I truly hate this. These markings. They tear us apart, cry for differences between us, when in truth there are none. Why should we be distinguished for something we are not? Master, Beta, Hunter, Commoner, Omega… Cigarettes, Vampires, Wharf Rats, Wildcats… We are all lost children, all of us. We are equal to one another, we are siblings. The Plague is our mother, the one who gave us birth. She took care of us and made sure we would strive for survival at the best of our capabilities. That survival is lost now – we kill each other, we murder our brothers and sisters. Justice, we call it. Eye for an eye. What does the world gain with this? What legacy will we leave behind when we are gone? Every bird must, one day, leave its nest. Our nest is New Pork. It is enormous, and our mother cares for us without exception. She protects us without preferences. However, the young siblings form groups, factions, wipe each other out without a second thought. No resentments; life must go on, and there is neither the time nor the will to look back.

Master, Omega. Cigarette, Vampire. Blood and fire, wings and ashes. Those signs break us apart, shatter our worlds away from each other. There are scars that cut too deep, and therefore we cry for justice. What is justice, in truth? It does not mend the worlds, does not mend the souls.