White Squad
Your whereabouts are unknown; you have told no one, talked to no one. You stand alone in the room of an empty house on a hill in the middle of the night.
A gust of wind, more gusts. No, not wind, a tide. A tide pulsing up the hill, seeping through the cracks in the window you face. Its presence is powerful, almost aromatic, as the house shakes with a force that is pervasive to the touch, the teeth. Baritone tremors rattle the chandeliers, windows shatter. Helplessness takes over as music hits bone and tension rises in the blood, forcing movement among this unstable, inhuman orchestra.
You lose focus on the song and even the sound, clinging only to the finely tuned sequence of events dangling before your ever-narrowing perspective.
