The Powers That Be (
powersthatbe) wrote2016-12-03 12:33 am
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Conversation Space IV.
The small room is painted a dark beige, with stained wood paneling on the lower half, and lush burgundy carpeting. The ceiling, however, is cracked and bowed, sagging alarmingly, occasionally shedding chips of plaster. Wrought-iron lamp-posts in the corners suspend pale, wan globes of light, and between them along the walls run rows of painted sunflowers, all turned towards the center of the room as if listening attentively. A jutting spire of granite rises from the floor on a diagonal, its flattened top sporting a cracked wineglass from which the wine (a white) slowly spatters teardrops across the plinth. And there is no chair, but a therapist’s couch, blue with gold trim, and ornate scrollwork on the legs, beside which the fluted horn of a phonograph player pipes music into the room, quiet enough to just be background ambience.
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"Then why'd you pick me?" asks the apocalypse bug who immediately tried to attack before talking and would deny that any of this might be Tower-like. "I wasn't even myself when you did." No, he was just an old man that exemplified the worst he could be, that's all.
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He pauses, turns, then looks over his shoulder.
"revolution."
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Nope. Nope. Noooooope.
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...if he can help it. If he can just keep fighting his fate...
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(no subject)