Tace cor tuum

violence on their beloved's behalf.

deranged compliments and praising bad deeds.

stealing nice things for their beloved.

jealousy and possessiveness.

encouraging their beloved to be worse.

YOU CAN WRITE HORRIBLE MUSES AND NOT CONDONE THEIR ACTIONS.

YOU CAN WRITE HORRIBLE MUSES AND NOT CONDONE THEIR ACTIONS.

YOU CAN WRITE HORRIBLE MUSES AND NOT CONDONE THEIR ACTIONS.

“Nine he gave to Mortal Men, proud and great, and so ensnared them. Long ago they fell under the domination of the One, and they became Ringwraiths, shadows under his great Shadow, his most terrible servants.”

“Music’s the temporal ordering of sounds and silences that establish rhythms and harmonies.”

Cold, unfeeling, words wholly unbecoming of an artist. Yet there was an unmistakable sense of clarity to them, like the ticking of a metronome timing his breaths. In reality, Felix believed the stolid and technical minutiae of the arts to be as warm as flesh. There was no less feeling in the counting of beats-per-minute than in the thudding of one's heart. Life started in that same fashion, after all, in the thoughtless drumming up of blood and in the clanging of primitive synapses. “It’s in the birds trilling before the sunrise. In the wind and trees. In the breath and voice of every person you’ve met. The pattern of all living things. Whether by design or by happenstance, music is everywhere and in everything.”

His hands toyed with the bottle between his thighs, tearing at the label with red colored nails. “That being said, while I appreciate all kinds of music and musical experiences–” He frowned, strengthening the pout that was ever on his face. “The radio here’s starting to wear me out.”

It had all but driven him mad. He’d never so disliked a station and its host before. Pompous and false in every sense of the word. A wretch sat high upon his tower, observing the going ons of his domain and its people like specimens he’s kept in a glass case. An insufferable man, and with such little respect for music that he lazily puts the same couple of tapes in rotation. Why use the station at all then? Why have the families play it through their speakers? Was this a new form of torture?

“That's what I wanted to get at, actually.” A shy admission, accentuated by the subtle reddening of his cheeks. Felix tried never to complain about the conditions of his stay. A bed at Gomorrah was better than lying on the cold, hard ground anywhere else. But especially out in the Mojave. The people were desperate in the desert, splitting at the seams for an escape, no matter how brief or how grave the consequences. For them or himself. A dangerous game to play with an eager thing like Mischief around, always scheming for its next bit of fun…Though Felix paid for his current shelter on hard terms, it was better than suffering the revelries of his god each and every night.

Every few nights would do.

For the voice to be considered music sounded the most plausible for him. Having heard patterns of speech such as metaphors or similes, he too had caught himself equating and likening the human voice to a song. Felix's voice, to be exact. Sitting there, darkened by shadow. The fact alone that he talked rejuvenated Adal's perception of it.

Instead of dwelling on sympathies and admissions however, his mind moved on. Clinging to other descriptors and drawing his own conclusions with the newly-found pen laid into his hands. To sounds he knew intimately and that he was made to see in new light. Like the noise of Vertibirds and the distinctive sound created by their rotorblades. The percussive noise of their blade vortex interactions, occurring when the rotor blades hit the air vortices created by the preceding blade, creating loud, sharp impulses. It played in his inner ear, the one still functioning properly at least.

Thup thup thup... whup-whup-whup... tocotocotoco...

For a brief moment, it even was as though he could feel the soft vibration from within it, hitting the poly-laminate composites and lightweight metallic alloys, from which they would echo off the ceramic platings of his power armor. Seeing it like that, even the subtle, rising hum or whine during the charging-up, produced by their plasma weapons due to the electromagnetic containment coils engaging could be a song.

For a moment his thoughts remained there. Stuck in what once was, fed by pondering if it still were, somewhere. Then his focus returned to the much softer, much more living song of the voice of the man besides him. Adal turned to look at Felix again, then dropped his gaze to that frown, only saw the plumpness of his lips, from which his gaze dropped and traveled to feed on the form and shape of his thighs again. Holding the stolen wine bottle and keeping it warmed and sheltered, and it was strange to suddenly feel and be reminded of how cold the night in the Mojave desert could be and how hungry the moon was to eat the remnants of its blazing lover that it even stole the warmth from stone.

Was it the drinking that had him drift in and out and right back into whatever that hazy state of mind was? Had he drunk that much? Not enough, the voice inside him retorted. Not with the glimpse at wine. Back awake, he lifted the glass and drank from it.

I wish it would stop.

To voice this openly was brave, Adal reflected. Funny how he felt the same way about the radio as Felix did. How he had come to hate that lazy, sleazy tune repeating all hours and late into the night. The first days, at least it had drowned out the moans. Now all droned together inside his head into a cacophony befitting Gomorrah's title.

Dieter, himself had many guesses. Ones he could’ve guess only after seeing them in himself had such a thing happened to him. And others he nipped from those he had come in contact with. Their blood telling him everything about them. Such as the man he just had, who could not stand the tapping of fingers. Minute details that clung to the back of throat to better get at his spine. But not one of these ideas broke his statuesque unreadable face. Standing in perfect patience for an answer he hoped would come.

After all, the subjects of such observation were rarely told why when their watchers scribbled furiously in their notes. They were only to know they would be watched. To act as normally as possible. To tell when things got uncomfortable. Perhaps that was what Adal was hoping Dieter would turn into. A mouse. Control group or not Dieter had had this happen before, and he had not been reduced to such a fragile nimble thing then either.

He should not care, really. There were better things to do with his time. Now he was trapped in a confrontation of his own making and the only way out would be to turn around and leave. Pride stitched to his spine never let him turn his back to a killer, however. Especially not one so covered in blood.

The Brute tried to calm himself by distraction. Tried guiding his thoughts a different direction to defuse the ammunition depot that was him. To why the blond remained so calm, instead. To how he managed to not shift mien at his rebuttal. Tried to see in those eyes a hint of malice, partially wishing it to be there, because a physical altercation would be easier to deal with than having to talk when he really did not wish to any longer. A long, slow intake of air rose the width of his broad chest, only to slowly let it sink again as he breathed out.

You know the money shots in porn films? Well, this was a different substance: it was red.