Resonants
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An elaborate instrumental composition in three or more movements, similar in form to a sonata but written for an orchestra and usually of far grander proportions and more varied elements.
He saw their communication in the corner of his eyes. Obsidian signaled to Lapis, who had been about to charge in on him. He was giving her an order, changing her direction. There were only two directions she could take, but Symphony knew he didn’t have time to determine which of his comrades he could help.
Because Obsidian was coming for him.
He didn’t have time to fight it. He only had time to turn and raise his wrist so that the blackness’ hand curled around his arm, instead of his neck. It would spare him some discomfort, at least, and would protect him if Obsidian attempted to choke him at the same time as the drain. He could afford to lose a wrist. His free hand made it into his bag with his gun before the contact was made.
He met Obsidian’s eyes through the shadows with neutrality. No defiance, no interest, but no disinterest, either. He couldn’t fight this, but he could see. He could observe. And if he survived – which, judging by Obsidian’s choice to remain non-lethal with Pop, was a good possibility – he could pass that information on.
For many Japanese, min’yō evokes, or is said to evoke, a nostalgia for real or imagined home towns and family.
They needed to get away.
They’d needed to since the fight started, but the fight was the reason why they were here. What they needed was Techno back, but Lapis’s boyfriend finally got up and hopped the counter to actually follow her. Min didn’t have a choice but to watch him go as Lapis’ knife sank into her shoulder, a sharp flash of pain that she leveraged against her own moment of confusion to ground herself. It didn’t go deep. Lapis was struggling against the cushion of air between herself and Min. But it was enough that it forced Shiba into a different position, letting Min turn and catch the blow on the middle of her bo rather than her ribs.
Over on the ground, she saw Hyperpop starting to stand as Kitsune turned toward her. Pop was practically useless with everyone clustered up like this, and Min didn’t have the mobility to shield her. She’d have to take care of herself for a minute – not like Min’yo didn’t already trust her to do that. Her voice carried none of her worry, because that dissipated as quickly as it had come.
“Pop, eyes up.”
That was all the breath she could spare for their youngest fighter. She had a fight of her own to take care of, and she started with the woman who was so close she could feel her breaths on her shoulder. She closed her eyes to focus on the air around Lapis’ face, in front of her nose and mouth. It would thin as she siphoned the nitrogen off, collecting it while at the same time turning her bo on Shiba in a hard shove backed by a gust of wind. She needed space from one of them; and whether Lapis backed off on her own when she felt the thin air, or she managed to push Shiba back for a moment, didn’t matter. She just couldn’t take both of them for longer than a few seconds at a time.
A cartoonish wall of noise that embraces catchy tunes and memorable hooks. The music zooms between beauty and ugliness, as shimmery melodies collide with mangled instrumentation.
The crack of Symphony gunshot had been more than enough to pull Pop out of her artistic daydreams. A moment after Obsidian let her go, warmth started to bleed back into her muscles. Her heart was pounding, but she was otherwise intact. She’d started to sit up when Min’s command came through.
Eyes up.
Without actually looking, she moved her hands to the sides of her head and flexed her core to pull herself into a handstand. The smell of burned linoleum brought her attention to the spot where her hands had been a second ago, and her fingers curled at the thought of that kind of burning. Finally, she looked at her attacker, her head tilting at an odd angle from upside-down.
“Let a girl take five, jeez,” she chided, like she wasn’t thinking about her skin melting off.
She fell backwards so she was back on her feet, her head never quite un-tilting. This was the person who’d said they’d had a bad week, right? Or was that the orange one? Whichever way it was, that mask was tacky as hell. And they’d made what Symph would call a “tactical error.”
They were moving away from the cluster of fighters where Hyperpop’s friends were.
She stepped back, hands raised in a loose fighting position, except that her palms were open like a karate movie. Her smile came back under the skull-grin mask, its rhinestones catching the light that was coming through the broken front windows. All she had to do was change her angle a little bit – which she was pretty sure somebody smart enough to make a ray gun would figure out – and it’d be a done fight. Sure, they had range on her, but she was fast once up. And maybe she’d get a good hit in on her way down. It’d suck if Techno had to carry both her and Symph out, but she wasn’t too worried about it.
Not that she was willing to show, anyway.
Techno tracks mainly progress over manipulation of timbral characteristics of synthesizer presets and, unlike forms of EDM that tend to be produced with synthesizer keyboards, techno does not always strictly adhere to the harmonic practice of Western music and such structures are often ignored in favor of timbral manipulation alone.
Techno had locked Sandy in the safe behind her. Or at least, she was pretty sure it was locked. Did it have to be locked before she knocked the power out? Not that it really mattered - Sandy wasn’t going anywhere either way. Techno was just tightening the backpack around her shoulders when the gunshot went off.
Symphony wouldn’t shoot unless something big was going down.
She’d slammed the safe shut behind her and taken off at a run back down the hall. Just about two dozen feet from –
Something was coming toward her. Techno slid to a stop, her entire body tense as she flipped her useless rifle in her hand, carelessly. Her vivid purple eyes locked on the target as soon as it appeared on the other end of the dark hallway. Between her and her husband, her friends. Her teeth gritted, but there was a cruel smile in her thick Jersey voice while her eyes adjusted to the dark.
“Yer an ugly fucka, an’cha?”
She planted her feet, well aware something moving that fast wasn’t gonna stop for an insult. But a rifle butt slamming against the side of his head like a professional slugger should do the trick in the meantime.