Outside East Moors Penitentiary the snow fell like a thousand dying birds, inside the inmates were felled with just as much grace. Blood steamed through the air, leaving vapour trails as every convicted man breathed his last and passed away with a smile upon his face, blissful in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to face whatever now lurked within every snowstorm.
The sun hadn't been clearly sighted in almost thirty years - an entire generation had been born and grown without feeling any warmth but the meagre fires scraped up by the ruling brutes whose wealth came from their willingness to end any suffering they saw fit to.
Everywhere you went, frozen corpses littered nearly every surface, trapped eternally however they'd tried to escape. On the ground level of the Hub - humanities' precious last stand against the world that created them - the dead were left as monuments to failure.
From Jane who'd tried to punch through a wall and hide in the insulation (gotten her fist stuck and perished in less than an hour, poor dear) to Rashid whose body was still crouched over his younger sisters (he kept them alive for eighteen days of stormy weather but had inadvertently trapped them and doomed them to a much slower demise than standard exposure to the elements).
Every single floor of the Hub was scattered with the frozen dead, constant reminders that our lives hung upon a thin line, a tightrope whose walker is barely upright at the best of times. Each tilt of their arms, each quivering limb is another life lost to a cowardly summer.
The sun hadn't been clearly sighted in almost thirty years - an entire generation had been born and grown without feeling any warmth but the meagre fires scraped up by the ruling brutes whose wealth came from their willingness to end any suffering they saw fit to.
Everywhere you went, frozen corpses littered nearly every surface, trapped eternally however they'd tried to escape. On the ground level of the Hub - humanities' precious last stand against the world that created them - the dead were left as monuments to failure.
From Jane who'd tried to punch through a wall and hide in the insulation (gotten her fist stuck and perished in less than an hour, poor dear) to Rashid whose body was still crouched over his younger sisters (he kept them alive for eighteen days of stormy weather but had inadvertently trapped them and doomed them to a much slower demise than standard exposure to the elements).
Every single floor of the Hub was scattered with the frozen dead, constant reminders that our lives hung upon a thin line, a tightrope whose walker is barely upright at the best of times. Each tilt of their arms, each quivering limb is another life lost to a cowardly summer.
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