Altissia. The Jewel of Accordo. The City on the Sea.
You always fantasized about coming here someday.
In your fantasy, though, you were happy about it.
It’s beautiful... probably. It’s hard to tell from here, behind a chain link fence topped with coils of razor wire, where you’re still trapped at the port like cargo endlessly awaiting inspection. But across the water, the city gleams in the afternoon light, all white marble and red tile roofs. You can almost make out the ornate architecture you know is there, or the golden domes, world-famous sculptures of Messengers with sweeping robes and graceful wings. Occasionally you catch glimpses of gondolas, ferrying passengers from island to island before disappearing back into the labyrinth of canals between the buildings.
click to embiggen
The sky is achingly blue, bare without those curtains of purple light. It's cold and vulnerable like a model posing for a painting. Instead of a wall, the city is hemmed by natural stone formations and sheets of water. From the other side of the compound, looking the other direction, you can even see a few degrees of horizon. It might be one of the weirdest things you’ve ever seen. It’s as if the world gets to a certain point and just... stops.
Feels like a metaphor.
The sound of shouting snaps you out of of your navel-gazing. Dock workers -- grown men, older than you -- are back again to yell slurs and throw garbage into the camp. Fortunately, they can’t get over the fence any more than you can, so you don’t need to give them any of what little energy you have left. But you wish that the tin cans they were throwing at you still had food in them, at least. You’ve eaten nothing but compressed wheat biscuit rations for the last three weeks.
Probably doesn’t matter. Your body’s hungry but you have no appetite anyway.
You peel yourself away from the noise and start hobbling over to the immigration office, even though your appointment isn’t for another few hours.
It’s slow going. Your new scars feel tight and sore. Physical therapy distracts you from your thoughts a little, so you’ve been keeping at it -- you’re able to stay on your feet longer these days, and you’re finally walking again, even if you still can’t do it without a crutch. You’ve also regained some use of your right hand, though not much.
Without magic to sweep away your injuries, you have to heal the old fashioned way.
It’s a long wait in a plastic chair in the immigration office. You don’t have anything to do but pick at the holes of your ill-fitting clothes. Like everything else, they don’t feel like they’re yours. Your clothes were cut from your body as you were slipping in and out of consciousness when you got here. However, after considerable effort afterward, you were able to pick through enough garbage to locate your socks. They were brightly-colored and stripy once, but now they’re mismatched -- despite your best efforts, the one you wore on your right foot will forever be a rusty brown.
You’re wearing them anyway, though.
Eventually, the receptionist calls your name and you meet with your caseworker. She goes over your paperwork and hands you the documents you’ll need to leave this place, hopefully to find job and somewhere new to sleep that isn’t a mat on the floor of a warehouse, surrounded by several hundred other desperate, broken strangers.
The photo on your new ID card shows an unfamiliar, hollow-eyed man with unkempt hair and an angry red slash across his nose and cheek.
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Memory 7 - Immigration Papers
Altissia. The Jewel of Accordo. The City on the Sea.
You always fantasized about coming here someday.
In your fantasy, though, you were happy about it.
It’s beautiful... probably. It’s hard to tell from here, behind a chain link fence topped with coils of razor wire, where you’re still trapped at the port like cargo endlessly awaiting inspection. But across the water, the city gleams in the afternoon light, all white marble and red tile roofs. You can almost make out the ornate architecture you know is there, or the golden domes, world-famous sculptures of Messengers with sweeping robes and graceful wings. Occasionally you catch glimpses of gondolas, ferrying passengers from island to island before disappearing back into the labyrinth of canals between the buildings.
click to embiggen
The sky is achingly blue, bare without those curtains of purple light. It's cold and vulnerable like a model posing for a painting. Instead of a wall, the city is hemmed by natural stone formations and sheets of water. From the other side of the compound, looking the other direction, you can even see a few degrees of horizon. It might be one of the weirdest things you’ve ever seen. It’s as if the world gets to a certain point and just... stops.
Feels like a metaphor.
The sound of shouting snaps you out of of your navel-gazing. Dock workers -- grown men, older than you -- are back again to yell slurs and throw garbage into the camp. Fortunately, they can’t get over the fence any more than you can, so you don’t need to give them any of what little energy you have left. But you wish that the tin cans they were throwing at you still had food in them, at least. You’ve eaten nothing but compressed wheat biscuit rations for the last three weeks.
Probably doesn’t matter. Your body’s hungry but you have no appetite anyway.
You peel yourself away from the noise and start hobbling over to the immigration office, even though your appointment isn’t for another few hours.
It’s slow going. Your new scars feel tight and sore. Physical therapy distracts you from your thoughts a little, so you’ve been keeping at it -- you’re able to stay on your feet longer these days, and you’re finally walking again, even if you still can’t do it without a crutch. You’ve also regained some use of your right hand, though not much.
Without magic to sweep away your injuries, you have to heal the old fashioned way.
It’s a long wait in a plastic chair in the immigration office. You don’t have anything to do but pick at the holes of your ill-fitting clothes. Like everything else, they don’t feel like they’re yours. Your clothes were cut from your body as you were slipping in and out of consciousness when you got here. However, after considerable effort afterward, you were able to pick through enough garbage to locate your socks. They were brightly-colored and stripy once, but now they’re mismatched -- despite your best efforts, the one you wore on your right foot will forever be a rusty brown.
You’re wearing them anyway, though.
Eventually, the receptionist calls your name and you meet with your caseworker. She goes over your paperwork and hands you the documents you’ll need to leave this place, hopefully to find job and somewhere new to sleep that isn’t a mat on the floor of a warehouse, surrounded by several hundred other desperate, broken strangers.
The photo on your new ID card shows an unfamiliar, hollow-eyed man with unkempt hair and an angry red slash across his nose and cheek.
He looks dead inside.
That part, at least, is recognizable.