The dark shadow of the church is drawn out on the sand... two men stand there. In silence.
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
The dark shadow of the church is drawn out on the sand... two men stand there. In silence.
There's something cold in the air. Like water lapping against cold stones. Or dripping. In a hallway nearby. Three years ago. There were shoes in the corner...
A chill comes over you. The wind from the Boulevard South, lashing you -- for trying to separate them. For trying to take the street out of Cuno.
Six metres underground, below piping from before the war -- the collapsed remains of the Martinaise storm drain system. There are two stolen flashlights with piles of batteries next to them, beside two bedrolls. In the dark, an opening into the lower tunnels...
Tiny heels, tip-toeing down the road. Beautiful steps, light-footed, with a lifetime ahead of them. You look up and the air seems to grow darker.
On the corner of Voyager and Main a large neon sign hangs on the side of a building: "Video Revachol, 24h." It's raining and there is almost no traffic on the street. A woman's footprints in the mud lead away from the front door.
In the middle of a broken plaza, illuminated in a cone of light, two men, one slim, the other sturdy. They are on the city stage, but only one of them knows his lines...
In the middle of a broken plaza, in a cone of light barely visible in the daytime, two men, one slim, the other sturdy. They are on the city stage, but only one of them knows his lines...
Their cloud shadows slide over the ruins of Revachol West -- wherever they pass, the temperature drops slightly but perceptibly.
Above you there forms a quilt of altocumulus clouds, twisting into each other. The wind tugs and stretches them over the bay.
SPLAT. An explosion of white on a man's shoe. A curse goes up, but the birds do not hear.
They are like the bombardiers of the aerostatic brigades, gliding above a target-rich environment...
All of a sudden, the bomb bay doors open, and their white glittering payload rushes to the ground...
Somewhere, high above the city, a pair of seagulls trace loops through the air...
#312D. Young girls used to come here, huddled up, hoping for more warmth than their thin coats give them. The bus took them to school. It has not run for eight years; there were not enough girls to sustain its cost.
Tragedy came from the wheels of a fast RCM vehicle, hurrying to work. The cold washes over you. The sound of the sea has grown distant.
A drop in temperature. An easy flow of air: an empty street. Before you, a thoroughfare unjammed with lorries. No more drivers smoking on hitch steps. Just... silence.