"They got that loudmouth Tennegan. Figured he retired."

The Lettergee-Tamsin convention hall was packed to the bursting with bustling people and brightly coloured booths. The sounds of chatter, laughter and music filled the air, causing a thrumming hubbub that one would have to shout to be heard over.

And yet there was one voice, one singular, nasal, reverberating voice that seemed to slice through the air like a knife.

"Why don't we just get you a box, huh? Then there'll be no trouble for the camera man, and no inconvenience on either of our parts! I do apologize for my ridiculous stature but, well, the body's gonna do what the body's gonna do, eh?"

The young woman nodded shyly and simpered up at the beaming broadcaster.

Wave Tennegan held up a finger to show his intentions of returning swiftly, then disappeared behind the prefab wall of his booth to find a box for his diminutive fan to stand on.

Tennegan was an inordinately tall man, mostly owing to his gangling legs. In addition to his great height, his large, aquiline nose, piercing ice-blue eyes and thin lips gave him a rather imposing appearance.

But the radio-host was by no means intimidating.

Wave Tennegan was as friendly and easy-going as they came. He exuded the boisterous, amiable charisma that was often associated with radio-announcers. He was quick to joke and easy to talk to, and made a point of listening intently whenever someone spoke. When he set his cool blue gaze upon someone, he gave the impression that he was focusing on them, and only them, and that their words carried enormous weight.

And usually, in Tennegan's opinion, they did.

Wave adored his listeners. Perhaps his unconditional, paternal affection towards them came from his time as a vicar. He'd discovered much about people in his time at the church, and he'd learned to pick out the unique, indescribable quality of a person and cherish them for it.

This open, welcoming respect for everyone combined with serious knowledge of the art of debate was what allowed Tennegan to secure so many high-profile guests for his radio show.

'Big ideas, that's why!' his motto rang true with all his listeners, and they all adored him just as much as he adored them.

The convention hall boasted a fantastic lineup of vocal performers of all kinds, and there were even rumours of an appearance of the illusive songstress Red. But the majority were there to see Wave Tennegan, and everyone knew it.

The radio host reappeared from behind the booth carrying a small wooden crate used to carry sound equipment, and placed it on the ground for his fan to step onto. She did so, wobbling a bit in her high-heels, and anxiously braced herself on Wave's arm. He gave her a cheery thumbs up, then slipped his arm around her and turned his eyes to the camera.

"Alrighty then, smile!" he blared, and bared his teeth in a winning grin. The flashbulb went off and the cameraman quickly checked the large, clunky, portable terminal next to him. He gave Wave a curt nod.

"Great! Sorry again for the box business, thanks for being such a good sport about it! Your photo'll be waiting for you at home, Ms. Chattress. And heeeere's your autograph, and heeeere's your complementary pin."

"Thank you so much!" squeaked Ms. Chattress, bright red in the face as she accepted the paper and the pin from the broadcaster.

Wave gave her a warm smile and a nod. He bid her good day and waved at her until the next visitor stepped up to his table, eagerly clutching a poster to be signed.

The event lasted for hours, with thousands of people coming and going from the venue. Wave held up quite well despite the numbers, and treated every last one of his fans with the same amiable vigour.

But everyone has their limits, and by the time the last few stragglers were leaving the hall, the radio-host was exhausted.

"You look beat." said the camera man, sidling over to Wave, who was seated behind his table, head propped up in his hands, eyes closed.

"Yes! Well. A bit. Need any help packing up?" Wave replied, making an effort to sit up and beam at the photographer.

"Jeez fella, give it a rest! We'll be fine packing up on our own." he motioned to himself and a pair of workers who nodded. "You go home and get some shut-eye. You look like you could use it."

"Ah! Well then. Thanks!"

Wave got to his feet and trudged across the hall and into the foyer. He rubbed his eyes with his index knuckles and blinked blearily over at a comfortable-looking sofa wrapped around an enormous decorative pot filled with flowers.

'Surely a quick nap won't be…' he thought vaguely before folding up onto the sofa and falling fast asleep.

"Mr. Tennegan..?"

Wave's eyes fluttered open to the sound of a deep, resonant voice. He was looking up into the face of an administrator.

"Administrator Kendrell?" he said, sitting up quickly and smoothing out his clothing in slight embarrassment.

"That is correct." replied the administrator, stepping back to allow Wave to get to his feet.

