April 7 20XX
Time: MiddayWeather: Light Drizzle
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Northern District
The world was bright.
The world was shadowless.
Dark green curtains draped the skeletons of buildings, protecting concrete and rebar from the light drizzle that danced upon all surfaces. A verdant tract of land stood out like a gem amongst the pavement and tall buildings, a myriad of spring flowers on the verge of blooming. The weeping cloudscape could not mute their colors, even as it drowned out glass and concrete, leaving a fine veil over everything. In one part of the city, men in hard hats and safety vests renovate an old road. In another part of the city, demolitionists clear the area, waiting with calculated anxiety for the countdown to begin. The crack of the machine, and charming cobblestone is replaced with pungent tarmac. The press of a button, and stone ruptures and disintegrates, leaving the lot free for a new structure to take the place of the predecessor.
Upon a non-descript office building, a schoolgirl stood, in an outfit dyed black by rain. A bright world. A shadowless world. A dying world. A reborn world. She removed her shoes, placing them neatly by the edge. She peeled off her socks, folding them neatly into her shoes. She breathed in. She breathed out. Stepped into a puddle, shivered slightly in the cold. Slid her toes against the surface, watched the wake disperse and stabilize. Stepped up to the precipice, peeked over the ledge. Beneath, people strode. Others saw insects, small and squishable. She saw Legos. Indistinct, no matter no colorful they were. She’d be hurt if she stepped on them, but they wouldn’t be hurt if she stepped on them.
She leaned forward further, willing herself closer and closer to the void, sparked by morbid curiosity and nameless misgivings.
And then, she…
The world was shadowless.
Dark green curtains draped the skeletons of buildings, protecting concrete and rebar from the light drizzle that danced upon all surfaces. A verdant tract of land stood out like a gem amongst the pavement and tall buildings, a myriad of spring flowers on the verge of blooming. The weeping cloudscape could not mute their colors, even as it drowned out glass and concrete, leaving a fine veil over everything. In one part of the city, men in hard hats and safety vests renovate an old road. In another part of the city, demolitionists clear the area, waiting with calculated anxiety for the countdown to begin. The crack of the machine, and charming cobblestone is replaced with pungent tarmac. The press of a button, and stone ruptures and disintegrates, leaving the lot free for a new structure to take the place of the predecessor.
Upon a non-descript office building, a schoolgirl stood, in an outfit dyed black by rain. A bright world. A shadowless world. A dying world. A reborn world. She removed her shoes, placing them neatly by the edge. She peeled off her socks, folding them neatly into her shoes. She breathed in. She breathed out. Stepped into a puddle, shivered slightly in the cold. Slid her toes against the surface, watched the wake disperse and stabilize. Stepped up to the precipice, peeked over the ledge. Beneath, people strode. Others saw insects, small and squishable. She saw Legos. Indistinct, no matter no colorful they were. She’d be hurt if she stepped on them, but they wouldn’t be hurt if she stepped on them.
She leaned forward further, willing herself closer and closer to the void, sparked by morbid curiosity and nameless misgivings.
And then, she…
Central District
Midday traffic clogged the arteries of the downtown core, thousands of umbrellas forming a canopy that would rival a rainforest. Tenoroshi was a modern town, but it was a small town too, ill-suited for containing the eight hundred thousand who lived within its boundaries, who were employed in its economic heart. Salarymen with slick leather clutches stormed through the streets on a schedule. Children and mothers stuck to the sides, looking through the glass storefronts of designer boutiques or happily jumping into puddles. Truants roamed in pants too large to fit their skinny waists. Garbage collectors dodged heavy traffic as they wrestled with overflowing containers. Above the din of human communications, the bells of ringing bikes sounded constantly as more environmentally-conscious commuters bobbed and weaved through designated bike lanes that only contributed to the congestion of the roads and sidewalks.
One fortunate person, however, didn’t have to suffer the crowded streets.
One unfortunate person, however, wasn’t marked as a part of the herd.
An unkempt man stumbled through the streets in blissful stupor, his feet crisscrossing as he half-danced, half-staggered. A drug addict. A drunk. A maniac. As if the madness that inflicted him was contagious, others shied away, some shooting dirty looks as he bumped into them, others making snide comments to each other as they passed. His suit hadn’t been washed for days. His skin was muddy, dirty. He stank of trash and piss. A stock broker down on his luck? A failed entrepreneur? More labels struck the man, condemnations fired from the safety of another’s mind. But he didn’t mind. His mouth opened and closed, singing a silent song, and his lips were curved upwards in the purest expression of happiness, so bright that it must have been agonizing.
