the future since they’re all well aware that this is the future; that there is nothing beyond the spectre of now.
Metal’s stockpile of batteries is a result of raided warehouses on the outskirts of the two nearest cities back near the end of the collapse when the last scattered military units had been whittled down to scraps of confused and under-trained soldiers.
The energy stored is spent on the creation of whatever-the-fuck-it is that people want. Besides the basics of heat and light: furnaces for glass, for smithing; ovens for potters and sculptors; the continued development of fetish; rock ‘n’ roll unhindered by commerce; and weapons, lots of weapons.
The maxim “The same wind that blows over metal, blows over mud and while metal may rust, mud remains” is attributed to the turn of the century death metal band Pythagoras, and in Metal they believe this to be a fundamental truth.
Well, maybe not everyone in Metal believes this. Actually, nobody except Axel (not his real name) believes that kinda Paulo Coelho bullshit.
The wind whips him in the face with his hair, orange stars escape the end of his rollup, briefly peppering the dusk with light and heat.
His black T-shirt is Kevlar-padded for the just-in-case and proclaims the legend ‘Death is the last resort’ over a teddy bear with X’s for eyes and a cocktail in its hand.
Through his ‘scope, zoomed to the max, he watches the lone figure negotiate the maze; she is a grainy black silhouette scratched against the grey plateau.
His shield tracks her co-ords in a field-of-fire grid overlay on the retina of his left eye.
All weapons are cocked.
| Magazine | ||
| Definitive Gaze | ||
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