Project: Title Pending
The city. Tall and soot-cloaked, a glorifying testament to the new age of construction and productivity.
Chimneys fumigate, bells ring, clocks turn and the city runs on profit day after day. With diseases growing ever more rampant, skin conditions are common, along with viruses that affect the mind, making people in the slums think and feel in queer ways.
"It's everyman for himself in the city" they say. A maxim closely regarded by the male demographic who wish to survive the week. Women still hold onto some form of union and solidarity, they congregate together in darkness and in shadows. In brothels and in tea rooms, behind closed doors. They are the only force of organized power left that could dream of challenging the ever maddening enforcers of "modernization".
It was the III-rd of April, the year X. Like the smog and fumes, affluenza was growing ever more thick and omniscient. This became clearest when at the top of the tallest tower, a secretary was found dead. A thick ice-axe was lodged perfectly between her eyes, an act of violence unheard of from the top, the top never committed violence directly.
There were no suspicions, it was the mayor himself who committed the act. There were only desperate and growing theories of denial circulating throughout the media and security forces. Stories of crude fabrication fluttered like wildfire throughout the lower levels of the tower. It was the ultimate Catch 22. No one could be seen to lie, yet no one could be seen to be accusing the Mayor of murder. Both offenses were heresy of the worst kind.
The town's main newspaper 'The Herald' had its journalists and legal staff working around the clock. It seemed that it wouldn't be possible to deny the murder, but it would be possible to reduce the accusers to a minimum amount of the workload as possible. The head-chief of the inspector police force and Herald editor had come to a compromise. They would work together to reduce the death toll and keep themselves clean. It came down to two names, one journalist and one detective; a fair trade off between the two forces.
"Poor buggers," the Head-chief muttered, "I'd hate to be in their shoes..."
Chimneys fumigate, bells ring, clocks turn and the city runs on profit day after day. With diseases growing ever more rampant, skin conditions are common, along with viruses that affect the mind, making people in the slums think and feel in queer ways.
"It's everyman for himself in the city" they say. A maxim closely regarded by the male demographic who wish to survive the week. Women still hold onto some form of union and solidarity, they congregate together in darkness and in shadows. In brothels and in tea rooms, behind closed doors. They are the only force of organized power left that could dream of challenging the ever maddening enforcers of "modernization".
It was the III-rd of April, the year X. Like the smog and fumes, affluenza was growing ever more thick and omniscient. This became clearest when at the top of the tallest tower, a secretary was found dead. A thick ice-axe was lodged perfectly between her eyes, an act of violence unheard of from the top, the top never committed violence directly.
There were no suspicions, it was the mayor himself who committed the act. There were only desperate and growing theories of denial circulating throughout the media and security forces. Stories of crude fabrication fluttered like wildfire throughout the lower levels of the tower. It was the ultimate Catch 22. No one could be seen to lie, yet no one could be seen to be accusing the Mayor of murder. Both offenses were heresy of the worst kind.
The town's main newspaper 'The Herald' had its journalists and legal staff working around the clock. It seemed that it wouldn't be possible to deny the murder, but it would be possible to reduce the accusers to a minimum amount of the workload as possible. The head-chief of the inspector police force and Herald editor had come to a compromise. They would work together to reduce the death toll and keep themselves clean. It came down to two names, one journalist and one detective; a fair trade off between the two forces.
"Poor buggers," the Head-chief muttered, "I'd hate to be in their shoes..."
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- ID: 62990
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