Sitting in front of the river he saw large pieces of the defeated monster float by, heading into the bay.
He was known for his animated playing style, thrashing around until the piano had been reduced to rubble, and then throwing the jagged pieces at the unworthy audience.
The unrelenting background noise in the office lulled them into a state of both vague hunger and specious water cooler banter.
Once the motorcade passed there was a desperate attempt to storm the embassy, but the thick, pungent bio-foam successfully stopped the mob.
The constant roar of air through the glass and steel corridors of the city was exhausting. It’s not wind, he thought, it’s artificial.
Air defenses were activated for the city. Every third citizen would stare unblinkingly at the sky and disbelieve.
In the background an old telephone rang, he heard an answering machine pick up. It was the Colonel, and he was sobbing.
“We need to grow this business over time. Consider your buckets. Evaluate your implants. Assess your ontologies. Scratch. Sniff. Scream.”
After-hours the club became a resistance node, dispensing psychometric blockers for anyone approaching the central core.
Square food cubes, vaguely gelatinous, were traded briskly for a watered down form of Red Empathy called Red Drool.
The Red Zone was devoted to the craft of experiences. Green Zone was dedicated to the act of resistance. The Blue Zone was focused on spiritual navigation.
The new city was built inside the crater. They protected it by placing spiritual challenges at the periphery. The final obstacle was an impossible act of self-reflection demanded by nattering hairdressers.
The cathedral opened for business the following sunday. People lined up holding their chickens, wearing hair shirts, and chanting “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince.
Several packages were delivered to HQ, each a fragrant act of protest.
Tunnels under The Capital had been stocked with dreams and nightmares since the condition of the general populace showed no signs of improvement.