Thin salmon streak across the western sky, couple foot above plain white. Unusual. Unworldly. With the F1 landed nothing other than contrails for the entertainment on the waterfront. In the air the speeds were far more rocket rapid—Ukraine, Gaza; for proper spectacle, terrestrial measures were needed. For the correspondent human stride the old charts of the progressively erect orang ends in the present time with the F1 driver tearing along before his audience. Something similar applied in the case of the heavyweight fight in London, where the former champ was battered to the canvas numerous times in five rounds. Another kind of measure. Human figures battered by life—the war zones, floods, quakes, refugees. Coming out for supper the helpers were escorting the elders battered by their years. Others with the day off were slowly returning to their cloisters, finishing their calls back home. (Many employers disallowed phone use within the house.) A number with their pitiful charges could manage on the go. Pushing gramps in his chair, one rested her phone on the handle behind, scrolling as she went. Shrieking bursts echoing over the estate could not be placed at first. Was it coming from behind, or in front? Somewhere the other side of the carpark, possibly. On the Void beneath Block 7 a pair of maids sat with the ahma between them. A frail figure like that in her chair seemed incapable of piercing screams, even these short. Approaching closer, the shaking and quivering of arms & legs became visible. They would have a short respite upstairs while the girls took their charge out for airing.
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