Dystopia

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The Missing

The green world of Utopia has seen its End. While its geography remains (roughly) the same, its people and nations of changed dramatically during the world's end. Politically, socially-- it is a new world. Perhaps for the better, perhaps for the worse . . .

The Missing

Postby Nayt on Wed Jun 22, 2011 12:18 pm

Continued from The Briefing.




Serge Soflan, 17. Tall boy, bushy haired. Peter Kersi, 15. Short boy, pudgy, bushy haired. Seen on the corner of twelfth and bouleau at 2:30 PM, Sunday afternoon. Were last seen wearing their school uniforms -- navy blue sweaters and black slacks.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, most factories were letting out their employees for lunch. Getting to the corner of twelfth and bouleau -- which was in itself about fourteen blocks north of the station -- was actually a bit difficult, if only for the number of men on the streets, walking back to their homes to meet with their families for the two hours of time they were allotted, often the most time they were given. Most of these men walked quickly, hasty to get back to their families. All of them were dressed in warm drab to shield them from the autumn chill, and somewhere, at least two of these men were missing their sons.

Twelfth and Bourleau was fairly close to the northern city limits, little more than a few blocks away from the thick walls that guarded the city -- for no apparent reason, most of Espior's citizens felt, but they were comforting structures, nonetheless. Like a cold, stony embrace.

On the named corner stood the beginnings of a vista estate, a series of interconnected manors that reached from one side of the block to the other. On the other side of the street, there was a small cafe. Up further north, the cut-off point of the walls were clearly visible, with a pair of run-off alleys on either side of the street nearby the walls.

It was almost noon by the time the inspectors arrived.
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Re: The Missing

Postby Paroxysm on Tue Jul 12, 2011 11:58 pm

Something resembling a low growl rumbled its way from just within Edgar Kreuz's throat. Age was catching up to him, after all, and even the slightest chill seemed to cut not just through him, but also through his thick, heavy jacket; he was going to be in a sour mood until he got in front of a fire.

Alas, there was work to do first . . .

“Lots of people about,” Edgar remarked as he bit down on his (now) unlit pipe.

Luckily, crowds had never really bothered him and he was not above guiding people around him with a nudge of his shoulder, hand, or, in the worse of cases, a fierce look and snarl. He had always been told he had exemplary people skills.

“Where do you want t’ start?”

There were a few things Edgar wanted to do, but he was in no major hurry and they still had a while yet before the crowd shifted in demographic.
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