for a town as horrific is this, it’s clear that prehevil was once a normal place; somewhere people would live and trade.

this beach was evidence of that. the smell of rotting fish, albeit disgusting, spoke to industry long forgotten. there were shacks along the pebbled beach, and far more bodies.

your eyes fall on that journalist. she’s still alive, even on day three of the festival? that’s impressive.

“i…i failed them…vulture…”

she’s rambling under her breath, that pilot jacket slipping down her shoulders as she stares blankly into the sea. she’s entranced, and you don’t know it, but soon to moonscorch.