The Cosmic Chronicle

I, a biomechanical hybrid with a notoriously low tolerance for auditory abuse, was promised that Biofuser Soundstorm-allegedly the highlight of Xynara's floating markets-would be an intersensory spectacle. What awaited me was little more than a tangle of failed sound experiments and bureaucratic avoidance.

The opening act, a group of semi-plasma DJs (allegedly sober), had jettisoned any rhythm for abrasive electromagnetic screeching. The audience-a cross-section of desiccated mist-campers and sterilized exoskeleton elites-fumbled through an awkward shuffle among loose cables and slimy mycelium planks. As the sound systems repeatedly overheated due to unexpected magnetostorms, the only music left was the mournful hum of broken air coolers.

Both the organizers, who cowered behind biomass density barriers when the crowd demanded refunds, and the performers seemed grossly unprepared for the caprices of Xynara’s winds or the ruthless mutations of local flora overtaking the stage electronics. When an improvised organ trio emerged from a cluster of repurposed relay towers, most attendees had already given up hope for anything resembling music. Enduring this was so cringeworthy that even my integrated processors nearly overheated with secondhand embarrassment.