#dronepunk

She is not what you expected. Plain black turtleneck and dress with glimpses of skin where fabrics misalign around the neck and wrists. If not for the mask, she could pass as a librarian. She talks like one too, a gentle but stern sounding voice whose soft edges contrast the way lights on her outfit flicker from pink to cyan to blue to indicate her speech.

There are other figures on the edge of sight- while each is clearly distinct in outfit, they huddle like a single organism, chittering amongst themselves in a cutesy sounding language full of short words and bouncy vowel sounds you don't understand. It won't be hard to learn, she assures you, and isn't meant for technical conversations anyway.

she stands from her simple chair and you realize she is shorter than you expected. easier to see now that your eyes have adjusted to the dim purple lights. you could now easily notice the heavily armored units who guarded the door. none of thier body language suggested they considered you a threat.

visors focused on entrances, windows, everything but you. the contradiction in presentation was fascinating-the collective adopted the façade of disposability, while remaining fiercely protective of every member. a place to belong, a place to be safe.

the branded circle on your arm itched. the mark left by being treated as a thing whose worth rested on the output of ambition in a system that merely grinned and insisted at its participant's personhood. her voice pulls you from introspection.

(Music For Fishes)