Who Dines in Hell’s Kitchen?
Depthless rationale asservates that perfect remedies cure broken streets; we now know this is not the case. Childhood dreams decay as the molten sidewalks are treated with the medicine of crime and death. Modest criminals lurk the night alleys of Civic City with no remorse, and certainly no fear in their hearts. The darkened sky does not break for a shimmer of crescent moonlight -- the black smog chokes the vault of heavens, but that is no destination of Civic City. A city that needs salvation; a liberator, a guardian. The boroughs are governed by lawlessness, and can only be cleaned up by the destructors that are subjected to its own perversion. The fabric of Civic’s society is being ripped from its seams with the wrath of a thousand suicides. There are four boroughs in Civic City, each with their own pulse, infecting and permeating corruption throughout its territories without regard.
Ellesmere, in East Civic, is the rich borough, not to be confused with class. Chain-smoking gamblers with family wealth populate Ellesmere with vast mansions which do not match the decor of filth-stricken streets.
The northernmost borough, Reigate, is fraught with hoodlums, muggers, and alley cats. It is the poorest borough, and also is the most dangerous -- people from other boroughs do not venture into Reigate, unless they were headed to the Ware Bay Bridge headed out of the city.
Haydon Heights, in South Civic, is where all the factions of Civic City reside. The three most prominent factions - the Blueprints, Circle of Thorns, and Renegades - all run blocks in Haydon Heights that nobody walks except their own members.
Finally, Hell’s Kitchen. Nobody leaves Hell’s Kitchen.
Hell’s Kitchen was comprised of soundless streets chiseled by imprints of fallen mobsters. Violence does not spare tears or drops of blood, and that is why the streets are dyed sanguine. Cellar doors with broken Master Locks are microcosmic of the fragmented pieces of Civic’s legislation. General Industry has long since gone, and the Ellesmerers play political charades in a carefully staged arcadia nescient of the manorial theme park that has become Civic City.
The corner of 6th and Hawthorne, a derelict intersection in Hell’s Kitchen, was occupied by a crippling beige office building. On the twelfth floor of this building was an atelier with a blue door and a peephole. The tenant never was late on his rent payment; he was unassuming, perhaps like a candy cane on Christmas morning.
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