Under this sky, this gray sky and the illusory silver moon, stands the city. It spans lengths of miles. It is built to house thousands. High-rise structures litter it through and through, all filled with small, cramped rooms and furnished with long decayed and broken artifacts of history. Thick dust clings to every corner, wall, and mirror. Closer to the edges of it stands the city's walls, all built around the metropolis for defense purposes, a purpose now questioned by those that could barely claim to exist.

Within its walls and beyond, it is all the same. Trees litter the centers of streets, but like all things, they are empty of color and life. Their branches are withered and dry. Water beads off of them and puddles upon the cracked earth below. The plains beyond its walls, scattered loosely with decayed flora, seem to extend forever into the sea of gray-scale fog, constantly perpetuating its own existence within the land of the dead.

The land of the dead-- it had many names.

Now, its people are scarce. Never before did they exist here. Never before did they exist at all. This very unreal city was the perfect match for their questionable lives, with a questionable existence of its own. In the dozens, they lived their daily lives, but no more than that-- no more than three dozen.

Its streets are empty, its promises left unfulfilled, and its existence in question. It is only in the dead world where it can stand, bleak and lifeless as it may be--a fitting realm for such a territory. Upon a time, this city stood within the living realm, the world of Utopia, where it once towered as an innovative marvel of future architecture, but no longer.

A plague struck this very real city, and all was lost. All was forgotten. All that stands now, seated upon the edge of existence and the lack thereof, is this Unreal City, the land of Memoria . . .

Quiet.

Everything was quiet, maybe even--no, that wasn’t right. Everything was too quiet. This city, it was bleak, it was … Quiet, there was life here, sure, but nobody really acted like it. That wasn’t true, either, some of them acted like it, but that was the minority--the eccentrics, maybe?

A man sat in the middle of his room, it was a small place, he had picked it because it made him feel safe, a silly thought, but for some reason he was comforted by the suffocating square-like living space… It had other rooms, of course, connected to it, but he didn’t use them. He didn’t like them; he liked this room, and not many others.

He had come to the city what seemed an eternity ago, but it hadn’t actually been that long; it just felt like it. Granted, that really wasn’t saying much, it had maybe been a year since he came, and a year… Wow, that was something. At least he was alive, though. Right?

The man stood up; his torso was clothed in a simple sweater, knitted from wool that was a very, very dull green. Odd, though. Because he felt like it should have been brighter, like there should have been a life to it, but like everything else in the city--it was bleak, it didn’t speak of anything; quiet.

Naturally, the rest of the man’s clothing echoed the dull, lifelessness of his sweater; his pants especially. None of this was what he’d have preferred, but many would prefer different things, he was sure, and who was he to complain? No, no; there were people with less, he was sure. How selfish, complaining, even in his thoughts, about clothing, and there were others who may not have had clothing at all. That wouldn’t do. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Dulled eyes of emerald looked about the scarcely decorated room, it was plain, but this was one of the few occasions where he liked plain. He wanted a home that felt safe, that felt as though he had control, and this was it. In reality, though; this man was only like this in private. He preferred open spaces when out and about, but not when sleeping or lounging around.

The man walked forwards and grabbed his hat, a tanned Gatsby hat, which was promptly placed atop his head, and he headed out of the room. Although he had been in the city for a little while now, he had scarcely explored it… There really wasn’t much reason to do so, but he had an adventurous streak and he liked to see if others needed help with anything, in fact; it may as well have been his calling.

The slam of a door resounded throughout the building; a smile was wide on his face and excitement was plain, as was the common theme with this man.

Over the last three years, as they trickled into this unreal city, one particular hall became an extremely popular locale. It was located near the center of the city, but not quite in the center. The center itself was reserved for a collection of structures barred off by jagged locked fences and gates. Just a block away, however, was the hall itself. It had no name, not yet.