He continued to dance in a world only he could see, to a beat only he could heard. And soon enough, soon enough, the unkempt man struck something that would not move out of his way. He fell back, looked up, and saw, for the first time, the wall before him.
A clean-shaven man in a collared shirt and tight pants, the barest suggestion of tattoos curling beneath his sleeves, the bright light of human cruelty in his beady eyes.
The smile did not change, even as the gangster’s boot slammed into his ribs.
It took two more blows before the violence became normalized and the crowd passed on, averting their eyes.
One fortunate person, however, didn’t have to suffer the crowded streets.
One unfortunate person, however, wasn’t marked as a part of the herd.
An unkempt man stumbled through the streets in blissful stupor, his feet crisscrossing as he half-danced, half-staggered. A drug addict. A drunk. A maniac. As if the madness that inflicted him was contagious, others shied away, some shooting dirty looks as he bumped into them, others making snide comments to each other as they passed. His suit hadn’t been washed for days. His skin was muddy, dirty. He stank of trash and piss. A stock broker down on his luck? A failed entrepreneur? More labels struck the man, condemnations fired from the safety of another’s mind. But he didn’t mind. His mouth opened and closed, singing a silent song, and his lips were curved upwards in the purest expression of happiness, so bright that it must have been agonizing.
He continued to dance in a world only he could see, to a beat only he could heard. And soon enough, soon enough, the unkempt man struck something that would not move out of his way. He fell back, looked up, and saw, for the first time, the wall before him.
A clean-shaven man in a collared shirt and tight pants, the barest suggestion of tattoos curling beneath his sleeves, the bright light of human cruelty in his beady eyes.
The smile did not change, even as the gangster’s boot slammed into his ribs.
It took two more blows before the violence became normalized and the crowd passed on, averting their eyes.
Western District
Winding paths upon downward slopes. Quiet streets undisturbed by pedestrians and vehicles alike. The police were never prepared, the residents were never brave. And today in particular was sublime. Bright light, gray light. Puddles that became mist under screaming tires. The sense of danger that accompanied drifting on slippery cobblestone.
Perfect riding conditions for people who had something to prove, people who wanted to push things past the edge.
A dozen delinquents, some high schoolers, some university students roared down the desolate streets in souped up bikes, their horns blaring with explosive bravado. Their tires left black scars upon the streets and their shouts of exhilaration rose above the rattle of their engines. Downtown was troublesome, even if it was absolutely badass to escape the traffic cops, while the crazy slopes might as well be the most glorious challenge in all of Tenoroshi. How many accidents had occurred? How many bikers had been bested in an instance of wavering will? The bosozoku group’s leader, his white longcoat trailing behind him like the tail of a great beast, sped up further, his motorcycle shooting ahead, turning the cor-
An old lady was crossing.
A pin-point swerve and the leader was past. With daredevil audacity, the rest of the troupe followed suit, twelve bikes streaking around the senile hag as she fell back in surprise, her jaw dropping to reveal a toothless mouth. The last of the group laughed at her dazed expression and parted ways with a rude gesture, leaving her on the sidewalk, her eyes glazed over in shock.
Perfect riding conditions for people who had something to prove, people who wanted to push things past the edge.
A dozen delinquents, some high schoolers, some university students roared down the desolate streets in souped up bikes, their horns blaring with explosive bravado. Their tires left black scars upon the streets and their shouts of exhilaration rose above the rattle of their engines. Downtown was troublesome, even if it was absolutely badass to escape the traffic cops, while the crazy slopes might as well be the most glorious challenge in all of Tenoroshi. How many accidents had occurred? How many bikers had been bested in an instance of wavering will? The bosozoku group’s leader, his white longcoat trailing behind him like the tail of a great beast, sped up further, his motorcycle shooting ahead, turning the cor-
An old lady was crossing.
A pin-point swerve and the leader was past. With daredevil audacity, the rest of the troupe followed suit, twelve bikes streaking around the senile hag as she fell back in surprise, her jaw dropping to reveal a toothless mouth. The last of the group laughed at her dazed expression and parted ways with a rude gesture, leaving her on the sidewalk, her eyes glazed over in shock.
