Rixcy

Somewhere in another place, another world, another time, a once great city lies dying - reduced to a rubble-riddled pile in the aftermath of a failed revolution.

A lonely cafe stands largely intact, caressed by the morning mist, surrounded by broken husks of commercial buildings that once reached up to the sky. It overlooks the backyard, where a naked corpse swings from a tree, oblivious to the barrage of rocks thrown in its direction by a shrieking, wild-eyed child. Inside the cafe, a bespectacled man in an orange jacket waits for someone, tapping his foot impatiently as he checks his watch for the fourth time. Behind the counter, a weary-eyed manager busies himself, tending to the broken wing of an elegant stuffed bird as he curses silently under his breath.

Upstairs, a middle-aged police officer lies asleep on the floor of his room. Dressed only in his underpants, he nonetheless remains oblivious to the biting chill slicing its way through the shards of a broken window. The room is a chaotic heap of empty bottles, discarded clothes and broken furniture, the aftermath of a booze-sodden night spent lamenting a lost youth, a lost love, a lost life.