It was a tall building with an established three floors surrounding a massive, wide open space between the inner walkways marking the edge of each floor. This central area had a ceiling that seemed to stretch on forever, and the area itself seemed to make up the majority of the Hall itself. Benches, old, but not quite so dusty anymore, sat upon each end of the Hall, where the weary few could sit and rest if they so desired. All the gray walls were untarnished, and the only marring of the cobblestone central floor was dust in-between the cracks.

Over the last few years, this Hall, the largest building within the unreal city-- outside of the central, gated off structures --had become a popular establishment. It hadn't anything to offer but space and a memorable locale, both of which were important to people such as these . . .

If one ever wanted to find someone, this was the place to look.

Though, on this day, there were only two men within the great Hall-- an oddity within itself. They were situated at the northern side of the central flat, neither sitting, just standing with their backs against the wall. One man, everyone seemed to know. He had red hair that hung down by the sides of his face, a pleasant, cheery face, and always seemed to robe himself with nicer outfits-- full suits, usually. Today, he had only a white long sleeved shirt, black slacks, and a black vest. His arms were folded over his chest as he addressed the man to his left.

That man, however . . . everyone had seen at least once in the lives they could all remember, yet no one really knew for sure. He always wore the same thing: a blue-gray hooded sweatshirt, a pair of long black shorts, and a worn and dirty pair of running shoes. His hood was always up and over his eyes, casting a shadow over his face at all times. His arms, too, were folded over his chest.

The two were talking, but unless there were ears in their vicinity, their conversation was one that would forever remain a mystery.

The streets were loosely populated, a fact that wasn’t all that surprising, but not all that welcomed, either. The spirited man turned and looked about as he walked; each step taken was skillful and balanced. He had left his home and taken to the streets, but his reason for doing so was vague at best. There was much he could do today; there were others who maybe needed him for something, there was a city to explore, places to check out, and other such things that any other individual probably wouldn’t have found all that enjoyable.

Some action was needed, and if not action; then at least the company of others. There was one such place in the city where this was possible, or so he was lead to believe.

The central hall, he thought to himself; remembering that he hadn’t quite gotten directions to this mythical meeting place.

As the man was in no particular rush to get to his destination, he would leisurely stroll through the city, looking into buildings, and around the place; it would take at least half an hour for him to find this hall and that was perhaps being generous. Regardless, he would fin himself in front of the entrance of what he could only assume was the place, but he hadn’t seen anyone actually around the building, itself. This worried him with a tinge of disappointment.

“Could check back later,” his hand was held just at the door. “Huh, nah; I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

And in he went.

They stood on the other side of the Hall, practically, but when only two people were in it, it seemed to have a nasty echo. If only for briefly, the young man recently entered into the great hall's confines would overhear their conversation.

"How far is he away?" the red haired one asked.

"A few hundred miles," replied gruffly the hooded man.

"That far . . .?"

The hooded man nodded.

The red haired man, with his arms folded over his chest, leaned back dejectedly. He let out a sigh and stared at his shoes. It wasn't until he peered up from them that he saw the man that just entered the hall. He furrowed his brow at first, before looking to the hooded man next to him, and then back to the recent arrival in the hall.

It wasn't like this place wasn't public domain or anything. He was fully allowed to be there, just like the two of them. The red haired man just hadn't expected to see anyone else today.

The man eased through the entrance of the door in a relatively careful fashion, but was disappointed just as soon as he entered. He heard talking and he could see two others, but their conversation seemed to be private; didn’t look as though they were a particularly social bunch, either.

In the most nonchalant manner imaginable, he looked around the room, idly walking about, each step taken was done at the very end of his foot, on his heel, and he seemed to whistle; the empty room did well in getting this effect across, of course. He thought nothing of disturbing the other two, but that was not to spite them; that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Several moments would pass this way, each step he took was designed to purposely increase the time it’d take to get across the room, and as he progressed; it would look as though he were attempting to avoid their attention, but he was trying so hard that they couldn’t help but notice.

