His way along the downward slope brought him almost within sight of the first major road he would have to cross - where the city proper resumed in hordes of Hun-like tenements surrounding the hilly bastion of Lykabettos. At present a hedge composed of a vine resembling honeysuckle but called by the Greeks "nightflower" blocked his view of it, but there was an opening only a few meters further down around the bend.
The growl of an unmuffled motorcycle engine interrupted his airy thoughts, if only to conjure up a very earthly resentment towards the unnecessary noise. Athens is arguably a city built in honor of and exclusively for the propagation of unnecessary noise. A thought entered his head. A terrible and frankly rather commonplace little thought, more a mental snapshot than any articulated idea: the obnoxious vehicle bursting into flames, its rider cast off violently amidst tires, handlebars, and fenders - suffering Dantesquely for his presumption in so grossly offending the ears of his community.
No sooner had the image presented itself than Fenix heard an odd sound, a tiny pop but surprisingly articulate and clear against above the engine growl. The pop turned into a shriek, the squeal of metal being tortured, followed by a loud boom. As if brought into being by a malevolent Djinn, two bodies entered his field of vision, a brief but forceful wave of flame rising up behind them and then yielding to a column of thick gray smoke.
In the matter of an instant, his mental picture had become, in a manner of speaking, so. Not that he saw the motorcycle, other than a shower of parts a needle of shrapnel, perhaps a piece of spoke, actually sliced through his right pant leg and removed a sliver the size of a small watch clasp from his inner thigh. But he had no time to consider either his wound or the actual cause of the explosion, the two human beings just now clearing the top of the hedge having captured his undivided attention.
He saw them quite clearly as a matter of fact, and in the cinematically cliched slow motion we have become all-too-familiar with. A girl came first, upright with limbs spread-eagled like an Orion rising from the sea.
Long black hair out behind her and oddly asymmetrical. Her eyes Fenix would later swear that he remembered even this detail already shut. Then he understood. The hair was not asymmetrical. Rather, the right rear quadrant of her skull had been partially sheared away. Her lips were moving or perhaps simply limp and therefore manipulated by wind and momentum to create the impression of her speaking. The parabola described by her flesh, as she arced over his head, seemed impossible even in this broader context of impossibilities that had suddenly sprung into existence.
His first articulate thought was, "I've killed her. Behind her, a helmeted boy, this one with feet over his head like an Orion descending headfirst into the sea. The head looked like a puppet's - its relation to the rest of the body did not seem feasible for a functional living thing, and this self-same head struck the paved path not ten feet in front of Fenix. The body crumpled like a deflating balloon and rolled partially onto its side, but the head did not turn with the body.
It remained almost aligned with the right shoulder, owl-like and fixed on the implacable sky above, now ever so slightly stained with quickly dissipating smoke. The girl, Orion Ascending, wasn't moving at all. The boy, Orion Descending, clearly had breath in his body - and just as clearly would not keep it for long. Perhaps only minutes. With a groan, his body slumped back in alignment with his head so that he now lay flat on his back.
The chest heaved. One hand fumbled weakly and numbly for the chinstrap of the helmet as if to remove it, but Fenix gently knelt down to stop it. The neck was slightly bent into an 'S,' removing the helmet could well have removed the boy's head.
And so, through the plastic visor, Fenix watched the face of Orion Descending. His hands still gripped the dying boy's wrists to hold him down. Then, suddenly, the wrists stopped struggling and their hands spontaneously joined. He had blond hair, or dyed blond, visible in small tufts, and a heavy-metal t-shirt featuring an ankh design: "Burn it out," it stated in the Germanic Gothic lettering favored by the genre.
Then Fenix heard for the first and last time Orion Descending's voice echoing weakly from its plastic and foam-insulated cage. It was more a death rattle than an intelligible whisper, and utterly incomprehensible to Fenix except for the single phrase intermittently repeated : "katalaves?
