The Cracked Pane

The uneven plane was marred by a latticework of scars, cracks in the glass delineating demarcations of existence. Green smoke curled upward through the gaps between each cell, its origins occluded by the darkness below. A host of figures stand amongst the fumes, their uniform comprised of stickers, badges and tokens. Each other one attempting to secure a better place for themselves, liberally throwing around slaps and shouts to get their way; an insane game of hopscotch played amongst the gas. In and around the host stand figures clad in suits and smiles, making rulings and declarations from conspicuously empty books. The game reconfigures and refactors around them arbitrarily, any order possible ever disrupted by an errant umbrella or elbow. There are even those who lie on the glass with their noses to the cracks, huffing the fumes that rise, and staring into the black depths below. Clad in nothing but their madness, they blow smoke-rings with the green gas, chattering excitedly about blowing cities and people with enough practice. Amongst it all, a small number walk purposefully from cell to cell, dressed in orange overalls, and wielding tanks of super-glue. Slowly they make their work fixing what breaks they can, finding what shards are missing and gluing them back in place. Some figures seem unable to stand the fumes for long, the air filled with the sounds of wheezing and choking. A solitary figure makes time to each in turn with cups of tea, the sufferers' pale complexion turning coloured once more. A perilously high spire rises haphazardly in the distance, each of its pieces drawn from the rubble of it's predecessor. From the depths below rise the lights of countless eyes, searching, scanning and waiting for something. They can see you.