Maybe it was foolishness or awkwardness towards meeting new people, but eventually this man would close the distance between himself and the two individuals who had already been present in the hall, and despite this; he wouldn’t talk. Really, it was similar to how a child ignored something they were interested in, but did their best to hide that fact.

It wasn't long before the man had the two's attention.

"Oh, um . . ." the red haired man trailed off.

The hooded man practically disregarded the man that recently entered the hall. He probably would have been content to continue discussing the matter at hand and getting it over and done with. Of the two, he was definitely the least social.

The red haired man, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. He was, in actuality, a very social person. He loved to meet new people. He was enthralled by them. It just so happened that he worked so much that he couldn't socialize nearly as much as he'd have preferred. Really, he only had a few hours in the day to get out and do anything, really, and he was using those hours right here and now, sadly when no one else was really available.

"Hello!" he addressed the man enthusiastically, albeit with a slight tone of nervousness, "You're-- ummm --Dagan, right?"

Dagan froze for a moment and looked at the man who had spoken to him, his eyes, emerald green; locked onto the man, and his brow seemed somewhat furrowed.

“How,” he lowered his gaze just slightly. “How do you know my name? -- Are you a psychic?”

Obviously, in a community of just about thirty individuals, it wouldn’t be all that hard to find someone’s name, or even get a solid description of them. Dagan had already assumed that may have been the case, but surely it could have very well been the opposite; this man before him must have been some form of psychic, and this line of thought wouldn’t be lost on the red haired man who had spoken Dagan‘s name, either, no; Dagan would stare him with the utmost scrutiny for emphasis.

“Just kidding. Nice to meet you, and yeah! I’m Dagan.”

Dagan removed his hat and offered a hand out in greeting to the other man.

"A-ah, um, well--" the man trailed off.

He was interrupted, incidentally, when Dagan took back the question in an almost jovial sort of way. Truth be told, he probably wasn't psychic. Chances were, it was just a matter of the number of people in the city, and the fact that the red haired man was closely affiliated with all of them. He always seemed to be around; didn't say much, but he was around-- working, usually, and too busy to really socialize, but still around.

"I'm Attis," the red haired man replied as he took Dagan's hand. Attis had a firm, almost businessman like handshake--odd, considering what these people were . . .

The hooded man turned his head to Attis. Although one couldn't see anything under his hood in the slightest, there was still a similar air of scrutiny, like that of Dagan's feigned scrutiny just seconds prior-- except this one wasn't feigned in the least.

"Sorry, that was weird, wasn't it? Me just-- coming out and saying your name like that. I just-- um, I'm one of the people that keep track of everyone in the city, you know? Sort of like a census," if Dagan even knew what a census was, that is . . .

“Huh, didn’t even notice you.”

Dagan spoke sharply as he looked towards the hooded man, and then back to Attis.

“A census, huh?”

Dagan didn’t know what that was, that was true, but he wasn’t stupid. If Attis kept track of people, then a census had to be related to that, if it was “sort of like that“, that is. But that word wasn’t important really; Dagan got the general idea behind it and that was all that mattered. More importantly, it seemed the red-haired man had a job or something like that. This confused Dagan for a moment, should he have been working, or was it fine that he wasn’t? It was odd that he didn’t know the answer to that question.

“So, uh, were you guys busy here? I didn’t interrupt did I, I mean; there were no other people in here so I kind of just came…”

Again he’d turn his focus to the hooded individual, this guy seemed bothersome already, Dagan had a sixth sense about these things, or he liked to believe he did, at least, and the hooded man set it off. He was not a likable person, Dagan thought to himself, but did not voice the opinion for the sake of being friendly.

When Dagan addressed the hooded man, he looked over Dagan briefly. The hooded man hadn't spoken a word since Dagan made his presence known. It didn't lend to making a person likable, that much was for sure-- but it was unlikely that he even had that sort of drive, to be liked by anyone or anything in particular.

