Medium · Shivers ≥ 4
And then suddenly you see it: over all the other graffitos someone has -- using the tip of a very sharp knife -- cut the words: REVACHOL FOREVER.
Physique
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
711 · Voice lines
And then suddenly you see it: over all the other graffitos someone has -- using the tip of a very sharp knife -- cut the words: REVACHOL FOREVER.
The building is tall, seven stories wind-wrapped in solitude; most of the apartments are unoccupied. This was a suicide. The other an accident -- the small one.
A small green enclosure in the middle of a corral of tenements: Capeside Apartments, Whirling-in-Rags and the fortress wall of Terminal B. Above it -- a thin blanket of coastal stratus clouds.
Higher yet, Coalition airships guard over the twenty one cordons of the Zone of Control. The air is criss-crossed with radio transmissions, the hair on your neck rises...
A column of cold air encircles you, rising slowly upward in the shape of a courtyard; bordered by cracked plaster, windows, seagulls perched on air conditioning units.
Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A chessboard of old wooden houses in the snow, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street glowing on the horizon...
Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A dark chessboard of wooden houses in the rain, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street glowing on the rainswept horizon...
Under the violet morning sky the great district wakes: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the glowing horizon...
Under the night sky the great district sleeps: A dark chessboard of wooden houses in the rain, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street glowing on the rainswept horizon...
The great district hums with the noise of human habitation: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Grand Couron, from Precinct 41 to Boogie Street forking into the distant horizon...
Under the violet morning sky the great district wakes: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41. To Boogie Street forking into the glowing horizon...
Distant traffic. A scrap of newspaper drifts by, carried by the wind.
Under the afternoon sky the great district hums: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41, to Boogie Street forking into the snowswept horizon...
The great district hums in the falling rain: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Grand Couron, from Precinct 41 to Boogie Street forking into the rainswept horizon...
A grey rain falls on Martinaise. The city soaks in it, cold and dripping. Waves hit the concrete breakers. The homeless huddle by the fires behind the fences. There, among the shacks, is your home. Stay. Have a drink. Forever.
Under the evening sky the great district turns on its lights: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls inside. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41 atop the motorway, to Boogie Street forking into the dark horizon...
Under the pink morning sky the great district wakes: A chessboard of wooden houses, 80,000 living souls and chimney stacks. Firetraps as far as the eye can see -- from Main Street to Precinct 41. To Boogie Street forking into the snowswept horizon...