Western District
It was a muggy day to be out in the interior of Tenoroshi. The cool sea breeze did not reach the Western District, and though the city’s weather often bounced between overcast clouds and fog, on that particular day, summer decided to let its presence known to all. The sky was blue, the sun was hot, and the cobblestone streets of the Western District radiated heat like an oven. Glass chimes remained silent, the wind still; white light suffused everything, reducing the world to a haze of flat colors. Narrower streets, at least, offered shade, and with air conditioning being non-existent beyond electric fans, the residents made do best they could. A cooler, filled to the brim with ice and carbonated drinks, sat beside an aging storeowner who fanned himself lazily. A woman in a faded kimono splashed well water against the steps of her soba restaurant, watching it evaporate within moments, a half-bemused, half-resigned smile on her face. An adolescent groaned as he flopped over the freezer, face mused against the cooled glass; his obligation was to sell his ice cream, not eat it.
For all the district’s preparations, however, few people were truly out and about around the sloping, winding streets of Western Tenoroshi. Lunch rush had ended an hour ago, and now, only slow eaters or masochistic joggers, as well as the occasional lost person, passed by. In this labyrinth of stark light and shadow, the only guarantee that wanderers had was tranquilities and oddities during their walk.
But exceptions showed themselves occasionally.
A girl, no more than ten years of age, ran out from one of the countless side streets, her wispy auburn hair sticking to the sides of her face. Panting heavily, she collided with that misfortunate wanderer and was knocked back onto her bottom. For a moment, she looked up, stunned, hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
Just a clumsy child, in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and shorts, with sandals that had rubbed the skin of her feet raw.
She snapped out of her state, her skin pale even when her blood beat hot. Picking herself back up shakily, the child gulped down more breaths and made to run again.
For all the district’s preparations, however, few people were truly out and about around the sloping, winding streets of Western Tenoroshi. Lunch rush had ended an hour ago, and now, only slow eaters or masochistic joggers, as well as the occasional lost person, passed by. In this labyrinth of stark light and shadow, the only guarantee that wanderers had was tranquilities and oddities during their walk.
But exceptions showed themselves occasionally.
A girl, no more than ten years of age, ran out from one of the countless side streets, her wispy auburn hair sticking to the sides of her face. Panting heavily, she collided with that misfortunate wanderer and was knocked back onto her bottom. For a moment, she looked up, stunned, hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
Just a clumsy child, in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and shorts, with sandals that had rubbed the skin of her feet raw.
She snapped out of her state, her skin pale even when her blood beat hot. Picking herself back up shakily, the child gulped down more breaths and made to run again.
Southern District
“Shit dude, that’s sick.”
“I know right? Look at all those…”
“Hahaha, ewww, it’s all purple and crap!”
It was a lazy Saturday in the Southern District. Vandalizing and such other petty crimes didn’t feel nearly so exciting during broad daylight, after all, and the weather was such that no one wanted to do anything more than lie around and talk shit. Graffiti may have coated every easily-accessible surface at this point, but that didn’t change the fundamental material that dominated the district. Concrete seared anything that rested long enough upon it; some particularly egg-abundant delinquents were almost successful in cooking a sunny-side up on one of the random stone blocks that jutted out from the roads. No live houses operated during such suboptimal times either, and only the most passionate skaters were tricking out at the parks, their shirts discarded in a steaming heap.
Wasn’t even good weather for a fight. Tempers may grow hot with the temperature, but when it’s this hot? Everyone just has a meltdown instead.
Still, it wasn’t all bad, especially not for three teenagers crouched around a cardboard box. With pocketknives and sticks, they picked and poked at a dead cat, its eyes popped out and its limbs twisted in funny ways. Parts of its fur were torn off to reveal pinkish skin beneath, while its belly was roughly sliced open, entrails spilling out. It was a macabre, horrible display, and already, flies orbited around the corpse, bouncing up and down as if to take little samples at a time.
Disgusting and disease-ridden, this entire affair.
But the three teens had never seen anything like this before, and they certainly wanted to see more of it now. One of them gulped. Nervous excitement caused his heart to race, but he wanted to be bolder than his buddies. Sticking his knife into the cut, he began to lift it up...
“I know right? Look at all those…”
“Hahaha, ewww, it’s all purple and crap!”
It was a lazy Saturday in the Southern District. Vandalizing and such other petty crimes didn’t feel nearly so exciting during broad daylight, after all, and the weather was such that no one wanted to do anything more than lie around and talk shit. Graffiti may have coated every easily-accessible surface at this point, but that didn’t change the fundamental material that dominated the district. Concrete seared anything that rested long enough upon it; some particularly egg-abundant delinquents were almost successful in cooking a sunny-side up on one of the random stone blocks that jutted out from the roads. No live houses operated during such suboptimal times either, and only the most passionate skaters were tricking out at the parks, their shirts discarded in a steaming heap.
