"The resonance is ready, Nowaah," El Maryacho said, his voice a gravelly baritone. He flicked the latches on his case.
The sound was like a bone snapping. Nowaah stepped forward, raising his arms. The rain around them didn't fall to the ground; it began to swirl around him, forming a massive, rotating serpent of liquid. "Open," Nowaah whispered. EL_Maryacho_and_Nowaah_The_Flood-Harbingers_Of_...
El Maryacho didn’t carry a guitar. He carried a heavy, reinforced carbon-fiber case that hummed with a low-frequency vibration. He wore a traditional charro suit, but the silver embroidery was replaced with fiber-optic wiring that pulsed a soft, bioluminescent blue. He was the "Vibration"—the one who could shatter concrete or soothe a riot with a single chord from his sonic rail-gun. "The resonance is ready, Nowaah," El Maryacho said,
Nowaah looked out at the new tide. "The best one yet. But the storm is still coming." Nowaah stepped forward, raising his arms
They were known to the streets as and Nowaah The Flood . The Arrival
The city’s elite, the "Gilded Gills," had built a massive sea wall that diverted the rising tides away from their penthouses and directly into the "Sinks"—the slums where the forgotten lived. The Harbingers had seen enough.