What had he been thinking!?!
He liked his lab. It was far enough underground so as not to get too hot or too cold. Not too dry or too damp: which was good for his instruments - both technological and stringed. Soldiers would bring him memorabilia of Earth-that-was. Relics, recorded media, posters of partially faded or sometimes torn movies and concerts and bands. His prize piece was a mostly intact cardboard life-sized cut out of a classical musician, Elvis.
Why did he ever leave his Elvis? Yet there Marcus was, the wind whipping past at an alarming rate. This had been only a theoretical top speed for his Hum-V, a prototype that he had meant to create a larger version of for rapid transport of Resistance Fighters. It shook slightly and Marcus made a note to check the lateral wave emitters. The ultrasonics were slightly off. He could hear the slight dischord. "Your a little pitchy, Buddy."
he muttered to the flying board. He couldn't see it though, even if he looked down. His stealth suit was fully engaged, well, Dr. Theo's stealth suit to be more accurate, another prototype on loan, slightly modified of course. It, and the familiar weight of his axe (not a medieval sharp-headed weapon but a heavily modified turn-of-the-century, built-in amp, stratocaster) strapped across his back, reminded Marcus of the seriousness of this up-coming conflict.
The Man had gone too far today. 'The Man', Marcus's word for the oppressive authority that tried to keep the people down, had launched a full-scale assault on The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in what was once known as Cleveland, Ohio. Whose black-latticed pyramids stood as silent monument and whose archives and museum held the greatest cultural treasures available to all of time! Oh, and a cell of the Resistance used it as secret headquarters. When they'd heard that The Man was going to blow it and the surrounding areas up Marcus knew it was time he left his lab. Seriously, what had he been thinking?
His chest felt full and his hair didn't fall like it normally did. Sounds assaulted his ears but echoed strangely, reminiscent of whale song recordings.
His bridge fingers flexed and the pick felt cold as he prepared to play the power chord that would mark the transition of his life as a weaponsmith to an actual Resistance Fighter. A slight shift of his weight on the Hum-V brought him in to a swooping dive as the first note in the symphony of the rest of his life sounded from the struck strings. He could trace the rough ball of sound, followed it's receding pitch as it sailed toward the weaponized APC. It struck and the resonance hammered asunder atomic bonds of the metal rendering it as brittle as glass. The stealth field lost cohesion and he and the Hum-V stuttered into visibility. Infantry soldiers shot at him but he hoped the counter-vibration field (another prototype based off old sound dampening technology) wound stop their projectiles. His field worked and he veered away unhurt. He vaguely heard the sound of the APC shattering as one of his companion's bullets must've found it's target.
On another stretch of the battlefield a whole regiment of soldiers was before him and Marcus strummed rapidly and frantically as if the "Dance of Eternity" (Dream Theater) was ported over to the Spanish Folklorico style then played by someone in the grips of an epileptic seizure. The cacophony of sound had its effect as many of the soldiers dropped, their hands over their ears. Everyone's a critic.
His hands spasm and fingers jerk as if he were an arcane wizard weaving the somatic components to a delicate eldritch spell. But the movements are slightly slowed and reminiscent of a dog running in it's sleep.
He soared up again and re-engaged stealth though if the reports of them having units with cybernetically implanted radar were accurate he couldn't rely on it to save him from attacks forever. Speaking of, a cell of Resistance were pinned down and he recognized one fighter, Harl, who had scored some wicked hallucinogens, slightly expired. They'd made both he and Marcus sick but he would never forget the technicolor yawns that he'd had. On the upside, many of The Beatles' later songs finally made sense that day. "I am the walrus, koo-koo-kachu."
he mutters and riffs a wall of sound with overlapping amplitudes so dense as to stop all directional movement from outside to in. The fighters quickly clued to the fact that their bullets were passing through but the enemy projectiles would splash against the field.
Even the sight of enemy soldiers being struck down made his heart heavy though.
His eyes fluttered and occasionally winced though remained closed even as the fluid drained and suctioned from his body cavities
Though they were being repelled from the Hall itself with some efficiency the call came that the soldiers had rigged explosives at the base of a nearby populated high rise in such a way as it would collapse on to the historic landmark of holiness.
Marcus flew for all he was worth. He had to get there. He had to stop it. Somehow.
He could see it. A confused milieu of running bodies mostly in the uniforms of The Man. Mostly away. Was that a uniform running towards...? He didn't even have time to ponder when the explosives went off. The concussive wave hit him first and blew him off the Hum-V robbing him of the breath to even scream. At the speeds he was going and the height he was at it it was a toss up whether the landing would kill him first or the energy of the demolition charges or the debris of the collapsing building. He'd like to say his last thoughts were a sudden composition to rival the Music of the Spheres, or a profound and sudden understanding of Van Halen's 'Eruption', but sadly his last thoughts were....
Marcus drew a sharp breath, the first in who-knows how long. His eyes flew open but unfocused. He tried to sit up with uncertain success. "SEATBELTS!!! I needed to install Seatbelts!"
"Did I... fall asleep?"
Then someone leans over you. It is the blue-haired woman. She speaks in faintly accented English. "It is all right. You are safe now."
he asks uncertainly.