[I was a player in a Cities Without Number campaign recently and it was great fun. This is the opening blurb to the game. Full play reports and my thoughts on the system to follow.]
*****
Once, Edmonton stood farther east.
There are still maps of it. Photographs. Families who remember the streets, or remember the stories their parents told.
And then something happened.
The official histories disagree. So do the eyewitnesses. Some records are missing, others are contradictory.
But whatever happened, the original city was lost.
Its name survived.
Farther west, along the North Saskatchewan River, an industrial settlement became the foundation of a new metropolis.
The Edmonton Continuance Zone.
Edmonton did not end. It continued.
That's what the paperwork says.
They call it the Continuance. Usually, just the Con.
A city of enormous concrete habitation blocks, refinery lights, railway yards, corrugated steel, industry, and cold.
Real cold. The kind that makes a warm stairwell worth fighting for.
The ancient furnaces of the Cold Stacks still burn. At Warmwater, entire neighborhoods cling to industrial platforms above steaming runoff. In the Rookery, gangs control the elevators and settle disputes because somebody has to.
In Truce, men who'd murder each other anywhere else can sit three tables apart and finish their drinks.
The dynasts of the Conservatory enjoy private artificial seasons while ordinary people scrape ice from their windows.
At Prospect Nine, advertisements still promise YOUR FUTURE BEGINS HERE above buildings that were never finished.
In Reworks, people hold celebrations when a dead machine comes back to life.
And when the air over Paleworks smells sweet, the old hands tell you to get indoors—whatever the corporate monitors say.
The trains still run west.
Freight moves. Money moves. People move.
But leaving the Con isn't as simple as buying a ticket.
You'll need authorization. Sponsorship. Clearance. Someone willing to vouch for you—or someone willing to break the rules.
Some people come here looking for a future.
Others arrive because their future somewhere else has been revoked.
Even information faces borders. Certain secrets travel between cities in sealed containers, guarded cargo, or the memory of a human courier.
And yet people live here.
They fall in love, raise children, work the factories, dance in filthy nightclubs, build machines, drink too much, start fights, settle arguments, make art, and dream of getting rich.
In Morrow Ward, the schools still function, workers come home from Deepcut, neighbors argue about heating, and an old community hall bears a sign that reads AVAILABLE WORK.
It's not the richest neighborhood in the city. Not the poorest.
It's somewhere people can still build a life.
And if you know the right people, it's somewhere you can find work that pays considerably better than anything on the official boards.
Of course, you'll have to decide what you're willing to do for it.
The gangs have their rules.
The corporations have theirs.
Neither set was written for you.
Welcome to the Con.
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