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the bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
((Oskar Pearce, God Help The Outcasts))

The fingers of dawn stretched across an auburn sky, cupping the night in a blistering palm as the sun rose in view over the landscape of the garden. Oskar sat, his back to a tree, as the world shifted from night to day in a beaming sparkle of colour, warming his bones and opening his eyes.

Some said that the sun was hope against the bleak, warmth against the cold of night, joy amidst the lingering fear and dread that darkness draped itself in.

Whatever hope, however - whatever warmth and joy was to be gleaned from the colour that erupted around him, was tamped out when the speakers began to blare.

He listened, rigid, spine stiff from the position he hadn't moved from all throughout the night. His mouth tightened into a firm line, jaw bones expanding outward as he clenched his teeth. One hand lifted upwards, toying with his spider bite.

It had begun.

His gaze slid to Caedyn, his head cocking in a kind of question. His eyes darted towards Jane, Jane's bag, as the announcement continued to sound.

One eyebrow lifted.
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I've Got No Strings · Crematorium Gardens