like a happy postcard
in the re-writing of Rhythm i was forced to compose the introduction to Monterrey that i had been putting off for so long. people in my writing workshop complained that they had no idea about the setting, and why Burr had a sword and Reynard had piercings. and sold pills. and why the civil war was CENTURIES before. fucking shit.
it's terribly confusing, i fear. i don't write.
so, here it is. welcome to Monterrey, this is the definitive overview. i think maybe some of you wanted this.
The vast metropolitan called Monterrey crept over the mountains and the high rock cliffs bordering a deep bay.
Halifax survived within a five-mile radius, the Rip District. Venturing beyond that was like trusting a maddened dog. It was as if the streets themselves were carnivorous. Strays were never seen again after they took a reckless route, the last misstep they would ever take.
It was near impossible to journey very far beyond city limits on the fuel rations established by the regime. Every civilian was restricted to two gallons of gasoline a month. Because of this, automobiles were infrequently used, and lesser controlled means of transport arose. Countless miles of labyrinthine channels snaked under the city like a skeleton; these were the corridors of numerous subterranean trains. They were usually in some form of working order, though the hundreds of passengers that relied on them daily were taking their chances. These trains recurrently collided head-on, and caused violent tremors that shook the streets. Disasters were an everyday plague in Monterrey.
Some notorious clans rode specially bred horses, twice the size of a grown man, and others operated motorized scooters that drove on less fuel. Monterrey for the most part was a walking city or, more appropriately, a running city. The only people that walked were heavily armed, with swords or flintlock pistols or machine guns or whatever other murderous contrivance unearthed in the rubble of derelict buildings or brought into light from shadowed attics.
Everyone knew that when there were planes in the sky, there was a war waging somewhere. Halifax had never met someone who remembered the days of planes unrestricted to non-militants, and she guessed that very few were left.
The luckless victims of this concrete jungle, of the unjust street law, and of the traitors that preyed on their own kind had found that the best way to ward off evil was to become monsters themselves.
it's terribly confusing, i fear. i don't write.
so, here it is. welcome to Monterrey, this is the definitive overview. i think maybe some of you wanted this.
The vast metropolitan called Monterrey crept over the mountains and the high rock cliffs bordering a deep bay.
Halifax survived within a five-mile radius, the Rip District. Venturing beyond that was like trusting a maddened dog. It was as if the streets themselves were carnivorous. Strays were never seen again after they took a reckless route, the last misstep they would ever take.
It was near impossible to journey very far beyond city limits on the fuel rations established by the regime. Every civilian was restricted to two gallons of gasoline a month. Because of this, automobiles were infrequently used, and lesser controlled means of transport arose. Countless miles of labyrinthine channels snaked under the city like a skeleton; these were the corridors of numerous subterranean trains. They were usually in some form of working order, though the hundreds of passengers that relied on them daily were taking their chances. These trains recurrently collided head-on, and caused violent tremors that shook the streets. Disasters were an everyday plague in Monterrey.
Some notorious clans rode specially bred horses, twice the size of a grown man, and others operated motorized scooters that drove on less fuel. Monterrey for the most part was a walking city or, more appropriately, a running city. The only people that walked were heavily armed, with swords or flintlock pistols or machine guns or whatever other murderous contrivance unearthed in the rubble of derelict buildings or brought into light from shadowed attics.
Everyone knew that when there were planes in the sky, there was a war waging somewhere. Halifax had never met someone who remembered the days of planes unrestricted to non-militants, and she guessed that very few were left.
The luckless victims of this concrete jungle, of the unjust street law, and of the traitors that preyed on their own kind had found that the best way to ward off evil was to become monsters themselves.