"Terribly sorry, I was resting and I suppose I just dozed off, ahah!"

"Indeed." said the administrator, watching Wave with level, lidded eyes. His voice was slightly warmer when he spoke next: "I heard you were your usual glowing self the entire night. It must take a lot out of you to keep up that level of interaction."

"Well, I…" Wave trailed off and a frown creased his forehead. He peered at Mr. Kendrell closely. What would an administrator be doing here and at this time? "…As much as I appreciate the hullo, administrator, I must ask– what brings you here? If you don't mind the inquiry, that is…"

"Not at all, not at all," a small smile crossed Mr. Kendrell's lips, though his eyes stayed cool. "I'm actually here to see you, Mr. Tennegan. Since it's getting rather late, I'll get straight to the point. You have, I'm sure, heard about the closed off district of Goldwalk, and the rumours circulating about said closure?"

Wave's eyes glinted.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I have. Why?"

"I happen to be a part of a small, exclusive group of people who have… special privileges concerning that clandestine corner of Cloudbank." as Mr. Kendrell spoke, three other individuals appeared seemingly out of nowhere, coming to stand around the administrator. "We believe it's high time the public knows about what's really going on in there, and we believe you are the perfect mouthpiece for the information."

"Is that so?" said Wave, a genial smile parting his lips. However, something about the situation struck him as off, somehow. The appearance of the three other figures was oddly ominous.

Wave recognized Asher Kendrell, the administrator's young husband and editor of the OVC, and beside him Sybil Reisz, the renowned event-planner. Wave had worked with her several times, and in fact she had set up the very meet-and-greet he'd participated in that evening.

On the other side of Grant was a man Wave didn't recognize. His most notable feature were his eyes– large, piercing and bottle-glass green.

"It is so. I believe you know my associate, Sybil Reisz, and my husband, Asher?" said Mr. Kendrell, as if reading Wave's mind. "And this is Royce Bracket, you ought to recognize him by his name."

Wave blinked.

"Bracket? Bracket Towers Bracket, Bracket civil-engineer-extraordinaire Bracket?" he exclaimed.

"The very same." replied Mr. Bracket in an uncomfortable monotone, as if the words didn't quite fit in his mouth.

"The four of us belong to a group called The Camerata, and we believe the city we love deserves the truth." Asher Kendrell spoke up, his expression serious, his tone heartfelt.

"Well that's something I can get behind." said Wave, "What can I do for you?"

"We're willing to take you into Goldwalk to let you see the area for yourself." said Mr. Kendrell, folding his arms behind his back. "However…"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as his tone changed. Wave stiffened slightly.

"We will do so only on condition that you leave our organization out of your broadcast. You must swear you will name no names, and tell no one how you entered the district and who allowed you to. Do I make myself clear?"

Grant Kendrell was, somehow, even taller than Wave, and while Wave's great height made him more loveable than intimidating, Mr. Kendrell's caused quite the opposite effect. Despite this, however, Mr. Tennegan wouldn't be bullied.

If these… Camerata were somehow directly involved in the strange happenings in Goldwalk (and something about their bearing gave Wave cause to be suspicious), it was his duty to tell his listeners.

They deserved the entire, pristine truth, and nothing less. Grant Kendrell did not scare him.

Wave folded his arms and smiled a winning smile at the administrator and his cronies. He crossed his fingers against his side.

"Terms accepted. Show me the way."

The next thing he knew, Wave Tennegan was sitting in the back of a sleek black car speeding down the darkened streets, driven by the man who'd designed half the city himself.

The other members of the 'Camerata' sat around him, Grant and Asher together across from him, Sybil next to him.

They all seemed slightly on edge, which made Wave on edge as well. He tried to catch Sybil's eye but she was looking away from him, staring out the window.

Wave turned to look out his own window and noticed where they were.

"Hold on, hold on a second. We're not heading towards Goldwalk at all. Where are we going?"

"Just a little detour." came Sybil's voice. She didn't look around as she spoke. "We can't very well just drive straight in, now can we?"

She let out a tinkling laugh which only made Wave's nerves worse, as she still didn't turn to look at him.

The car drove on for some time until it reached a secluded back-alley containing a ramp leading down into an odd underground tunnel. The tunnel was well lit and smooth, but seemed to have a formless, unfinished quality about it. It reminded Wave of the prefab booths at the convention centre. Built quickly, and meant to be disassembled in as much time.

