Re: Mini-Grand 5103 [Rou://www.cyberspace.net]
09-12-2011, 04:25 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Schazer.
Selvsetter twitched, as though some chronomancer prankster had stopped time just to do something compromising to her, before running off and restarting it with a giggle. It wasn't pleasant. She waded off the road she'd materialised upon, the great torrents of spam hurtling unconcerned around her. Transactions zipped from the faces of skyscrapers in a direction that might've been suburbia, followed shortly by the bulkier vehicle-packaged lumps of email which dived into the spam-dominated traffic of the green-on-black city.
It was the kind of metropolis, bigger than any one individual could ever experience, that Selvsetter had always harboured romantic notions of living in one day. She smirked a bit, finding the fondness appropriate. Then she remembered she was supposed to be in a Grand Battle (even if it was a broken-to-fuck mini-grand) and figured she'd best find something to do. Something that (and this was purely personal preference, at this stage) had fuck-all to do with those contestants of hers.
For a brief second, Selvsetter considered destroying the internet. She envisioned some kind of rhythmical soundless light show (lack-of-light-show? Dying-of-the-light-show?) as everything locked down and shut itself off, block by city block. She contemplated Melissa, clinging to a speeding email as she fled from a murderous Parsley.EXE, frozen with the rest of the stream when Selvsetter brought all the connection and linking and globalisation to a jittering halt.
Then Selvsetter remembered that villains got comeuppance. She sighed, and stared up into the request-thickened sky for a long while, until a pattern of sorts emerged. This city (damnit, she was thinking romantically here, that wouldn't do) was yet another sense-fucking nonsensical parable for something she didn't have that great a handle on.
Selvsetter got to walking, always looking up amongst the criss-crossing migrations of a myriad captcha codes and login details, until she'd pursued a mob of the most non-sequitorious phrases submitted to the internet several city blocks to a stark-facaded approximation of a city hall that somehow encompassed a library and an archive and had an "Inquiries" desk that extended into the far distance like a horizon.
Google. Fuckin' perfect.
Selvsetter twitched, as though some chronomancer prankster had stopped time just to do something compromising to her, before running off and restarting it with a giggle. It wasn't pleasant. She waded off the road she'd materialised upon, the great torrents of spam hurtling unconcerned around her. Transactions zipped from the faces of skyscrapers in a direction that might've been suburbia, followed shortly by the bulkier vehicle-packaged lumps of email which dived into the spam-dominated traffic of the green-on-black city.
It was the kind of metropolis, bigger than any one individual could ever experience, that Selvsetter had always harboured romantic notions of living in one day. She smirked a bit, finding the fondness appropriate. Then she remembered she was supposed to be in a Grand Battle (even if it was a broken-to-fuck mini-grand) and figured she'd best find something to do. Something that (and this was purely personal preference, at this stage) had fuck-all to do with those contestants of hers.
For a brief second, Selvsetter considered destroying the internet. She envisioned some kind of rhythmical soundless light show (lack-of-light-show? Dying-of-the-light-show?) as everything locked down and shut itself off, block by city block. She contemplated Melissa, clinging to a speeding email as she fled from a murderous Parsley.EXE, frozen with the rest of the stream when Selvsetter brought all the connection and linking and globalisation to a jittering halt.
Then Selvsetter remembered that villains got comeuppance. She sighed, and stared up into the request-thickened sky for a long while, until a pattern of sorts emerged. This city (damnit, she was thinking romantically here, that wouldn't do) was yet another sense-fucking nonsensical parable for something she didn't have that great a handle on.
Selvsetter got to walking, always looking up amongst the criss-crossing migrations of a myriad captcha codes and login details, until she'd pursued a mob of the most non-sequitorious phrases submitted to the internet several city blocks to a stark-facaded approximation of a city hall that somehow encompassed a library and an archive and had an "Inquiries" desk that extended into the far distance like a horizon.
Google. Fuckin' perfect.
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow