The City of All Cities
Meet me in 1783.
It’s called the City of All Cities for a reason. As Jack flips the card between his fingers, running a thumb over the script as if the words will open up to reveal their intentions, he wonders what the best way would be to get to 1783. It’s an awfully specific date for one of the later Eras. Walking through the city is like trying to maneuver through a tangled yarn ball of time lines; where cobble stone paths clash with concrete streets, and where, at any moment, skyscrapers could give way to mud huts. Where time loops in places or is just stuck. There are no finished maps of the city because everything keeps changing, but plenty of people have made brave cartographical attempts. Even Jack gave it a try once, walking straight and marking the years—– at least until he came full circle, climbing up a hill only to arrive back at the bottom of it.
The one thing he does know about the architecture of the city is that at the very center is December 31st, 1999. That’s the latest date in any part of the city. No one reaches the millennium.
Most of the city is split up into what the new generation calls Eras. The older Eras, pre-Victorian and back, are sealed and locked off from everything else almost without exception. The Modern Eras have started to get with the program, leaving the miss-matched timelines be but marking the street signs by the year. But the further along in history, the more messed up people are, to the point where some can only relive days of their lives, or walk without waking.
The sun has set—– that’s the one thing that’s constant in this city, day and night are always the same wherever you go. And it’s a dangerous city at night, no matter where you go. Especially for musicians, known for disappearing suddenly and reappearing violently in alleyways. So Jack makes it a habit of never playing on the same street, and moving to a different building each month.
Jack continues along the late 20th Century Era, but as he turns a corner the pavement cracks and becomes crooked cobblestone road, and the brick buildings end abruptly in rough wooden shacks. All of a sudden the moans of far off cars are cut off all together. The street darkens without the glare of artificial light, and a cold wind picks up. He glances over his shoulder. He can still make out the street lamps from the last street, but the light struggles. The flicker from the lanterns barely scrapes against the cobblestone ground, as if stuck between the two Eras.
The silence closes in around him, whistling in his ears, like the highest note he can barely un-hear. He closes his eyes. For a second he thinks that he can see the sounds of the night against his eyelids, but the colors are so thin it’s closer to just imagining.