The broadcaster's jangling nerves were finally soothed when they exited the tunnel and came out into the familiar streets of Goldwalk. When the car stopped, the four 'Camerata' got out and Wave followed them, fingers curled around a small notepad and pen.

He looked around, trying to pick out what was wrong with the district.

It was only after a few blocks of walking that he began to notice the strange white blotches. The feeling of formlessness from the tunnel crept back down his spine.

"What… What's happened here?" cried Wave as the group came to standstill ahead of him in what was once a town square.

"The Process." uttered Bracket in his emotionless drawl. Wave looked at him for clarification and noticed that he was now holding something. A large, turquoise blade-like item with a single, blood-red eye at its centre. An involuntary shiver ran down Wave's spine. He hadn't seen the engineer carrying it when they'd entered.

"Been testing them out. Seeing what they're really capable of. Incredible, isn't it… A whole city block… reduced to… well, components. Just the blank canvas, you know. Before all the trimming and the paint and the… neon signs go on, this is what's underneath. The Process. Underneath it all… and soon, the Camerata."

Wave stared.

"I don't understand– You–– You did this?!"

"Yes." replied Royce flatly.

"But–– But you're–– This has to be a joke, right fellas?" Wave let out a shaky laugh, "This–– This is all some sort of publicity stunt, and you want me to report it to give it that extra bit of credence, right? Haha…"

"When everything changes, nothing changes. That's the Camerata creed." said Asher quietly in answer, arms folded around his sides. "Royce's made so many changes, all in the people's name. But they just can't seem to make up their minds."

"The more changes, the less stability we have." continued Grant, "And I cannot watch my fair city fall apart."

"So to prevent anything from changing you're just going to change it first, huh?" cried Wave, anger spilling into his tone. The situation was dawning on him. These people– the administrator, the engineer, the editor and the event planner– the event planner he'd liked and trusted… They wanted to to change Cloudbank with this… this Process thing. And it sounded… as if they wanted to change it into a dictatorship with themselves at the helm.

"You want to turn it all into 'blank canvas' with this, this Process thing?! Hah! If anyone's destabilizing Cloudbank, Mr. Administrator, it's you and your lackeys! Sybil! I would never have believed it of you!"

Sybil merely scoffed.

"That's the point, Wave."

Wave took a step backwards, then another.

"The deal's off–– The public has to know! Administration has to know––"

"But my dear Mr. Tennegan," said Grant smoothly, "We are administration. Now."

He turned to Royce. "We'd best get on with this. We don't have all evening."

"Get on with what–– What are you planning to get on with?!"

Wave was walking backwards at a normal pace now, squeezing his notebook, fingers trembling with anger and fear. There were four of them, but that sword-thing wasn't sharp enough to be a blade and looked too large and heavy to act as a wieldy club. Besides, he had at least a large head start– his height might have inconvenienced him often, but long legs were good for some things.

Wave saw Royce's hands tighten on the handle of the 'sword' and felt his heart skip a beat. With that, he spun on his heel and pelted off down the unfamiliar white street.

'I've got to warn them… the listeners… my listeners…' he thought desperately, 'I can't let them take over Cloudbank I've got to warn them, got to warn––'

Wave's train of thought was cut off abruptly by a whistling rush of air and a sharp pain in his lower back.

He was dead before he hit the ground face-first, smashing his nose in the process.

The Camerata approached leisurely and gathered around the prone body, watching a small pool of blood spread outwards from the face.

"Oh dear." murmured Sybil shakily, eyeing the creeping red stain. "That's–That's unfortunate."

"Yeah…" breathed Asher, eyes locked in the same spot.

"What now, Royce?" said Grant gravely, arms folded behind his back. It was almost ironic how their hushed voices and solemn stances brought to mind a funeral.

"I'll take care of this." replied the engineer. His perpetual frown seemed to deepen. "But, I think, we…"

Royce held out a hand and closed his fingers around the handle of the sword, which seemed to jump into his grasp. Then, with a sharp crackle of electricity, the four of them were gone.

Their shadows had barely faded from the ground when the soft clicking of tiny rigid limbs filled the street. Three tripodal white creatures scuttled seemingly right out of the walls and surrounded the corpse. They chittered and clicked to each other as they began to reduce the erstwhile broadcaster to little white blocks.

!- any good? constructive criticism is appreciated. thanks for reading! TS -!