Southwestern District
The traffic was lighter in the red light district, making it easier to travel from one part of the city to another, but the lack of congestion was simply the bait meant to snag unsuspecting prey. Warm lights promised comfort and intimacy, while photoshopped pictures of glamorous hosts and hostesses were plastered on light-up displays. Trucks streamed by, eager to take more vacant routes, but not a single businessman was willing to be seen here during the day. To come to the red light district at night was normal. To come here now? Social suicide.
Still, that didn’t mean idiots were all that uncommon, and a host wasn’t worth their paycheck if they couldn’t pick girls off the streets.
Dressed sharply in a three-piece suit, top two buttons undone and long, pale hair eloquently coifed with products more expensive than what some people spent on marriage rings, a fair youth struck a bold impression as he stood off to the side of the street. An umbrella was held in a gloved hand, while his sharp gaze appraised passing women like a pawnbroker would with used goods. Confidence was bad. Discipline was bad. Purpose was bad. His gaze looked for something less secure, more dependent, more frivolous. An erratic step or a wandering gait. Not someone who knew what they wanted, for sure. For a moment, a self-depreciating smirk almost formed, before it was summarily crushed.
There, there she was. A new face, but her clothes were expensive. Her body language was closed off, but that was due to anxiety, not anything as thick as ‘hatred’. The suitcase she held was large. Looked heavy. That was his way in. Maybe a tourist? Maybe travelling? Maybe a runaway? Didn’t matter. He moved in. Quick, confident, quiet strides, exuding everything that she wasn’t. Holding out his umbrella and shielding her from the rain, the young man smiled, his tone chipper and bright. “Hey there, cutie, that looks heavy. Want some help?”
The girl (not very attractive, a bit on the thin side) started, her eyes (narrow, tareme, looked slow) widening before her arms wrapped around the case, pressing it against her chest. She shook her head frenetically, and looked as if she were about to bolt.
But she didn’t. She stopped moving. And that was good.
“Ah, don’t worry, if I had a choice, I'd be stealing your heart instead,” the long-haired youth continued, smoothly turning so he stood directly in front of her, “But it does look a little heavy, right? Must be quite tiring, especially in such weather. C’mon, it’s a bit noisy, but I know a nice place to take a break. Just thirty minutes, to dry off and to refresh yourself. Not bad, neh?”
His wink and his smile did little to soothe her nerves, her body (thin, fragile, glassy, definitely not the most attractive around) seeming to shrink in on itself.
Time to switch tactics.
“Hey, really,” he leaned in, eyes wider now, amber irises melting in concern and sympathy. “What’s wrong?” His hand reached out, caressing her cheek and then lifting her jaw (cold and clammy, wholly unpleasant). “Let’s get some proper shelter first, yeah? Won’t do if you caught a cold in this weather.”
He read it in her eyes. She was wavering.
“A beauty like you’s gotta take care of yourself better.”
Still, that didn’t mean idiots were all that uncommon, and a host wasn’t worth their paycheck if they couldn’t pick girls off the streets.
Dressed sharply in a three-piece suit, top two buttons undone and long, pale hair eloquently coifed with products more expensive than what some people spent on marriage rings, a fair youth struck a bold impression as he stood off to the side of the street. An umbrella was held in a gloved hand, while his sharp gaze appraised passing women like a pawnbroker would with used goods. Confidence was bad. Discipline was bad. Purpose was bad. His gaze looked for something less secure, more dependent, more frivolous. An erratic step or a wandering gait. Not someone who knew what they wanted, for sure. For a moment, a self-depreciating smirk almost formed, before it was summarily crushed.
There, there she was. A new face, but her clothes were expensive. Her body language was closed off, but that was due to anxiety, not anything as thick as ‘hatred’. The suitcase she held was large. Looked heavy. That was his way in. Maybe a tourist? Maybe travelling? Maybe a runaway? Didn’t matter. He moved in. Quick, confident, quiet strides, exuding everything that she wasn’t. Holding out his umbrella and shielding her from the rain, the young man smiled, his tone chipper and bright. “Hey there, cutie, that looks heavy. Want some help?”
The girl (not very attractive, a bit on the thin side) started, her eyes (narrow, tareme, looked slow) widening before her arms wrapped around the case, pressing it against her chest. She shook her head frenetically, and looked as if she were about to bolt.
