[ IP ] Humanity survives only in Towers . Tell any story that takes place in this world .

He ’ d been walking for days, walking for nights — and the smell of her blood still filled his lungs. Thick, sweet, and salty where beads of perspiration fell in, and thick. Her arms were so small, when he held her close, her scars where the fire had taken her beauty, he couldn ’ t feel it under his callouses. Who had set the tower ablaze — doesn ’ t matter, who set the tower ablaze. Who turned the city to kindling, and the lives to ash, the livestock poured over the fire like oil, thick, thick; rolling fumes full in his nostrils, nothing but ash, everywhere, under his nails as he threw the blanket in the puddle, caught in his wounds as he threw it over the bucket. “ The baby, the baby! ” she screamed at him. The baby, the baby — but it couldn ’ t survive the cold outside the tower. The tower. The Tower. 
 
 The Towers! They were impenetrable, they were — they were heaven incarnate, they saved mankind from. From humanity — inhumanity. From barbarianism, or cannibalism, or evil. That ’ s what they told them, that ’ s what they were: they were salvation. But what salvation for these, for the condemned, cursed to wander the wastelands. So they raised cities, raised them, raised to the clouds as far above the chaos as they could. If they could touch the clouds, pure pure pure untainted white, untainted they would be. 
 
 Simple, foolish to think that such evil would not rise with them. So set the Tower alight, purge evil from humanity! He couldn ’ t remember how he knew, how he knew. 
 
 How he knew that the Tower was condemned but he did. And he took her. Why, why, why — who was she, and the baby, was it hers? Away from evil he ran, and there she was, and that baby. Till it froze, and she cried till his ears bled. And then came the night. 
 
 The night. 
 
 It made him full. The taste of her blood still on his lips, and her arms were so small, when he held her close, and her bones like twigs under his sole-less feet. To another Tower, to one still uncondemned, still, still — still — 
 
 Hope. Still hope for the hopeless. Hopeless… 
 
 Hopeless it was all hopeless it would always be. And the scratching of a single match against his open wounds soothed him.