Simple past - that is, the imperfect - second person singular of the regular verb "katalavaino" I understand. Fenix tried to sit very still and make his face appear comforting, but it occurred to him that it must look every bit as sphinx-like to the boy as the boy's face looked to him. Of course, some facial expressions telegraph an emotion from a distance, but most are not 'readable' without other cues - a gesture, a tone of voice. The grate of Orion Descending's choked words and the muting effect of the helmet killed all inflection.
He was sweating with fear? The question repeated, "katalaves? Fenix replied, "Of course. Of course," in Greek, "I will tell them. Orion Descending's face froze in shock: even these, his last words, would die before their prime and pass into nothing. Only a puerile t-shirt would remain to sum him up, and that in English: "Burn it out.
At least 2 or 3 minutes had passed, and still no one else had arrived at the scene. Despite roads that reached up to about two-thirds of Lykabettos, the mountain had a labyrinthine quality to it. Sections of it were untouched by any but the most touristy human traffic, mostly lost or attempting to snuffle out some special spot there were none.
The haze and heat had seemed to swallow the blaze almost as soon as it ignited and the smoke quickly took on the sickly gray sheen of the exhaust-filled air, slyly insinuating itself into the pervasive dioxide fumes. Except for the bodies, lying viscerally before him, nothing had changed. The heat persecuted, the various portions of the city yawned and groaned or stood silently and stoically as a Spartan waiting for the sun's inevitable descent to bring it shade.
Fenix remained, alone with the corpses or at least two people whom he presumed to be corpses. As it turned out, the girl, Orion Ascending, was not dead at all but rather comatose, though the story is now getting a bit ahead of itself. The absence of any other witnesses or spectators in such a public place contributed to Fenix's growing and desperate sense of unreality.
Time moved at an indeterminable rate. Surely the damaged motorcycle on the other side of the hedge must have drawn some attention. Surely someone else must have been there at the heart of modern Athens, on the slopes of the most visually dominant landmark in the city - even on the single emptiest day of the year. Fenix stood, and stared, and waited for some external cause to dictate the next course of action.
Yet no external stimulus was forthcoming beyond the execrable and unrelenting heat. His sweat fell profusely upon the boy's corpse, and its discomfiting refusal to twitch or react in any way further fostered his burgeoning sense of humming nausea. He finally staggered to his feet, retched barrenly and blindly, and went to look at the young woman.
The ground under her head was stained deeply red. Her hair was brown at the roots, but pitch-colored otherwise to match her starkly black mascara. A pretty girl. He saw now that she was wearing a helmet after all - on her pristine elbow.
Her shirt featured ghoulish figures with metallic, vaguely mechanical skulls and gleaming red eyes. No motto here - only a logo: Cyberdeth. The verses, Fenix would still insist, came to him at the time, and yet if he were capable of full honesty or perhaps simply full clarity - he would confess that the association might well have been created years later. Indeed, draped over a barstool did he not describe for the second and last time the very scene of the Orions Ascending and Descending?
And was he not informed that the band Cyberdeth's number one cult-classic hit was a hard-core metal rendition of Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" in collaboration with the Cleveland symphony orchestra? And perhaps it is further worth mentioning in the interest of character development that Fenix responded to this information with the comment, "Why the hell not?
It's got everything the genre needs - misogyny, misogyny, and And the ensuing mild concussion did nothing to enhance his sense of chronology.
The way Fenix remembers it now, however - it was precisely with the words "who thicks man's blood with cold" that he felt a burning in his thigh.
He was thoroughly addled with shock and particularly confused by the irrational possibility that his mental picture of malice and destruction had caused the surrounding scene. At the same time, along a completely different tack, he persisted in the perception that his senses had simply gone awry, that the bodies before him were illusory for no other reason than that they ought not to be there.
Ought not on a grand scale - their presence there, bent and broken, worked against what Fenix felt to be against the natural laws of what could be. Beads of blood clotted jewel-like on the loose threads of the hole created by the tiny projectile.
He found himself moving first towards one body, then towards the other, then away from both - checking and counter-checking in uncertain starts and fits like moths sometimes will when confounded by an array of artificial lights. Mathematics, music and ethics. In the end, he did not seek help, either for himself or for the teens who "fixed on him their stony eyes" and he felt palpably cursed him thus.
