The tyranny of cranes.

The city is strung on cranes, or appears to be, they jut above the skyline, so many that it is hard to tell what purpose some of them serve. There are cranes apparently suspending towers in the sky. And then there are cranes that rise above mute pits in the ground, that swing and lift, that operate continuously, though nothing ever seems to be built. Get too close, or so the rumours go, and a sniper might find your throat. Get too close and your last sight, as you tumble, down, down, down, might be a pile of bones, and rotting things yet to give up their meat, and crows -- their beaks crack, crack, cracking against flesh and harder matter -- because crows are rather fond of carrion, and, beneath that writhing fluttering mass, skulls looking up senselessly, dead-eyed or empty of eye. And every one of them understanding that tyranny of cranes.