A brisk coastal wind still howls against the window of the shack. Occasionally the waves…
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A brisk coastal wind still howls against the window of the shack. Occasionally the waves crawl in under the foundation, producing a low hum...
Responses: 2
- Shake it off. [Discard thought.]Remembered: 1
- Listen.
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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.
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- My forward base for the coastal part of the operation.
- A possible resting spot for my fugitive is what it is.
- It's free. That's good enough. I could live here.
- Looks like this is my new home -- wonder where the old one went?
- My new hangout, where I could silently sit, drink and die while looking at the waves roll in.
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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.
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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.
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- 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.
- 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.
- This could have been you. This could still be you. A down-on-his-luck nobody, trying to survive.
- 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.
- 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.
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...
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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.
Earlier lines: 1
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.
Responses: 1
Earlier lines: 1
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.
Responses: 1
Earlier lines: 1
This could have been you. This could still be you. A down-on-his-luck nobody, trying to survive.
Responses: 1
Earlier lines: 1
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.
Earlier lines: 1
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.
Responses: 1
Earlier lines: 1
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.