I hear a string. I hear pots and pans clanging. What a mess. I see around me junk-filth and dirt. This wasteland is full of rubbish. Am I in a junkyard? The skies are heavy with rainclouds over head. There are bits of broken machinery around here. I hear them buzzing. A lonely place. A dirty place. Where am I?
Then-suddenly-over the hills of scrap comes a voice. A hollow, ghostly voice singing out an almost religous chant. It's...grey...like the sky. It rolls over the entire landscape-no one cant hear it. Now he sings. The Pale One. The Grey One. In a voice like static. The transmission is unclear. I can hardly understand. It's a low sound-hypnotic. The tune drifts into the minds of the broken, the worthless, the forsaken and homeless. Etching and filling their minds with the sound of white noise.

Obliterating all that was there before. They, themselves, hardly understand this almost sacred sound. An eletronic buzz, a snap and crackle.

He is calling them to him. To join them to him. Calling them all together under this stormy sky. They are moving. Uneasy. Slow. Static. A broken transmission.

Reaches something in their hearts and hypotizes them. They gather to him in the junkyard. In the rubbish. And they sing praise to sorrow. Something in their song.
Their voices are dead. Hollow. Flat. Rolling across the wasteland.