(no subject)
Shiny buildings! Lush green parks! Sharp-dressed folk striding up and down the sidewalks with purpose and vigor! All of these descriptions would fit somewhere that isn't the Den.
To say that the Den was rustic would be doing authentic examples of rusticism a disservice. Many towns did not reach their dilapidated state because of the ravages of war, but rather the ravages of time. The town where the Den now stood had not been flattened by atomic bombs, but by looking at it, perhaps that would have been doing it a favor.
Some of the aging pre-war buildings have had whatever maintenance was necessary to keep the number of gaping holes in the roofs and walls to a minimum, leading to a sort of post-post-post-modern neo-retro-classical architectural style. Civic beautification is not a high priority, nor is filling in all the potholes.
There's no grass to mow, yesterdays junk is today's half-buried tetanus hazards, and plumbing is of the outdoor variety exemplified by the outhouse that for Sativa serves as a door to and from Milliways.
"This way," She tells her guest, pointing to crumbling road alongside the seedy bar (The Hole isn't just a clever name) they are standing behind. "The junkyard's just beyond the far end of the street. Watch your step."
That's no so much a warning about what you do here, as it is to actually make sure you don't put your foot in anything unpleasant.
To say that the Den was rustic would be doing authentic examples of rusticism a disservice. Many towns did not reach their dilapidated state because of the ravages of war, but rather the ravages of time. The town where the Den now stood had not been flattened by atomic bombs, but by looking at it, perhaps that would have been doing it a favor.
Some of the aging pre-war buildings have had whatever maintenance was necessary to keep the number of gaping holes in the roofs and walls to a minimum, leading to a sort of post-post-post-modern neo-retro-classical architectural style. Civic beautification is not a high priority, nor is filling in all the potholes.
There's no grass to mow, yesterdays junk is today's half-buried tetanus hazards, and plumbing is of the outdoor variety exemplified by the outhouse that for Sativa serves as a door to and from Milliways.
"This way," She tells her guest, pointing to crumbling road alongside the seedy bar (The Hole isn't just a clever name) they are standing behind. "The junkyard's just beyond the far end of the street. Watch your step."
That's no so much a warning about what you do here, as it is to actually make sure you don't put your foot in anything unpleasant.