A singular truck stops at a red light in the industrial district of Salem. It’s mostly a desolate place. Most of it has fields and small, rectangular buildings in shape, mostly with factories or supply centers. On top of the truck lays Emerald, flat on her back, waiting until she gets to a certain stop. Her hands are crystallized, dug into the metal of the truck to hold on tight. Emerald finally spots a few cop cars parked outside of a government office. Emerald raises her brow under her mask. Emerald (to herself): This is indeed the place. “Quite the nice party we’re having here!” ~~ ~~ ~~