To the top.

The penthouse suite gives way. Doors open, cypher-locks break, automated defenses disable. A vision of the heavens passes by unnoticed and unremarked. 

To the top.

The last flight of stairs. Hard concrete industrial fire escape, the core of the building from which there can be no escape.

To the top.

The industry of the rooftop. Antennae, satellite dishes, air conditioning machinery. The link between the heavens and earth was not royal paradise, it was the grinding of these celestial gears. 

The top.

Only the old are here. Old machines, paint peeling with rust. Old stains, vape canisters, beer cans, champions. Sitting on a roaring serpent in a patina of seafoam green and orange rust, screwdriver in hand and tongue extended as she tightened something on her bright pink slippers. A mane of savage hair in brown and white, the ferocity of a time before the catgirl was domesticated.

Gata looks up. Looks over the city. Looks at you. Pulls a six pack of beer from her bag and puts it out next to her. Invitation, wordless.