she’s a girl who knows the right time for bricks. she’s got a bag of concrete, and she needs no other tricks.
aggressively near-naked is her uniform for warring—she spent enough time dressing up when she was newborn, low-built, boring. she’s got her greenhouse glasses on, and little else besides, so all heads turn to heed her when her glottal glitter glides. she says: “hhhot pavement rends convection currents. cloudscape follows suit.” there’s wire coiled in her hair and a trowel tucked in one tall boot.
“they say slaves built the pyramids. far from pharaoh’s, those men were mine. mortar was my manna to them; greywater was my wine. now for less than that they give me glass and steel and tall, so quickly up and rarely down, ten raised for each that falls.”
this time she’s got it made, she thinks, and winks a green eye flecked with rust. this tendency towards towering is lethal as any less loyal lust, for however often the babble fades and workmen wind up wise, there’s always another rabble arrayed, resentful and ready to rise.