What can YOU say in six sentences?
Breughel painted cities of plague in the off-world Jastri, and floated to Earth with his memories intact.
Brought to his art in charnel-house alleys, he sought the truth where C-9 gangs warred and harvested dead boys to flesh out their legends.
That night, like all nights, young men clustered in tight little knots in Rag Alley, some smoking basuko and milling about, some rolling mice, some with striped women, all with the hard, watchful eyes of combatants that went with their gangland regalia, and they checked Breughel out as he passed, but he carried a gun, a Flex-9 as it happened, and they let him go, for the most part sans comment.
He passed by dead bodies, maybe a dozen in that one-block stretch, all adding their stench to the corpses of cats and the chamber pot leavings, and he watched as the buzzards settled to feast with their bibs on.
Twice he saw gendarmes armed with their flic guns and whips, while above, the whump of their gunships kept all Jastri mute with its eyes to the ground, plotting horrors.
He came to a plaza, if that is the word, broken-bricked, weed-choked, and ringed with a tenement squalor, and he saw the Heralds appear on the rooftops, hooded like monks whose bibles were weapons, and gaped as Jastri exploded in flame...