Myths and Legends

They say the Hive was carved out of the bulk of an old great Whale, beached just after the days ended. They say it was covered in dirt from some catastrophe, to be excavated, nearly a century later, by some punks barely old enough to remember the end of the end, when the battles were wars and the weapons blazed whole towns.

They say a lot of things. Looking at this Hive, in this place- the thick steel bones re-purposed, if only technically, to support pockmarked skin serving as a roof. This Hive is a well-hidden and open secret among the freeholders of this stretch of the west. A densely populated cave torn from the hammers of what came before. A writhing tumor of metal and drugs and sweat, too far deep for the ocean to reach, if it still came this way.

I weave through the press of flesh while shielding my eyes against the glare of cobbled together lights and glowing vials. The music is oppressive, the dancers are drugged and wild with arms flailing. Everyone is armed.

Somewhere in the savage pulse of flesh and scavenged woofers is the man I need to find.