So its June 6th, about 184 years after the rebellion, how is Paris holding up?
The doors and windows were barred, the police on the street, and Paris the city was in high alert. One police officer looked to the next as they stood at the corner of the street, occasionally ducking round to look at the single figure that stumbled through the street beyond.
‘What’s he doing?’ one of them finally hissed, tightening the grip on his gun.
‘He’s just...standing there.’
The person- the City- had been recognised as a Lost City by their cctv software, and this portion of Paris had been quietly evacuated in case of an impending fight. Cities had been called, Rouen was on his way. His voice had trembled on the phone, and that hadn’t made the Captain feel any better about this.
‘What do we do?’ one of his men asked him. ‘Captain?’
The figure was still standing there, staring up at the buildings with wet eyes as if searching for something. He was holding a bottle, of all things.
This was bizarre. A trap?
Then the Captain remembered the ruins of Versailles. New Orleans disappearing into the mud. Manila ravaged.
It wasn’t worth finding out.
He signalled to the sniper on the roof.
Behind them, the City spread out his hands, and waited.