Labyrinth of Dispair

Spindleton, a city across the river from Astrohallow, wreaks the exact opposite of the thrives and flourishes of Astrohallow: a city of gleaming innovation. Though technically under Astrohallow's control, it has been virtually abandoned, becoming a literal gutter for the waste from the city above and a breeding ground for the bleak and hopeless; sprawling with cynical characters gleaning on and leeching off the leftovers spared to them.

Life is damp and dimly lit in this subway city, a labyrinth of despair perpetually drenched in hardboiled crime and toxicity. This had heightened tensions between the upside and downside, as Astrohallow residents regard the underpass city as threatening.

Regardless, Spindletons prefer it this way. Their enclaves had been put so artistically together that, when they overstepped their boundaries and the forces above ground came knocking, every twisting dark tunnel offered a potential escape route.

Additionally, as sons and daughters of this deep, dark boulevard, its spawns had developed tolerance for and learned to adjust to both the greasy air that makes non-natives ill and the half-assed Spindleton fate of not amounting to a shit stain.

As a result, a lot of people down here were either content with their small fries and halfpennies or had given up due to the lack of motivation to induce change. Not all, though. There were those lurking in these labyrinths who felt defuddled about their rights to a better future and who, if mortal strife was the price to pay to establish a victorious regime, were more than willing to risk peace.

Besides, they had nothing to lose as technical slaves in their own columns of hell.

But a duck with no means of instigating its dreams, is but a sitting duck. In their pursuit of unrealistic fantasies, the excessively ambitious drove themselves nuts.

Spindleton's capital, sprawling with all kinds of lowly enterprises, from the usual mobile food stalls to the places where people go to lose their sh*t : track-sized casinos, and all the clichés you can find without extravagance, was nestled among this bleak necropolis. A location which isn't such a far cry from it namesake: The Hive.

It labyrinths are supernaturally webbed into a network of tunnels like a termitarium, making transportation the most progressive enterprise worth dabbling in. Old time-worn railway lines of copper-wood partitioning, threaded within these tunnels, connecting one deep dark abyss to the other like vernations on leaf.

Once in awhile, the clank, hiss, whirr and creak of steam powered trains gushing out pillows of smog, is heard pulling past from one column to another. The incessant chunning of their locomotive alarms was music to the ears of these abyss dwellers, when ever they approached rail road stations and depots; either to offload passengers or goodies.

Without care for maintenance, they appeared in the worst kind of shape they could possibly be, bath in pitch black coatings of the same smoke they expel from their ancient pistons. The enginemen and stokers that kept these ancestral draw buses moving, cared less for it maintenance. They themselves were covered in tar from years of working in boilers, and had grown color blind to the filth they work in. The next best thing down here were metalworks and woodworks as they were both the infrastructural framework of the deep.

Along the busy street, 'grounders' as the spindletons were called, nonchalantly strode within the sleazy setting... Down here there was no dress code but it was obvious what the lowlifes in these enclaves could afford. The spindleton type of financially stable people adorned themselves in turned up collars with plain neckties or cravats and crisp, white shirts.

Some went further to wear on top - plain, dark coloured waistcoats, usually with either long or short trousers, tucked into socks or cut off and elasticated at the knee. The ladies dubbed in Shirt with flowery designs, corset and corset protector strapped tight to their waist displaying their imp-thin physiques; bodice and an apron on top sometimes, as most were maids. Some wore skirts ingrained with flares and gathers while others prefer tight fitted trousers...

The low class where in casual vests and plain shirts whereas the beggers and street profits strolled in tattered clothing.

The night was as lively as it always was with some busking for loose change, others miming to draw customers toward their shops. Speaking of shops, they were littered across the entire hive offerings all kinds of services.

There were ironmongery and hardware shops with metal goods on display. Food trucks, referred here as food-on-wheels, stood in every corner with oil lamps lighting up their business. Lowly haberdasheries and five-and-dime stalls selling second hand clothings.

Chip shops were one could enjoy fish and chips with crude taste, depanneurs and convenient shops, low earned cafeterias they call holes-in-wall - places where gossip spread like wild fire; Butcheries, tinker shops for repairs, pawn shops for swapping, bucket shops for con and cheap traveling agents; dispensary chemists where all sort of concoctions are butter traded.

Tattoo shopped for Ink shredding, gasbars selling fuel, circuses, sworny casinos and whataview. It was the venue for all sort of commerce, the only kind in the entire spindleton.

The night was still young as the sound of cheers and merriment permeated the crude air. It could only be said that the place was elevated to high heavens with uplifted mood... It felt as though it would last forever, that nothing could set it asunder. But suddenly, puffs of smoke of different sizes, and colors filled the air.

The cheerful scenes grew ominous, the citizens runned helter scelter, attempting to flee into one of the many inlets or scurrying for cover behind something, anything.

The joy had being sucked out immediately, the streets were now victimized, it's civilians cornered by fear gnawing at their timid hearts; and in their helplessness, they languished.

"Shacks!!! It's those dog faces..." Yelled a bachelor as he scuttled about, barely keeping his balance.

The commotion went on as meteor flares of different colors, lighted in random places in the air... These were the actual distress signals, a mode of communication spindletons use to spread the message that the forces above ground had indeed visited.

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