[CoH] Faces of the City
Mar. 13th, 2006 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cmdr_zoomMore stuff that'll probably only make sense to CoH players, sorry.
[b]1. KINGS ROW[/b]
Like a gargoyle, he perches on the 55th floor cornice of the Gibson Building and looks out over the Row. His craggy, homely face is mostly shrouded by an old scarf and a fedora, a style favored by the original "mystery men" back in the days when it was not always easy to tell them from the criminals they fought - especially in the case of one Marcus Cole, now the most famous of them all.
He crouches on one knee, an arm laid across the other, regarding the brownstones and streets much as an aging prizefighter might gaze at his own reflection. He is large and powerfully built, but the weariness of years hangs upon him, bowing that broad back, weighing upon his big heart.
It saddens him that he can't offer a better future to the families who make their homes here, most of them just struggling to get through another month, another paycheck. It gnaws at him that so many don't even have jobs or homes or hope. It hurts him that the streets aren't safe, that people here must walk carefully by day and barricade themselves in their homes by night, living in fear of those who prey upon the weak and innocent.
He is beset on all sides. Punks in masks, roaming in packs like wild dogs. Mechanical puppets, a metal infection. Magicians on the rooftops, taking lives. Something strange and unclean, coming up from the sewers.
His best days are behind him. The Art Deco spires of High Park are monuments to that achingly brief glory, when the factories of the Row hummed around the clock (lit by that novelty of the age, the electric lamp) and a good day's work meant a good day's pay, when the well-to-do and office workers alike took apartments here for a short train ride to Steel Canyon, when prosperity for everyone seemed just around the corner. Then the bottom fell out, taking with it the dreams of a generation. Still the grand hotels and apartment buildings remain, their shining facades tarnished, inhabited by those who can't or won't leave for someplace better. Many are nearly as old as their rent-controlled residences. Each year there are fewer.
He does not look at the towers; he doesn't need to. Instead, he peers through the gathering twilight to the south, where Police Headquarters stands in the center of Freedom Plaza, a mighty fortress of justice. It was built in the giddy postwar years - they had to knock down the old station house, such a shame but that's the price of progress - and there was some hope that it might be a new beginning for the Row, but the money dried up right after the last of the concrete did. Few would care to admit (on the record) that it is an outpost in hostile territory, or just how closely the enemy presses on its walls.
Heroes come through here now and then, mostly young bucks on their way up; they never stay long. People in the Row take care of each other because no one else will.
To the west are the garment works that gave this part of the city its name. For a long time, that was the Row's only remaining industry (besides crime), but twenty years ago, the owners found that domestic sweatshops couldn't compete with foreign sweatshops and finally closed the place down. People were actually sorry to see them go; as awful as it was, it was still a job. Now the long buildings are home to a series of illegal enterprises. For every one that's raided and cleaned out, another sets up shop. Cleaning up the garment works is like rolling a boulder up a hill, or holding back the tide with a broom - both fine metaphors for life in the Row.
His scowl deepens as he looks to the east. Crey Industries spared no expense on their Kings Row facility; it's fifty stories tall and covers four city blocks. For all that size, it has few windows. Most disturbing of all, he hasn't been able to get inside. No door in the Row should be barred to him, but Crey's are.
So even though Crey is now the biggest employer around here, he doesn't like them, and he doesn't trust them. He'll take their money - what choice does he have? - but if they think it entitles them to anything more than an honest day's work...
A scream wafts faintly up to him from the street, interrupting his dark thoughts. He almost ignores it. [i]Lots of people got it tough in the Row. They all gotta get by as best they can.
The Row takes care of its own.[/i]
With a sigh and a nod, he acknowledges his duty. He does not leap from the ledge, to fall or to fly, but simply ceases to be there. In moments he is at the side of someone who needs help, doing what he can, wishing he could do more.
[i]We're all in this together.[/i]
[b]2. GALAXY CITY[/b]
The sun is shining as he walks along Orion Beltway, buoyed by the current of the crowd. He stops in front of the old Majestic theatre; "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is playing. He buys a ticket, goes inside, sits down. The movie's already started, the auditorium almost empty for the matinee.
Up on the big screen, Audrey Hepburn banters coyly with a young George Peppard. Finally she ushers him out of her jet-set apartment and turns to the camera with a twinkling smile. "Hello, King."
He sits up a little straighter in his seat. "Hey, doll-face. How ya doin'?"
"Actually, I'm quite cross with you. We're neighbors, yet you don't come to see me nearly as often as I'd like." Hepburn's pout becomes an impish grin. "But I'll forgive you if you take me dancing."
