You're the one who had knives set aside for the throats of hunters
But they tricked you with a trinket and a name
~ Sunset Rubdown ‘Up On Your Leopard (Upon The End Of Your Feral Days)’ 2007
But they tricked you with a trinket and a name
~ Sunset Rubdown ‘Up On Your Leopard (Upon The End Of Your Feral Days)’ 2007
 |
| sharksden |
How do you know when the moment is right for you to make your move?
These days pass in strained entente, the triangle of tensions holding constant with you at the apex and the base formed by Krystal, her face flattered by drone spotlight that follows her around and, unseen in the gloom of this sterile and soulless house, the electrifying presence of Giles.
When do you reveal your hand?
Teaching Krystal the bases of Fetish feels like putting a gun in your own mouth, leaves a metallic tincture in your throat, one she no doubt tastes herself as she utilises those lessons to monitor your game.
To keep it looking real you call for an update on their end of the deal.
Giles assures you that it’s on track, but this is no easy fix; it will take time.
Both of you know he’s lying.
But then do they know that you’re lying too?
Krystal is razor sharp; she’s not stupid; but is constrained by an overinflated sense of her own power; presuming, since it seems that she’s never left Bigmark, that the limits of her world are the only world there is.
Krystal is a child of the collapse; one lucky enough to have been born in the bunker – the real bunker, not this outer suburban shell – a child of the elite, a child of the fuckers that did for the world. She has survived and thrived in an extremely limited bubble that is held together with power both real and imagined.
Limited.
When it comes to fetish Krystal lacks imagination, as if to use the tool is the be-all and end-all of the creative process; as if the art were in the technique; she relies too heavily on fetish itself when practising it, as if it is something separate from everything else.
There are moments during the lessons when you are tempted to make your move; but you know that Giles forewarned is a bigger threat, so you wait, realising that you’re probably going to have to take him out of the equation first. Either that or both of them at once.
You are also aware that Krystal may be armed with more than just charm and fetish; and since there are not many places to carry a concealed weapon in those outfits of hers, you are going to have to be close enough that she can’t reach the weapons she’s no doubt secreted around the room.
You wait.
You map the extents of the house, inferring the layout of those areas you are not allowed access to by watching the movements of the servicers, and by glimpses of the surveillance feed on various strategically placed monitors in the halls through which you are escorted to and from your room by Giles who, physically and psychologically, makes a point of letting feel his menace. You get it; he’s dangerous - but then so are you.
Piece by piece, concealing your movements, working below the sheets at night, you assemble your own weapons from the tiny carbon fibre components secreted about your clothing. They fit together in satisfyingly silent clicks.
These days pass in strained entente, the triangle of tensions holding constant with you at the apex and the base formed by Krystal, her face flattered by drone spotlight that follows her around and, unseen in the gloom of this sterile and soulless house, the electrifying presence of Giles.
When do you reveal your hand?
Teaching Krystal the bases of Fetish feels like putting a gun in your own mouth, leaves a metallic tincture in your throat, one she no doubt tastes herself as she utilises those lessons to monitor your game.
To keep it looking real you call for an update on their end of the deal.
Giles assures you that it’s on track, but this is no easy fix; it will take time.
Both of you know he’s lying.
But then do they know that you’re lying too?
Krystal is razor sharp; she’s not stupid; but is constrained by an overinflated sense of her own power; presuming, since it seems that she’s never left Bigmark, that the limits of her world are the only world there is.
Krystal is a child of the collapse; one lucky enough to have been born in the bunker – the real bunker, not this outer suburban shell – a child of the elite, a child of the fuckers that did for the world. She has survived and thrived in an extremely limited bubble that is held together with power both real and imagined.
Limited.
When it comes to fetish Krystal lacks imagination, as if to use the tool is the be-all and end-all of the creative process; as if the art were in the technique; she relies too heavily on fetish itself when practising it, as if it is something separate from everything else.
There are moments during the lessons when you are tempted to make your move; but you know that Giles forewarned is a bigger threat, so you wait, realising that you’re probably going to have to take him out of the equation first. Either that or both of them at once.
You are also aware that Krystal may be armed with more than just charm and fetish; and since there are not many places to carry a concealed weapon in those outfits of hers, you are going to have to be close enough that she can’t reach the weapons she’s no doubt secreted around the room.
You wait.
You map the extents of the house, inferring the layout of those areas you are not allowed access to by watching the movements of the servicers, and by glimpses of the surveillance feed on various strategically placed monitors in the halls through which you are escorted to and from your room by Giles who, physically and psychologically, makes a point of letting feel his menace. You get it; he’s dangerous - but then so are you.
Piece by piece, concealing your movements, working below the sheets at night, you assemble your own weapons from the tiny carbon fibre components secreted about your clothing. They fit together in satisfyingly silent clicks.
| Sunset Rubdown | ||
| Up on Your Leopard | ||
No comments:
Post a Comment