But she didn’t. She stopped moving. And that was good.
“Ah, don’t worry, if I had a choice, I'd be stealing your heart instead,” the long-haired youth continued, smoothly turning so he stood directly in front of her, “But it does look a little heavy, right? Must be quite tiring, especially in such weather. C’mon, it’s a bit noisy, but I know a nice place to take a break. Just thirty minutes, to dry off and to refresh yourself. Not bad, neh?”
His wink and his smile did little to soothe her nerves, her body (thin, fragile, glassy, definitely not the most attractive around) seeming to shrink in on itself.
Time to switch tactics.
“Hey, really,” he leaned in, eyes wider now, amber irises melting in concern and sympathy. “What’s wrong?” His hand reached out, caressing her cheek and then lifting her jaw (cold and clammy, wholly unpleasant). “Let’s get some proper shelter first, yeah? Won’t do if you caught a cold in this weather.”
He read it in her eyes. She was wavering.
“A beauty like you’s gotta take care of yourself better.”
Southern District
“99 NEETs 99 NEETs but husltas aint one.
If you having work problems I feel bad for you son,
I got 99 NEETs but hustlas ain’t one.”
An outdated boombox rumbled on concrete slopes as disenfranchised youth with handkerchiefs over their mouths rattled their spray cans, creating monuments to their fleeting existence. Beanie cap boys flowed up and down, kicking up their skateboards and grinding rails. Mohawk punks passed around cigarettes, flicking burning stubs away. Bad weather didn’t stop misfits from congregating, and the skate park’s ramps were feeling lonely anyways. Aspiring delinquents, snotty-nosed brats and kids stuck in teenagers’ bodies hung around atop the rusted jungle gym, practically falling atop each other as they crammed their faces together in order to see licentious photos of fake women. Crude comments exchanged as separate gangs crossed paths. A fight broke out over a drink, acne-faced students bumping chests as their friends egged them on to throw a punch instead of pussying out. Love was made elsewhere, experience gained from pornography failing to manifest as actual competence when a new, rash couple fumbled their way through a make-out session.
It was no place for a child, and yet, there she stood still, sticking out like a sore thumb. A black backpack with a recorder case sticking out, a uniform from a school from the gentler, suburban side of Tenoroshi. She sat by herself on a bench stained by birdshit, her mahogany eyes staring vacantly at the sinful and debauched, smouldering quietly. And all the while, the rain continued to fall, dirtying the uniform that cost more than the rest of her wardrobe combined.
“But if you can’t get your point across,
Righteous men get crucified on the cross.
I’ve seen heaven to cell I ain’t dumb.
I got 99 NEETs but hustlas ain’t one.”
If you having work problems I feel bad for you son,
I got 99 NEETs but hustlas ain’t one.”
An outdated boombox rumbled on concrete slopes as disenfranchised youth with handkerchiefs over their mouths rattled their spray cans, creating monuments to their fleeting existence. Beanie cap boys flowed up and down, kicking up their skateboards and grinding rails. Mohawk punks passed around cigarettes, flicking burning stubs away. Bad weather didn’t stop misfits from congregating, and the skate park’s ramps were feeling lonely anyways. Aspiring delinquents, snotty-nosed brats and kids stuck in teenagers’ bodies hung around atop the rusted jungle gym, practically falling atop each other as they crammed their faces together in order to see licentious photos of fake women. Crude comments exchanged as separate gangs crossed paths. A fight broke out over a drink, acne-faced students bumping chests as their friends egged them on to throw a punch instead of pussying out. Love was made elsewhere, experience gained from pornography failing to manifest as actual competence when a new, rash couple fumbled their way through a make-out session.
It was no place for a child, and yet, there she stood still, sticking out like a sore thumb. A black backpack with a recorder case sticking out, a uniform from a school from the gentler, suburban side of Tenoroshi. She sat by herself on a bench stained by birdshit, her mahogany eyes staring vacantly at the sinful and debauched, smouldering quietly. And all the while, the rain continued to fall, dirtying the uniform that cost more than the rest of her wardrobe combined.
“But if you can’t get your point across,
Righteous men get crucified on the cross.
I’ve seen heaven to cell I ain’t dumb.
I got 99 NEETs but hustlas ain’t one.”
