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Gus Romero IV
Steven Lee Matz
Vibrant colors and neon lights, so much to take in at the vastness of the city. He stood there in the sky of sight and sound unmoving, as though he were molded by the stone and metal he stood atop of.
Staring down on the entertainment district of the city, he listened for the location and name of his foes. Wind blowing like a mighty hurricane past him, but he does not stumble. Lightning crackling in the sky like a shooting star, but he does not flinch. Thunder booming like the mighty bang of the suns, and his resolve and spirit booms and burns at the might of the universe surrounding his embodied form.
She is looking at him again, like a guardian angel from the heavens. There is no one there, yet at the same time, there is someone there.
Why is it that something as beautiful as her wishes to aid him and watch him? Why must she accompany him, as if to be some kind of voice of wisdom to a dark deity of injustice and vengeance? Why did she choose him? Why?
The roof was slick and slippery from the heavy pounding of the night time rain, but Zylo was only a towering black and red clad idol. A deadly harbinger of the storm, and an even deadlier adversary to those who worship the long dead.
"They don't need to die, they need guidance, Zylo," the angel said. Zylo didn't turn to her when she spoke, instead he stood still like he's been doing. Mute as ever, one can only wonder of what it is the angel find's so divine of what Zylo is. "Divine is not the word that springs to mind for one such as you, don't fool yourself." Perhaps not...but there are no other vanguards like him. At least, not anymore.
"Don't be so glum, you'll always have me by your side." She was right about that, and he didn't like her for being right. "No... you like me for being beautiful, don't you?" He stood there unphased by her remark, although he could feel his heart skip a beat. She was the only one to make him do that, and he didn't like her for it. "I don't mind if you don't like me, because i know you kind of do." She giggled a little bit, teasing him as though she were a child. He let a slight smile form on his face...but only a slight smile.
Senny sipped from his mug of cafinite. Having filled out his report on the incident at Century's Rise, he was convinced that this was a homicide case ready to blow all over the news in a matter of minutes. His superiors were trying to keep the press off the trail for as long as they could, but he knew this was gonna be the big topic for the next morning. They found bone fractures, vital organs torn, a concussion, and even bullet wounds all over the victim's body. Though they had yet to I.D the victim, he was concerned this was someone of importance to someone important. Someone high up in power, high on the food chain, high in command...in Valhalla.
Just then his partner showed with a digital form filled out, most likely the I.D of their victim, and a cup of chili.
"We got it," he said. A very grim look was written all over his face. Senny looked at the form to find that he was right; this person was someone of some importance.
"The victim's name is Randolf Vill," he said. "Born in Winter Haitus on Citi-Star, spring star date 83LX. Only family was his brother Gorden Vill, former high commander of the InterSekt Marine Corps, who is now President of Prime-Star. As you no doubt saw, the victim had bullet wounds all over his body. And it makes me wonder who would be dumb enough to do that?"
"Or smart enough," Senny said. His partner gave him a look of curiosity. "I mean, really Gus. Who would use a slug thrower anymore when they could use plasma? Or a P.O weapon? Guns with bullets are easily traceable, maybe that's the point? Maybe we're being played for idiots by someone who likes to screw around with anyone in peace keeping or some kind of law enforcement?"
"Or maybe it could be a hired hit," Gus said. "You gotta remember, Senny. When congress passed the Act of Justice and Swift Execution, one of the things to go was the use of cyanide laber rings. Which back then, was another means for anyone who liked keeping their hands clean, to hire and ‘fire' any employees they wished."
"Employees to anyone high up or underground was basically another word for slavery in their business," said Senny.
"Well...slavery isn't the word I would use," Gus stated.
Outside of the station sits a discreetly nestled Repulser, lights dimmed but not offline. He sat in his seat puffing some Vapor from his lit CigRet. "Hey Jerv, you get the Mic-Buggee working yet? It looks like those two are finishing up with the reports about now." He said with a slight cough from the Vapor. Jerv took a sip of some liquor as he was nestling some of the wires together.
The Mic-Buggee was a little beaten up from years of use, and in some spots glittered a small film of dust from being locked up in a storage compartment. Some of the lights on it were faint, there was also an unpleasant whirring and grinding noise it would make when it was running. This piece of junk might as well have been scraped and melted down for some other use. Even if it was converted into some parts for a garbage burner at least it would be more useful and reliable then some half busted spying bot.
Jerv looked up at the flickering lights on the bot's forehead, they were so weakly lit that you could only see a tiny bit of color. He frowned at this and resumed nestling the wires, hoping that the bot would spring a little closer to life than what this miserable excuse was.
A spark jolted out of one of the ports in the spy bot's chest and nearly shocked his wrist, he swore in a startled manner and hit his head on the side of the Repulser.
"If you weren't drinking, we could be listening in on what's going on in there right now, instead of you blundering up with that piece of junk's faulty chip's and circuits."
Edmond was getting impatient with his partner and his attempts at making a repair job on a bot that should already be in the trash by now, and he really wished his publisher would have given them some proper spy equipment instead of this...thing. They had a job to do and right now they have to play mechanic instead of fulfilling they're journalistic duty, getting a big story for all the solar to hear.
Suddenly, the bot flickered on and made what sounded like trumpet sounds, indicating that it was finally functioning and ready for work. Jerv grinned while Edmond stared in bewilderment, he got the thing running like some kind of miracle worker. "How did you do that?" He asked in awe. "A little booze can help when you don't want to over-think what you're working on, maybe you should try it sometime Ed." Jerv grinned smugly, like he just won a million dollars in a game of Mine. It was about time for them to get to work.
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A great specter is looming over the art world: the specter of Inter|Sekt. For far too long we have watched the artists of our generation turned into a disposable commodity, bought and sold by the galleries, stifled in their expression by the tastes of the art consultants who purchase pieces on behalf of financially minded clients who want a "solid investment".
They have been amalgamated into schools, said schools are a device of gallerists and art historians to divide and conquer the creatives and free thinkers.
For we live in a nation which thinks itself to be free yet is not, they expect the same of their artists.
Our culture has been raped and plundered by the upper echelon, picked apart and sold by the same greed mongers who claim to be it's patrons. The tool which has most effectively stunted the growth of modern American art in particular is the clever indoctrination of this idea of schools to not only the art student but anyone whom even reads a brief survey of the history of art sees that it is broken up into these categorized schools; the philosophies of these various sects creates conflict, division, and ultimately destruction of the morale and submission to the established order. Thus rendering the creative spirit confused and useless.
This helps curb the rebellious spirit of the average citizen outside of the art world in other spheres of society.
Art history is a lie and galleries are dens of thieves!
Inter|Sekt is not destroying the schools or the galleries, we are simply showing you they were never real, at least not in a world outside of that constructed by academics to sell text books to art students.
The reign of the gallerists and art consultants is over when you want it to be.
From the ashes of the indoctrinated schools of every form of art shall arise The New World Creative.
-Steven Lee Matz-
The inter|sekt manifesto