All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and…

All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

Winter's grip on the city is loosening. The spring thaw is here.

Finally. What now?

Humid. Your coat shields you from the rain while the city shivers around you.

What's in the south?

A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

What's on the other side?

The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

Shudder, look further...

In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.

Patrol Officer Judit Minot stands beneath the awning overhanging the entrance, struggling to open her big black umbrella.

The Precinct surgeon, chewing on a piece of candy, throws her a questioning glance, walking by: "Need a hand with that?"

"No. Thank you. I got it." She gets the umbrella to open, and, with a quick smile and nod to the surgeon, sprints down the steps. The rain falls all around her...

Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.

Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare rushes down the Precinct stairs, umbrella in hand. It's unopened. He doesn't seem pleased about the spring rain.

On the bridge, Officers Torson and McLaine are standing guard. Torson wears jeans and a fishnet wifebeater. Satellite-Officer Vicquemare passes by, and the young man remarks to him...

"Where's your homo, homey?"

"What?"

"It's not like that. They're what you call hetero-sexual life partners. They have a battle-tested relationship. A 'bröderbund', if you will."

"Huh? Yeah." He opens his umbrella, but the wind immediately turns it inside out.

"Hetero -- sexual. Life -- partners."

"Funny apery." Vicquemare struggles with his umbrella, the ribs are protruding from its canopy. "Male-centric workplace humour. Have you seen him?"

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing. It's just... Judit went to his place and found the Monday mail unopened. I think he's still there. You didn't, like, drink with him over the weekend did you?"

"That would be irresponsible."

"With that animal? Never again, man. What, is he still down there, in... you know, south of the interchange? The... what was it?"

"In Martinaise. He's in Martinaise."

It's the only home you have now. But you can't go back. Not like this.

"Wonder if Vic's found his long lost boyfriend yet." He looks over at Chester McLaine and breaks into a laugh at his own joke. The rain falls outside.

"Mack, they're hetero-sexual life partners. It's not like that," his partner smirks. "But yeah. There's trouble in paradise for that duo, Tequila Sunset has..." The sound of the rain grows so loud it drowns out his voice.

Where do I live?

On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.

YOU CANNOT RETURN.

Where the hood, where the hood, where the hood at?

HAVE A BROTHER IN THE CUT. WHERE THE WOOD AT?

Why am I not there?

To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

What am I doing here?

Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

What is Jamrock?

Revachol is the capital of the world. Jamrock is the capital of Revachol. Droplets form on your eyelashes.

It's home.

What is in the west?

Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

Who are you, ghosts?

The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

Will you ever go there?

Will I?

No. You are just one of the hundreds of thousands who watch them rise across the bay from Martinaise every day.

Let go of the feeling.

Your hair sticks to your forehead, cold and wet.

Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

What is down the shore?

Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

And beyond that?

Coal City, end of all lines.

What's below?

Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.