Docking Bay Six (Wub-Out)

Lexideck

Sultry Lexi

Lexideck

chopped-and-screwed rap, sci-fi rap, dubstep (wub-heavy)

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V5.5

[Cold open — spoken, dock-foley underneath, no melody]
[lightsaber bass: dock-clamp hits, metal echo, no wub yet]

Hekate Customs and Bonded Inspection Authority. Docking Bay Six.
I came here to find Garron Vey's freight-route node.
Sable's flimsy said he'd be working the manifest desk after eighteen-hundred.
It is eighteen-twenty.
The manifest desk is empty.
The dock is not.

[Verse 1 — chopped, deadpan, walking pace]
[lightsaber bass: low industrial hum, gathering, not yet hitting]

Eight skiff-thugs in a half-circle round the loading ramp,
Coil-rifles up, vibro-knives in the off-hand clamp.
Their captain says: (quote-voice, gruff: "You're a long way from the arcology, Resonant.")
I say (spoken, flat: "I came here to talk to Vey. Not to you.")
He says (quote-voice: "Vey said tell you no.")
I say (spoken, flat: "Tell him I heard him. Tell him I'm coming anyway.")
He raises the rifle.
(spoken aside, dry: "Wrong move.")

[Pre-chorus — tempered devotional, deadpan]
[lightsaber bass: held drone, building]

I do not choose violence. (I do not choose violence.)
But the dock chose otherwise. (The dock chose otherwise.)
And I do not run. (I do not run.)
And I do not flinch.

[Chorus / Hook — Wub-Out]
[lightsaber bass: ONE WUB PER THUG. Eight wubs, count them. Sidechained. Heavy.]

Wub. (thug one, knee.)
Wub. (thug two, weapon arm.)
Wub-wub. (thugs three and four, dual-wield, one motion.)
Wub. (thug five, spinning.)
Wub. (thug six, behind me, didn't even look.)
Wub-wub. (thugs seven and eight, the captain last, tempered to a tap.)
Eight thugs down. Five seconds. None dead. All cuffed by the dock's auto-binders, which I told their own clamps to engage.

[Verse 2 — chopped, smug returning, walking pace resumes]
[lightsaber bass: low industrial hum, peeled back]

Step over the captain. He's groaning. He's cuffed. He's fine.
I lean down. I say (spoken, soft: "Tell Vey I was tempered. Tell him I meant tempered. Tell him the next stop is IX-3.")
He nods, eyes wide, doesn't say a word.
(spoken aside, dry: "Funny how the message gets through when the messenger's quiet.")
I walk to the manifest desk. I pull the freight-route flimsy from the open file.
The route reads: Helion Atmospheric Spire, IX-3, sub-level four, the bath-house.
I fold it. I clip it to my belt. I walk out.
(spoken aside, warm: "Next leg of the run.")

[Outro — peeled chorus, dock-foley fading]
[lightsaber bass: peels off, ends on a single dock-clamp echo]

Wub-out. (quiet)
Wub-out. (quieter)
Eight skiff-thugs. Five seconds. Not one dead.
Tempered.
(dock-clamp echo. Out.)

2568/7500

[Cold open — spoken, dock-foley underneath, no melody] [lightsaber bass: dock-clamp hits, metal echo, no wub yet] Hekate Customs and Bonded Inspection Authority. Docking Bay Six. I came here to find Garron Vey's freight-route node. Sable's flimsy said he'd be working the manifest desk after eighteen-hundred. It is eighteen-twenty. The manifest desk is empty. The dock is not. [Verse 1 — chopped, deadpan, walking pace] [lightsaber bass: low industrial hum, gathering, not yet hitting] Eight skiff-thugs in a half-circle round the loading ramp, Coil-rifles up, vibro-knives in the off-hand clamp. Their captain says: (quote-voice, gruff: "You're a long way from the arcology, Resonant.") I say (spoken, flat: "I came here to talk to Vey. Not to you.") He says (quote-voice: "Vey said tell you no.") I say (spoken, flat: "Tell him I heard him. Tell him I'm coming anyway.") He raises the rifle. (spoken aside, dry: "Wrong move.") [Pre-chorus — tempered devotional, deadpan] [lightsaber bass: held drone, building] I do not choose violence. (I do not choose violence.) But the dock chose otherwise. (The dock chose otherwise.) And I do not run. (I do not run.) And I do not flinch. [Chorus / Hook — Wub-Out] [lightsaber bass: ONE WUB PER THUG. Eight wubs, count them. Sidechained. Heavy.] Wub. (thug one, knee.) Wub. (thug two, weapon arm.) Wub-wub. (thugs three and four, dual-wield, one motion.) Wub. (thug five, spinning.) Wub. (thug six, behind me, didn't even look.) Wub-wub. (thugs seven and eight, the captain last, tempered to a tap.) Eight thugs down. Five seconds. None dead. All cuffed by the dock's auto-binders, which I told their own clamps to engage. [Verse 2 — chopped, smug returning, walking pace resumes] [lightsaber bass: low industrial hum, peeled back] Step over the captain. He's groaning. He's cuffed. He's fine. I lean down. I say (spoken, soft: "Tell Vey I was tempered. Tell him I meant tempered. Tell him the next stop is IX-3.") He nods, eyes wide, doesn't say a word. (spoken aside, dry: "Funny how the message gets through when the messenger's quiet.") I walk to the manifest desk. I pull the freight-route flimsy from the open file. The route reads: Helion Atmospheric Spire, IX-3, sub-level four, the bath-house. I fold it. I clip it to my belt. I walk out. (spoken aside, warm: "Next leg of the run.") [Outro — peeled chorus, dock-foley fading] [lightsaber bass: peels off, ends on a single dock-clamp echo] Wub-out. (quiet) Wub-out. (quieter) Eight skiff-thugs. Five seconds. Not one dead. Tempered. (dock-clamp echo. Out.)

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