He chuckles. "You know I'm not much for dancin'."
"I happen to know you were quite good at it once," she declares loftily.
"I'd just step on your dainty toes."
"I'm used to having my toes stepped on. Maybe you'd rather go to the arena, watch the fights? Oh!" She claps as a thought occurs to her, her face lighting up with it. "We could go for a walk in the park. It's so empty now that the heroes have moved on, but it's still beautiful. We could pretend we're a young couple in love..."
He chuckles again, but there's an edge of worry to it. "Girl, what's gotten into you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Wonderful!" She fidgets on the edge of the sofa. "I suppose I'm just a bit lonely. I miss the heroes, and Perez... Perez and I used to talk all the time, about everything, but I haven't heard from her in so long. And you, well..." She looks up from her hand-wringing with an apologetic smile.
"You know I've got people of my own to look after," he murmurs gently.
"I know. I do." She turns her eyes down and her face aside, a wistful profile. "I just miss how things used to be."
He nods. "We all do, sweetheart." As the melancholy silence stretches, he coughs. "Listen. Let's do it. Let's go cut a rug, just like you said."
"Really?" She's all smiles again. "Oh, thank you, King! I'd love that." Hepburn bounces up from the sofa and starts toward the bedroom, off-screen. "I'll meet you outside in five minutes."
Smiling under his scarf, he stands and walks out of the theater, letting the movie continue without him. The fedora shades his eyes against the bright sun. It's a golden afternoon on the Beltway, and he takes in the sights while he waits.
He could be jealous of Galaxy, with her busy streets and clean storefronts and new stadium and green parkland and bustling warehouse district, better-favored in practically every way. It would be easy... if he didn't know her.
There's a tug at his elbow. The young woman standing there, wearing a coat and heels and a pixie smile, isn't Audrey Hepburn - but to his eyes, she's even prettier. He grins and puffs up a bit, gallantly offering his arm. She graciously takes it, and together they walk away as the sun dips low over the western skyline and the shadows lengthen.
---
I have other chapters planned/partly imagined; next will be Atlas Park/City Hall, then Perez, Steel Canyon, and Skyway, then Independence Port. If the Row gets that far.
Comments, suggestions? Is the very idea of such a series too presumptuous? Please let me know what you think.
[b]1. KINGS ROW[/b]
Like a gargoyle, he perches on the 55th floor cornice of the Gibson Building and looks out over the Row. His craggy, homely face is mostly shrouded by an old scarf and a fedora, a style favored by the original "mystery men" back in the days when it was not always easy to tell them from the criminals they fought - especially in the case of one Marcus Cole, now the most famous of them all.
He crouches on one knee, an arm laid across the other, regarding the brownstones and streets much as an aging prizefighter might gaze at his own reflection. He is large and powerfully built, but the weariness of years hangs upon him, bowing that broad back, weighing upon his big heart.
It saddens him that he can't offer a better future to the families who make their homes here, most of them just struggling to get through another month, another paycheck. It gnaws at him that so many don't even have jobs or homes or hope. It hurts him that the streets aren't safe, that people here must walk carefully by day and barricade themselves in their homes by night, living in fear of those who prey upon the weak and innocent.
He is beset on all sides. Punks in masks, roaming in packs like wild dogs. Mechanical puppets, a metal infection. Magicians on the rooftops, taking lives. Something strange and unclean, coming up from the sewers.
His best days are behind him. The Art Deco spires of High Park are monuments to that achingly brief glory, when the factories of the Row hummed around the clock (lit by that novelty of the age, the electric lamp) and a good day's work meant a good day's pay, when the well-to-do and office workers alike took apartments here for a short train ride to Steel Canyon, when prosperity for everyone seemed just around the corner. Then the bottom fell out, taking with it the dreams of a generation. Still the grand hotels and apartment buildings remain, their shining facades tarnished, inhabited by those who can't or won't leave for someplace better. Many are nearly as old as their rent-controlled residences. Each year there are fewer.
He does not look at the towers; he doesn't need to. Instead, he peers through the gathering twilight to the south, where Police Headquarters stands in the center of Freedom Plaza, a mighty fortress of justice. It was built in the giddy postwar years - they had to knock down the old station house, such a shame but that's the price of progress - and there was some hope that it might be a new beginning for the Row, but the money dried up right after the last of the concrete did. Few would care to admit (on the record) that it is an outpost in hostile territory, or just how closely the enemy presses on its walls.
Heroes come through here now and then, mostly young bucks on their way up; they never stay long. People in the Row take care of each other because no one else will.
