It began as barely a whisper. A crackle in the air. And slowly it grew: the city that sleeps settled in the static. Nothing more than vibrations, nothing less than noticeable. Houses are built from Hertz and the streets resonate between them. A soundscape of whining fields and distorted hills surround it, isolating the city from the visible channels.
As it expanded the noise increased, diffracting at the edges. Voices hop between frequencies so quickly they can't be traced. Yet they talk so loud, swimming through the negative feedback, thick like syrup. Fragments fall through, intercepted by the receivers but meanings can rarely be pieced together.
But as the sun begins to set every evening, the interference swells, piercing the waves, slicing through the city like a copper blade. The fields flood with blinding blue light. Silence falls as the white noise boys begin to roam, carving through the transmissions, cutting away at the data.