It's the middle of winter in Brooklyn. Heavy snow has, and continues, to fall. The desecrated city is cast in a gray haze and appears eerily empty, lifeless. In this case, the calm after the storm. The battle has come and gone, the fires have been extinguished, life is reverting to what counts as normal in this world.
There is a story here that needs to be told.
A mass burial site has been developed, bodies from both sides of the conflict of varying age and sex buried in individual unmarked graves, dutifully being filled by expressionless men and women dressed snugly for the weather. Matty Roth stands amongst them, arms hanging loosely by his side, unmarked notepad in one hand, pen in the other. He's holding back the emotion of the moment, but his neutral facade shows signs of cracking.
For the first time, in a long time...
Tight on Matty, his mouth creased into a frown, eyes wet with tears.
...I'm not sure I can write it.