To the west are the garment works that gave this part of the city its name. For a long time, that was the Row's only remaining industry (besides crime), but twenty years ago, the owners found that domestic sweatshops couldn't compete with foreign sweatshops and finally closed the place down. People were actually sorry to see them go; as awful as it was, it was still a job. Now the long buildings are home to a series of illegal enterprises. For every one that's raided and cleaned out, another sets up shop. Cleaning up the garment works is like rolling a boulder up a hill, or holding back the tide with a broom - both fine metaphors for life in the Row.
His scowl deepens as he looks to the east. Crey Industries spared no expense on their Kings Row facility; it's fifty stories tall and covers four city blocks. For all that size, it has few windows. Most disturbing of all, he hasn't been able to get inside. No door in the Row should be barred to him, but Crey's are.
So even though Crey is now the biggest employer around here, he doesn't like them, and he doesn't trust them. He'll take their money - what choice does he have? - but if they think it entitles them to anything more than an honest day's work...
A scream wafts faintly up to him from the street, interrupting his dark thoughts. He almost ignores it. [i]Lots of people got it tough in the Row. They all gotta get by as best they can.
The Row takes care of its own.[/i]
With a sigh and a nod, he acknowledges his duty. He does not leap from the ledge, to fall or to fly, but simply ceases to be there. In moments he is at the side of someone who needs help, doing what he can, wishing he could do more.
[i]We're all in this together.[/i]
[b]2. GALAXY CITY[/b]
The sun is shining as he walks along Orion Beltway, buoyed by the current of the crowd. He stops in front of the old Majestic theatre; "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is playing. He buys a ticket, goes inside, sits down. The movie's already started, the auditorium almost empty for the matinee.
Up on the big screen, Audrey Hepburn banters coyly with a young George Peppard. Finally she ushers him out of her jet-set apartment and turns to the camera with a twinkling smile. "Hello, King."
He sits up a little straighter in his seat. "Hey, doll-face. How ya doin'?"
"Actually, I'm quite cross with you. We're neighbors, yet you don't come to see me nearly as often as I'd like." Hepburn's pout becomes an impish grin. "But I'll forgive you if you take me dancing."
He chuckles. "You know I'm not much for dancin'."
"I happen to know you were quite good at it once," she declares loftily.
"I'd just step on your dainty toes."
"I'm used to having my toes stepped on. Maybe you'd rather go to the arena, watch the fights? Oh!" She claps as a thought occurs to her, her face lighting up with it. "We could go for a walk in the park. It's so empty now that the heroes have moved on, but it's still beautiful. We could pretend we're a young couple in love..."
He chuckles again, but there's an edge of worry to it. "Girl, what's gotten into you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. Wonderful!" She fidgets on the edge of the sofa. "I suppose I'm just a bit lonely. I miss the heroes, and Perez... Perez and I used to talk all the time, about everything, but I haven't heard from her in so long. And you, well..." She looks up from her hand-wringing with an apologetic smile.
"You know I've got people of my own to look after," he murmurs gently.
"I know. I do." She turns her eyes down and her face aside, a wistful profile. "I just miss how things used to be."
He nods. "We all do, sweetheart." As the melancholy silence stretches, he coughs. "Listen. Let's do it. Let's go cut a rug, just like you said."
"Really?" She's all smiles again. "Oh, thank you, King! I'd love that." Hepburn bounces up from the sofa and starts toward the bedroom, off-screen. "I'll meet you outside in five minutes."
Smiling under his scarf, he stands and walks out of the theater, letting the movie continue without him. The fedora shades his eyes against the bright sun. It's a golden afternoon on the Beltway, and he takes in the sights while he waits.
He could be jealous of Galaxy, with her busy streets and clean storefronts and new stadium and green parkland and bustling warehouse district, better-favored in practically every way. It would be easy... if he didn't know her.
There's a tug at his elbow. The young woman standing there, wearing a coat and heels and a pixie smile, isn't Audrey Hepburn - but to his eyes, she's even prettier. He grins and puffs up a bit, gallantly offering his arm. She graciously takes it, and together they walk away as the sun dips low over the western skyline and the shadows lengthen.
---
I have other chapters planned/partly imagined; next will be Atlas Park/City Hall, then Perez, Steel Canyon, and Skyway, then Independence Port. If the Row gets that far.
Comments, suggestions? Is the very idea of such a series too presumptuous? Please let me know what you think.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-14 10:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-14 07:46 pm (UTC)Mostly it's a matter of context; unless you've visited the locations in-game, I doubt it will have the same effect. But if it was able to convey meaning without that, so much the better.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-14 06:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-03-14 07:44 pm (UTC)