But the panic and horror, perhaps even the pre-natal twinges of sympathy that had been fomented by the sight of their deaths, finally invested themselves solely in his own quite trivial wound. Like a Newtonian object, he slowly gravitated down the slope with only the convictions of his inertia to guide him until he reached the opening in the hedge. There was a decision to be made here. As Virgil once wrote and Dante rightly suggested it is a relatively easy thing to enter hell - you cannot watch two young and therefore undeserving people die and avoid this truth.
The decision presented itself spatially, and it, too, formed a triangle - stay until someone else arrived, go to find help, or simply leave - or more accurately not a triangle but a funnel with the final option at the bottom like Dante's mechanical Satan with his perpetual inarticulate chewing and futile wings.
Fenix stepped through. He stood on one side of a sun-stricken and poorly paved road. In a momentary spasm of guilt, he surveyed the section where the accident must have happened.
Whatever had caused it, the motorcycle was now crumpled in a deep, narrow ditch along a low stone wall. In a city replete with garbage bins spilling out onto the sidewalks and streets with unattended garbage the garbage men reliably went on strike at this time of year for the extra vacation time , the machine easily passed as just another heap of abandoned waste unless one were specifically looking for it. And the road was empty. The whole damned city was empty, and still somehow, not quiet.
Car alarms sang to themselves solipsistically, the echoes making their location indeterminate; a cat cried out sadistically as another whimpered and fled; a pack of semi-feral dogs passed yapping and howling through a hole in the hedge, bringing images of horror to Fenix's head as he first feared for his own safety and then considered what they might do to the freshly dead bodies he had left behind. It was that simple. If he thought about the pair for the remainder of his journey it was in those wordless cut scenes, patchwork quilts of pity, guile, helplessness and anxiety.
As blood mingled with sweat, and the leg began to stiffen and ache, the only articulate phrase that kept coming to mind was: "We are the hollow men. The Doctor sat at his desk and watched the computer monitor. The newspaper, Rizopastis, open to his left, two sections pulled out for special distinction.
The monitor displayed red, yellow, and blue 'units' in a software program called "Prisoners' Dilemma 2. A game of sorts, the basic premise of which was - two people are accused of a crime that they committed together. A prosecutor goes to each separately and gives them the choice of confessing or keeping silent. If neither confesses, both will receive a year of prison.
If both confess they each receive two years. If one confesses and the other remains silent, the prosecutor agrees to let the confessor off the hook, but the silent one will receive three years of prison. There are four possible outcomes: Silence - Silence 1 year - 1 year Silence - Confession 0 years - 3 years Confession - Confession 2 years - 2 years Confession - Silence 3 years - 0 years.
The dilemma is that while mutual silence is the 'best' result in group terms collectively the conspirators will serve only two years , silence also carries the threat of a sucker punishment - a conspirator who breaks ranks by confessing will potentially emerge from the situation unscathed.
Making matters more complicated, the worst group outcome results when both conspirators break ranks and confess. Share This Video.
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Munich public transport network tickets are valid in regional trains as far as Dachau, too. Dachau is part of Munich's public transport network MVV. To get to Dachau, you have to take S-Bahn line S2 , which brings you to Dachau station, close to the center of town. Most city buses stop at the station, including those which take you to the Concentration Camp Memorial Site. We offer a range of personal settings for your convenience. Options include which opponents you prefer to be paired against, your preferred chessboard and pieces, the board size, the volume setting of the video player, your preferred language, whether to show chat or chess notation, and more.
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The veteran noise unit takes on themes of loneliness and isolation with their harsh, disquieting soundscapes. Brutality in Stone by Axebreaker. The latest from Terence Hannum's anti-fascist power electronics project uses claustrophobic noise to evocative, visceral ends. Archive by Sofheso. Available on double-cassette.Explore releases from Vidinė Ramybė at Discogs. Shop for Vinyl, CDs and more from Vidinė Ramybė at the Discogs Marketplace.