Attis shook his head. With a friendly tone, he began, "No, not rea--"

But he was cut off by the hooded man, who spoke at last. "Yes. We were busy."

"Uh?" Attis reacted in surprise, "We were?"

"Yes. Discussing the pending arrival."

"Oh," Attis paused, "Well, it's not like that's a private secret or anything . . ."

"It should be."

"But it's not. And why should--" Attis paused again. It was for the best not to continue with that. It'd probably only lead to a fight. Instead, he looked to Dagan and smiled awkwardly. "N-no, no, we're not really busy, don't worry."

“S’that so?”

Two answers. Dagan wasn’t expecting that, but maybe he should have been; regardless, he was going to go with the answer that best suited his needs, and was from the person who had been friendly: Attis.

“So what’s this pending arrival business?”
Dagan asked, sincerely. He had been around for a year or so, and despite his best efforts, he had never really seemed to get into any long conversations, let alone gain any information about anything. Really, he had more or less been leisurely going through life at this point, and not because he wanted to, either. He wasn’t naturally a lazy person: eccentric, opinionated, and even driven! But lazy? -- No, never lazy.

If this arrival stuff wasn’t a secret, then maybe Attis could share what all this was about; after all, it did not look as though the hooded individual was all that prone to conversing, let alone explaining anything, and especially to Dagan; that is, unless the hooded man was always this grumpy. At the very least, it'd put the two men back on their topic, before Dagan had interrupted them with his presence.

"Well . . . you know how everyone gets here, right?" Attis asked in reply.

The hooded man answered before Dagan even had the chance to, though. Really, it was a matter of outright interrupting Dagan before he had the chance to speak. "Doubtful. None of them can really remember anything that far back."

This took Attis off his guard almost instantly. "Uh-- I, um . . ."

Attis scratched the back of his head nervously, whilst the hooded man folded his arms over his chest once more and looked away from the two of them, Dagan and Attis. Well, it brought up a good question. Maybe the hooded man was right, even. Maybe all of them, whoever or whatever they were, didn't remember anything before the city at all-- nothing concrete, that is. It was very possible . . .

Attis looked to Dagan with an inquisitive tilt of his head. He hoped that Dagan might know what he was talking about, but chances were it was just as the hooded man said.

Dagan frowned in the general direction of the hooded man, again. If he kept this up, the man would find out just how much Dagan remembered and it would include punching, and how to punch; there would also be kicking, too, but that wasn’t important right now.

“Y-yeah, I, uh, remember, and stuff. Yeah. Why wouldn‘t I? There isn‘t a reason why I wouldn‘t, right? That‘d be … No, yeah; I remember.”

A lie, Dagan didn’t remember much of anything, and the hooded man had got that right, the bastard that he was.

“Ahem--Uh, people go out… And, get--bring them here, right? … Right?”

Dagan gave his best guess and hoped he didn’t sound too much like an idiot; he also tried to--not--worry about why he didn’t really remember how he had gotten to the city. He remembered the early days, he really did, but he didn’t remember anything before he had come here, to this city. Images, mostly; some sounds, too, but nothing concrete enough to say to Attis.

"That's--" Attis stopped himself.

Of course there were more details, but Dagan seemed to know them-- right? Well, he seemed a little awkward when he was talking about it, extremely vague and all, but that was okay. Attis believed him . . . sort of. He figured that, if Dagan didn't know all of the details, then he at least knew some of them, and that was more than enough. It was surprising, too. People here usually didn't remember any details at all about how they got here.

The hooded man, on the other hand, gave Dagan a stare. It may have been impossible to see his face, but it was possible to feel a person's stare-- and his was a very doubting one.

"--yes, actually," Attis said, instead.

That established, he was perfectly comfortable just leaving out the details.

"Well, like he," Attis motioned towards the hooded man, "was saying to me earlier, there's another one of us out there. He said he's a long ways away, though. A few hundred miles, to be exact . . ."