Conversation · Shivers

A brisk coastal wind still howls against the window of the shack. Occasionally the waves crawl in under the foundation, producing a low hum...

Shake it off. [Discard thought.]

Listen.

The room feels muffled, like you pulled your hat over your ears. Outside, it is cold and windy, but you're inside, and it feels safe and warm.

WHAT IS THIS PLACE TO YOU?

My forward base for the coastal part of the operation.

Overhead you hear the forlorn shriek of seagulls. Far below the birds -- a wooden boardwalk, filled with abandoned stands, tables and benches, echoes from a long lost time.

A middle-aged man stands in a run-down shack on the edge of a fishing village, listening to the heater hum on the wall.

Thank you, strange sensation, for a fair assessment of the current situation.

Outside, the howl of the wind has picked up. The waves crash against the stilts again. It's as if you think the thought, but in someone else's voice...

REVACHOL FOREVER

LOOK UNDER THE FLOORBOARDS

"This feels like a cozy hideout."

"Mhm..." The lieutenant looks around.

No, wait, I changed my mind, I want to choose again.

There is no going back.

"This feels like a cozy hideout."

Who are you talking to? There is no one here. Not even cold.

A possible resting spot for my fugitive is what it is.

Waves crash unto the beach, drowning the reeds. Far to the south a congregation gathers to a soup kitchen in a shelter for the homeless. An old woman gives out knitted scarves for free.

Far to the southeast, two men and a woman dress themselves in ceramic armour. A shortwave radio hisses on the windowsill. One makes a salute. The other downs a drink. Weapons under the bed...

A middle-aged man stands in a run-down shack on the edge of a fishing village. Nothing nods, no one salutes him. No sight of the fugitive.

It's free. That's good enough. I could live here.

Waves crash unto the beach, drowning the reeds. Far to the south a congregation gathers to a soup kitchen in a shelter for the homeless. An old woman gives out knitted scarves for free.

This could have been you. This could still be you. A down-on-his-luck nobody, trying to survive.

Looks like this is my new home -- wonder where the old one went?

Westward, across the canal, towers the Whirling-in-Rags. Door #1 on the second floor is locked, behind it lies a trashed room. One floor below, behind a counter, stands an irritable man.

In a small shack in the fishing village, a baroque heater hums quietly, emanating a sense of comforting warmth. A washbasin lies on the table, the water inside reflecting the sombre face of the world.

Far away, on the corner of Perdition and Main, a nondescript building, obscured in a haze. It's vacant and lost, just like its tenant.

My new hangout, where I could silently sit, drink and die while looking at the waves roll in.

Behind the half-built cinder block house at the other end of the village there are three people, drinking. Your new crew. You don't need the old crew, oh no, you have a new crew to get drunk with.

You already were a part of their crew once. You can get drunk with them again. You're probably going to hang out there a lot, behind that cinder block house. It's where you belong.