Wasn’t even good weather for a fight. Tempers may grow hot with the temperature, but when it’s this hot? Everyone just has a meltdown instead.
Still, it wasn’t all bad, especially not for three teenagers crouched around a cardboard box. With pocketknives and sticks, they picked and poked at a dead cat, its eyes popped out and its limbs twisted in funny ways. Parts of its fur were torn off to reveal pinkish skin beneath, while its belly was roughly sliced open, entrails spilling out. It was a macabre, horrible display, and already, flies orbited around the corpse, bouncing up and down as if to take little samples at a time.
Disgusting and disease-ridden, this entire affair.
But the three teens had never seen anything like this before, and they certainly wanted to see more of it now. One of them gulped. Nervous excitement caused his heart to race, but he wanted to be bolder than his buddies. Sticking his knife into the cut, he began to lift it up...
Eastern District
By the sea, the weather was refreshing, the spray of the waves and the salty breeze washing over all the attendants of the Fisherman’s Market. One of the few regular ‘festivities’ in Tenoroshi, the market was always popular with locals. Fresh seafood helped, and so did the pop-up eateries that ringed the wharf too. Though only professionals dared step into the ring, the auctions held for fish of particularly impressive sizes also drew curious onlookers: Sakamoto, the auctioneer, was always a theatrical bastard, and used his 3-dan in kendo to great effect, cleaving bluefin tuna with one stroke of his katana.
For those less interested in such displays of culinary skill, there was still plenty to enjoy. Haggling was allowed, even encouraged, and with enough persuasive ability, one could walk away with enough to last for a full week, after only spending half of their budget. Samples were plentiful, so long as you didn’t mind slowly coating your tongue with fish blood over time. But most importantly, there was the eyecandy. The rippling muscles of the crabbers, trained from hoisting up steel cages over and over. The gleaming skin of the divers, sparkling as brightly as the treasures of the ocean floor. And of course, the star of the market, the man who won Mr. Fisherman seven consecutive times: Captain Belo himself.
Gloriously, gratuitously half-naked, the Somalian immigrant with traps like mountains and quads like armor called out in his lilting, musical Japanese again, his wares just as good as his physique. Writhing, fatty eels by the buckets. Squid tender and pale. Mackerels so fresh that they may have just been snatched out from the ocean minutes prior. With a smile as bright as the sun reflecting off his bald head, he continued his business in a flurry of activity.
Some said that he was a retired mercenary with 500 confirmed kills. Others said that he was the legendary porn star who completed the 100-woman challenge with time to spare. Still more believed him to be the grain of truth behind the lies of the Nigerian Prince. So many rumors, so many fabrications, and yet, there was one truth that outshone them all.
He never had fish leftover after 2:30.
For those less interested in such displays of culinary skill, there was still plenty to enjoy. Haggling was allowed, even encouraged, and with enough persuasive ability, one could walk away with enough to last for a full week, after only spending half of their budget. Samples were plentiful, so long as you didn’t mind slowly coating your tongue with fish blood over time. But most importantly, there was the eyecandy. The rippling muscles of the crabbers, trained from hoisting up steel cages over and over. The gleaming skin of the divers, sparkling as brightly as the treasures of the ocean floor. And of course, the star of the market, the man who won Mr. Fisherman seven consecutive times: Captain Belo himself.
Gloriously, gratuitously half-naked, the Somalian immigrant with traps like mountains and quads like armor called out in his lilting, musical Japanese again, his wares just as good as his physique. Writhing, fatty eels by the buckets. Squid tender and pale. Mackerels so fresh that they may have just been snatched out from the ocean minutes prior. With a smile as bright as the sun reflecting off his bald head, he continued his business in a flurry of activity.
Some said that he was a retired mercenary with 500 confirmed kills. Others said that he was the legendary porn star who completed the 100-woman challenge with time to spare. Still more believed him to be the grain of truth behind the lies of the Nigerian Prince. So many rumors, so many fabrications, and yet, there was one truth that outshone them all.
He never had fish leftover after 2:30.
Central District
Saturday was not Sunday.
Plenty still worked.
But they could look forward to Sunday.
Outside, you see a shadow.
It is a big shadow.
A great shadow.
A shadow of a hand.
You look up.
There is a hand in the air.
Large enough to span the office building below it.
It pressed down.
It flattened the building.
No noise, no dust, no notice.
Only an empty lot remained.
You blink. You squint. You question.
Had that always been there?
Around you, bystanders walk on.
Plenty still worked.
But they could look forward to Sunday.
Outside, you see a shadow.
It is a big shadow.
A great shadow.
A shadow of a hand.
You look up.
There is a hand in the air.
Large enough to span the office building below it.
It pressed down.
It flattened the building.
No noise, no dust, no notice.
Only an empty lot remained.
You blink. You squint. You question.
Had that always been there?
Around you, bystanders walk on.
June 14 2025
Time: 2PMWeather: Scorching
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Arc 1: Take Me Out To Heaven
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