Transmission One: The Tanés Putrefaction


The night sky was alive with stars and cloud, and the bright spatters of white on the darkening hues of blue shimmered like exquisite and unattainable jewels scattered randomly across infinity, and beneath this display a multitude of snow-filled clouds drifted thoughtfully, like they were admiring the views as well, or maybe simply appreciating the fact that they were closer to heaven now than they would ever be again, and a series of moons moved lazily across the sky, their march through empyrean slow and satisfactory, and they were smiling down at the shape of the world, an echoing chorus of praise and providence sent down hard with reflections, and the world was probably smiling back at them, an effectuation rippling through space and time and engaging everything, and the aurora was in full swing to the north, a sizzling tin-foil majesty of shades and tincture, dancing and oscillating and moving like a gorgeous magnetic distraction that seemed to echo through each of the valleys and refract on the snow clad infinity beneath so that everything, everything, just seemed to be glowing beautifully. It was fucking staggering.

The moons met the snow and it was heaven… radiance seemed to pulse from the full face of Luna, a cratered resplendence sending cosmic waves coursing throughout the universe. They almost seemed tangible, almost seemed believable… so much was happening at once, and it was the kind of night when you could believe in the impossible, if you really wanted to.

Snow filled valleys, as quiet and as cold and as empty as her fucking heart. In the frozen methodical serenity herein no quarry was given, and the criss-cross of footprints wearing slowly away, and the selection of silences dragged down from the sky or maybe ripped up from the depths of the earth, were the only sorts of decoration. A thousand crushed facets, crystal dropped from an incredible height, a whole planet covered in spinning-debris and the sour smile of someone that should have known better.

It felt like tranquilly reigned everywhere, like the world was wide-awake and ready for anything. It was sad, in some achingly beautiful way. Everything was so calm that you could be forgiven for thinking the world was a fair and harmonious place. Everything was so facile, so languid, and so lenient, that you could be forgiven for thinking that the world had stopped spinning and maybe started listening. Everything was so majestic and slow and perfect that you could be forgiven for thinking that everything was going to be okay.

Such an extraordinary place… So many different things existed on it that it seemed almost like some incredible compendium, some alien dictionary of creatures and colours and dreams and ideas slowly being sucked into the sun.

Revolving at the speed of sound, fading in and out of existence like a dream dead to memory, always one step away, always one 'great' idea behind the competition. Sitting in the sky and smiling, feeling sick. A black hole, a giant mouth, some sweet stepping-stone to a sixth infinity. It would be fun, late night drinking, midnight swimming, a whole world wasting away without making a single sound.

'Neath radioactive splendour, the town was silent. Everyone rested, finding safety in sleep, in the solitude of dreams. For a few dark hours they would get respite, or they would die trying. For a few dark hours everything would be sanguine, mezzanine. For a few dark hours they could forget where they were, forget what they were, and forgive the situation they were always going to be in.

Inside the shadows a thousand things were slowly dying, unable to bare this place any longer. Tanés knew what it was doing to everyone, but it kept its fucking mouth shut.

Such a simple, elegant city, resting in a million shades of black. Everywhere was hidden in the gravity, and was all the more gorgeous for it. The Zed Patrol were defiantly in charge. It was just amazing.

A whole city filled with noise and silence, two negatives co-existing in an unnatural habitat, precisely the kind of chaos close to my heart. As quiet as the bricks gazing outward at the twenty-fifth century, wishing they could forget or maybe even remember snow and tar and a noticeable lack of room.

It all made perfect sense.

Tanés was a town full of activity, despite the time. In and around the sleeping stone propinquity a great many activities occurred, performances subjective to the type of individuals participating. The many implementations served as a good suggestion of the characters about town. They also served as good introduction to the strange and evangelic land.

The town hid inside the volcano like it was afraid of the dark. In the recessions memories faded away, too weak to remain in such a fragmentary world. In the endless shadows ideas began wasting away, seeking safety in evaporation. In the city centre ink filled the cracks and the scars, and stone lions centuries old thought about a better time. It was the only thing they could do.

Her face, her smile, her sweet cunt, they are all too familiar to me. I could drown in her some days, waiting for all this pain to go away. Even my guts are letting me down, now. I could cry when I think about how much damn time we wasted waiting for the sky to fall. These days scream out automatic rape, and I don't think it cares how bad I wanna be there…

Several clandestine performances, each one differing vastly from the last, each one a great indication of the underlying chaos. The night was young and beautiful, and every action was filled with the potential to change the universe.

In the great expanse of snow outside the cave's mouth, a band practised. Their joyous music seemed incongruous, jarring laughably. Time was slipping by, and they chose not to notice. Instead, they played like it actually mattered, and around them dancers danced like it actually mattered, and everything they did that night was done in the pretence that it would eventually matter.

In a lacuna a group of children sat, hoping that today would be the day the acerbic cold claimed them. They took drugs and told stories and tried to convince themselves that tomorrow it would get better.

In some warm place a kid convinced himself that there was nothing left to live for. Above a sea of red and orange he said his silent good-byes, to the city that had ruined him, the people that would survive him, the night sky that was going to swallow him.

Something was going on, swathed in silence, hidden in shadow. The city had never been as enchanting as it was now that the rest of the world was falling apart. The city had never been as beautiful as it was now the world was wearing down. This long, cold night clogged with an obstreperous beauty, host to so many strange revelations, so full of promise, might well have been the best thing to ever happen. And even though for many the universe was about to grind to a halt, and even though for many everything was about to… it was still so wonderful.

It was all so morose it eventually became charming. It was so tender, it was so fragile, that it was slowly destroying itself to preserve what little purity it had left.

See, the sun would soon chase the stars away, and another day would begin. The sun would soon jerk the world around again, and as the dark was washed away a whole myriad of miracles would fire blanks at point-blank range. And when the dreams died, and fortune faded out, and this empty cycle of deafening silence began again, there would be nothing, so it was all pointless anyway.

But in the cold there was nothing to fight about. The white and the grey did not get along, and so the days became short inflammatory torture. The blue and the red would clash together and paint a vivid picture, awful and undesirable, and it would paint the town away. The green and the gold would stay away, convinced there was no room for them in the ceaseless desolation around here. Monotonous monotone mockery – the sun would sing a terrible lament.

Yes, their star would soon rise, and it would destroy everything they had fought so hard for. It would tame the skies, set the horizon on fire, and it would start a brand new cycle of patient indifference. But for now, the cold and the dark and the silence would remain, and it would be slow and sacred for a few more desperate hours, whilst the world slid closer and closer and closer to its end…

Seventeen useless words here just to make up the numbers. There is no room for anything anymore.

In the shadows, demons dwell.

Everything is not going to be okay.