Brooklyn
Every street in New York bore the scars of the Civil War, some burnt out remnants of tanks and civilian vehicles still abandoned on the sides of roads or embedded in buildings; just waiting for the official salvage crews to show up and take away the carcasses. Anything of value or use from the wreckage had long since been taken and no police force was brave enough to stop a few petty crimes in Brooklyn now; the improvement of recent decades had been slashed by the ongoing conflict between Unnaturals and the government. Now, at least, the conflict had been forced underground with the military and National Guard deployed alongside normal forces. Still, Brooklyn was a good place to disappear with enough gangs and cartels based in the area to scare off any pursuers.
An abandoned, heavily damaged apartment block on the edge of the intensely criminal areas goes unnoticed; just another victim of the Civil War with too much damage for the building to be occupied by anyone but squatters. It was the kind of place that was so often inhabited by small groups of the homeless or refugees that the police never paid the place any attention; once every few months they might have entered to throw out those inside just to show they were still doing their jobs if it were not for the more pressing matters at hand. Hundreds of buildings had suffered similar fates and no one had the time or compulsion to move a few homeless out of a decrepit building so that they could move into the one next to it or return in a few days' time.
This building has become a place for fugitive Unnaturals to gather and form groups for safety. The area is too dangerous for the government to intervene and is just out of reach of the larger crime cartels making it a safe haven. Sympathisers across the country direct Unnaturals on the run here in the hope that they will join others and evade both extremes of the conflict.
Ragnarson's House, White Plains. 07:00
It was still dark outside, although that was hardly surprising for late Autumn. Street lamps cast their eerie orange glow onto the silent neighbourhood; those who worked in the city had already left in a vain attempt to avoid rush hour traffic or the crush on the train. One of the detached houses had a single light on downstairs while many others remained dark; children were not awake yet unless they too had to travel into the city; as a blond young man sat at granite breakfast bar. A laptop and a few files were slightly to his right, within easy reach, while his simple breakfast of toast and a mug of tea was directly before him.
It still felt odd to Julius; sitting in his father's house with no one but himself there. Allister had gone to Britain as an 'envoy' to represent the American Empowered but they were so split into factions she could hardly speak for anyone now. The British Guardians, an organised and accepted military division made up entirely of Empowered, had helped them during the Civil War but had been wisely told to stay out of the conflict that was spreading across the US and much of the world. Julius still tried, with dwindling hope, to influence the current administration to create a dialogue with other Empowered leaders but he could sense the tide had long since turned against them.
In fact, thanks to an Empowered ally, he knew that they were coming for him that day. Most would not be so lucky to have warning. He finished his meal and washed the dishes up, wondering when he could hope to return to the house; if there was anything to return to at the rate things were spiraling out of control; before shrugging on a long winter great coat and swinging the now packed laptop bag with its files and some clothing, onto his shoulder and exiting the house. There was a place he knew Empowered tended to gather and he began the journey into the city.
Barely twenty minutes after he had left the military broke into his house to find no trace of him at all. The chase was on.
Every street in New York bore the scars of the Civil War, some burnt out remnants of tanks and civilian vehicles still abandoned on the sides of roads or embedded in buildings; just waiting for the official salvage crews to show up and take away the carcasses. Anything of value or use from the wreckage had long since been taken and no police force was brave enough to stop a few petty crimes in Brooklyn now; the improvement of recent decades had been slashed by the ongoing conflict between Unnaturals and the government. Now, at least, the conflict had been forced underground with the military and National Guard deployed alongside normal forces. Still, Brooklyn was a good place to disappear with enough gangs and cartels based in the area to scare off any pursuers.
An abandoned, heavily damaged apartment block on the edge of the intensely criminal areas goes unnoticed; just another victim of the Civil War with too much damage for the building to be occupied by anyone but squatters. It was the kind of place that was so often inhabited by small groups of the homeless or refugees that the police never paid the place any attention; once every few months they might have entered to throw out those inside just to show they were still doing their jobs if it were not for the more pressing matters at hand. Hundreds of buildings had suffered similar fates and no one had the time or compulsion to move a few homeless out of a decrepit building so that they could move into the one next to it or return in a few days' time.
This building has become a place for fugitive Unnaturals to gather and form groups for safety. The area is too dangerous for the government to intervene and is just out of reach of the larger crime cartels making it a safe haven. Sympathisers across the country direct Unnaturals on the run here in the hope that they will join others and evade both extremes of the conflict.
Ragnarson's House, White Plains. 07:00
It was still dark outside, although that was hardly surprising for late Autumn. Street lamps cast their eerie orange glow onto the silent neighbourhood; those who worked in the city had already left in a vain attempt to avoid rush hour traffic or the crush on the train. One of the detached houses had a single light on downstairs while many others remained dark; children were not awake yet unless they too had to travel into the city; as a blond young man sat at granite breakfast bar. A laptop and a few files were slightly to his right, within easy reach, while his simple breakfast of toast and a mug of tea was directly before him.
It still felt odd to Julius; sitting in his father's house with no one but himself there. Allister had gone to Britain as an 'envoy' to represent the American Empowered but they were so split into factions she could hardly speak for anyone now. The British Guardians, an organised and accepted military division made up entirely of Empowered, had helped them during the Civil War but had been wisely told to stay out of the conflict that was spreading across the US and much of the world. Julius still tried, with dwindling hope, to influence the current administration to create a dialogue with other Empowered leaders but he could sense the tide had long since turned against them.
In fact, thanks to an Empowered ally, he knew that they were coming for him that day. Most would not be so lucky to have warning. He finished his meal and washed the dishes up, wondering when he could hope to return to the house; if there was anything to return to at the rate things were spiraling out of control; before shrugging on a long winter great coat and swinging the now packed laptop bag with its files and some clothing, onto his shoulder and exiting the house. There was a place he knew Empowered tended to gather and he began the journey into the city.
Barely twenty minutes after he had left the military broke into his house to find no trace of him at all. The chase was on.
