• The landscape of Bedlam was nothing exceptional to behold. Its buildings were largely left to decadence, with several scattered bursts of renovation, at least where the city central was concerned. Many sidewalks went cracked, and pavement went dusty-gray from wear. A very dull color spectrum claimed the majority of the scenery. The air was frequently heavy with a purely perceptional yet thoroughly choking ash.
    Simultaneously, the city possessed human, vibrant moments in which it teemed with life. People bustled about from one location to another. Parents reported stoically to work, children reluctantly to school, and families to scheduled event after scheduled event. Rain might occasionally fall to dance in, and to provide mud that would later cake onto neglected cement. Sun might occasionally prevail that warmed a man’s skin, and later created discomfort or drought. Always there existed some heated debate, somewhere, somehow.
    In Bedlam, the passionate and the stagnant lived in tandem. The city was no exception to a combination of the two as was forced elsewhere; only the proportions of each distinguished it from its city brethren and bestowed on it some semblance of individuality.
    Bedlam waited in the cold and unforgiving breeze of breaking dawn.
    A child of the city waited alongside his creator. His breath lingered briefly before his mouth. His legs rested haphazardly on the stoop level beneath him. One hand draped across a bent up knee, his hawkish eyes scanning the dead street.
    William was not amused.