Slumbering city Brash cries,
Eternity calls.
The Lost Spiral is a rocky and arid country, dry and devoid of the beautiful landscapes that populate other nations. Its expansive scrublands a mess of ruined hovels, failed towns, ugly industrial centres and cracked stretching roads, all filled with scavengers picking the bones of the dead. Only in the cities can you find a sense of order, maintained by an extreme system of might makes right; nothing is technically illegal in the Lost Spiral and no one has rights, those with power can do what they like as long as they don’t interfere with the interests of the state itself, the supreme power. The religious police are the ruthless enforcers of that system, brutally executing or torturing those who dare to cross the government.
The diplomatic quarter is a walled off section of the capital, Dakhla, separated from the rest of the city, hosting embassies from many nations and encompassing plush residential districts with a wide range of amenities covering everything one could possibly need. For those who live and work in the diplomatic quarter, life is very good. They are sheltered from the worst aspects of Spiralian society not only by their walls and guards but by a direct decree from the Council and they have access to all the best aspects such as the finest state brothels, theatres, clubs and produce including foods and recreational consumables.
Expatriates who aren’t fortunate enough to live or work in the diplomatic quarter are exposed to the trials of Spiralian culture and forced to adapt to survive, often attaching themselves to state organisations and other powerful individuals or organisations for protection. Even with said protection, those that venture from the relative safety of the city’s confines are rarely seen again.
It is another muggy night with warm winds sweeping in from the east, clean of the corrupting, choking pollution that usually enshrouds the city and carrying with them scents not usually of the city, burnt wood, flowers and a tang of sweet rot. A full moon, seemingly larger and closer than usual, bathes the urban jungle in its pale, white glow, outlining skyscrapers and tower blocks in sharp definition. Streets quiet and empty yet lit with yellow pockets of light from overhead lamps. A solitary car glides through the pools of luminance, the pale pink of its body revealed and then plunged into blanketing darkness again and again in an endless cycle. Despite the rarity of the event and no prior forecasts for rain, water begins to pour from the sky in sheets, splattering against the buildings, on the ground and plinking on the roof of the pink car. Dirt and dust washed away, swallowed down into the yawning black maws of drains that line the roads.
It is three in the morning.
The phones of every registered expatriate ring and continue to ring until answered. Caller ID displays as ‘EAS’, the local government’s Emergency Alert System. When answered, a recorded female voice plays, slowly repeating the following message for clarity.
This is an Emergency Alert System Message.
The Council has declared a state of emergency in Dakhla.
We advise all foreigners to return to their respective embassies.
Further information will follow as and when it is known.
This is an Emergency Alert System Message.