20 HP · voice
Sixty fireflies, each a lit window with a chime of its own. Woken, they blink at random; every flash nudges the ones that see it, and they fall in step, in clusters and then as one: a clock and a chord grown out of noise.
Turn a knob: drag it, roll the wheel over it or use the arrow keys; a double click puts it back. SCARE is a button to press.
example patches
The swarm, its lights and its chimes here are FIREFLIES's engine as it's designed, running in your browser: when each one flashes, which ones it nudges, what it rings. Everything round it is a stand-in for the rest of a rack.
Each firefly keeps its own time and flashes when it runs out. Every flash nudges the ones that see it, the near ones most: a little later if they've just flashed, a little sooner if they were about to. That's all it takes. Neighbours fall in step first, little clusters flashing together; then the clusters pull each other in, until the whole swarm flashes as one, as the real ones do in the Great Smoky Mountains. None keeps perfect time, so left alone they drift apart again.
Every flash rings its firefly's note, a struck glass bell, pitched by its height on the panel and panned by where it sits, left to right. At random they're a shimmer of single bells; in clusters, fragments of chords; as one, a single chord on a clock. Sixty at once are fuller and a little louder than the shimmer, never sixty times as loud.
Press SCARE and the scare rises from the button up through the swarm in half a second. Each firefly it reaches startles, flashes once, bright, hides in the dark a moment and comes back at random. Everything they'd found is gone, and they start finding each other again.
Patch a clock into LANTERN and every beat is a flash they all see, brighter than all of them together. They gather round it, take its tempo and flash on its beat; a clock twice their pace and they flash on every other one. The lantern itself makes no sound and no light.
PULSE fires whenever half the swarm flashes at once: nothing at random, the odd one in clusters, a steady clock once they're one. Patch it to a drum machine and the beat grows out of the shimmer.
Twenty HP, every part on the line's staggered grid and mirrored about the middle, except the swarm: sixty little oval windows of bare circuit board, each with an LED behind it, rising up the middle, a few strays out among the parts. A swarm isn't symmetrical. The art is a jar.