[i]Our freedom of speech is freedom or death
We gotta fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say
Fight the power
Fight the power
We gotta fight the powers that be[/i]

Lee Brandt hummed the old-time ballad to himself as he powered forward, his lean greyhound body leaned forwards. But tonight he wasn't Lee Brandt. He was Clarion, and the only things that mattered were the hiss of his wheels, the smell of the paint, the cool of the night air.

He was a Sprayer.

It was a simple word, true, but he reveled in it. It had come to mean so much. Freedom. Excitement. For the first time, Lee Brandt felt like he was a part of something, not just an observer, no longer that guy at the party who just watches everyone else have fun. He was nervous and scared and elated all at once.

Totally radical.

His long legs pushed him forwards on the skates, nearly eighty years old but well-maintained. He was new at this, he had needed help decoding the invitation. But he felt honored to be included, like a gathering of legends. The Round Table, or the Foo Fighters. Something like that.

This was the place. He had a cautious look around, but his own enthusiasm for the project overrode his caution, and she skated right in through the door on hissing wheels. "Whassup, dudes," he whispered as he skated backwards around the group in a slow circle.