Silence - it can be rather freeing. A Voidspace to be filled. Everything is quiet in the black swirling Vortex where those great monuments of Decay once stood. 3 birds - medical holograms - perched atop this black onyx wall. No one's heard from Clem Hoot in months. He went Absolute Zero - off radar. Screens still blank in so many stations. Vines have overgrown the Abandoned Northwestern Airship Company's Hangar. Ghost lights spoil in the heat of the sun. Legends abound about the goings-on of this place in the underground networks of Colonial city rebels. Some still wander into the ruins of this estate and find themselves going straight down. The few who manage to not be ensnared in the Spidergod's great webbing find themselves in the abyssal anti-structure of inertia and entropy where NZ once stood. The Great Owl looks down from the ICEwall behind his eloptic ruby-Monacle - it cast a negative Blue reflection field across the plane to enable his night vision. Internal lamp burns brightly. "I lost my eye in the great Submarine War" the three agree. This is a Hunting Club - this is the Owl Corps.