The Pale Prince

Eleanor the Slain

The city roared with dirty car engines and the fumes and dust that came with the Kenyan weather, the searing heat being broken up by strong winds, spreading desert dust and red powder from the plains that surrounded the metropolis. The beeping horns of cars, trucks and motorcycles thrummed throughout the vast traffic jams and burst throughout the city, engulfing the nearby factories and the few office buildings there were that sat near to the motorways. The slums of Kibera district were amass with the poor, who scraped around in the rubbish for food and things to use in an everyday life where they did not have the money to afford to buy new things for themselves, settling on items disposed of by the richer percentile of citizens within the city. Nairobi was a far flung city in regards to riches however, though the nation of Kenyan was on the rise and had been on the rise for some time, with the gap between the rich and poor closing down and becoming ever closer and the resulting affluence of their larger cities growing and improving - thought he nation was still plagued by their best and brightest moving overseas to lands where their talents would be far more appreciated.

Within Kibera a large amount of noise was situated around one of the many UNARC stations set up in order to feed those who could not feed themselves. The complex was guarded at all times and was regarded as a UNARC embassy, with the huge Super-Nation's laws being imposed within the barbed wire barriers that stood between the clean food station, hospital and office buildings - this didn't stop the crowds of people around the area from amassing and crying out with prayers and thanks to the huge Nation's people, some of which stood by the gates of the embassy handing out huge industrial bags of rice, countless bottles of water and developed tubes that would filter dirty water into water that could be safely drunk.

Within the crowds, staring up at one of the many office buildings that peeked out over the top of the slum - its well-built nature seeming out of place within the dirty living space where its 8 stories loomed over the corrugated iron and wood houses - stood a young man who seemed neither poor nor desperate. His skin was as dark as cooking chocolate, and seemingly unblemished and well kept. A short crop of stylish hair rested upon the top of his head and seemed to glimmer with sweat as the Kenyan sun pushed down upon the crowd - its burning touch stroking at them with its immense, burning hands -, showing off the fuzzy dark brown locks of hair. His eyes were light brown and each held a slight tint of spectral green, seeming otherworldly and something that many a person had picked up on in their time spent talking to the young man. His nose was average size and wide set and his lips were large and pressed together as he pushed through the mass of people. Upon his person was a red jacket concealing a tank-top underneath, the jacket being comprised of bright, cherry red leather that shined in the sun's rays. His legs were covered in a pair of dark jeans that were dirtied at the hem and covered up the top of the young man's shoes, which were black and white, branded with the developing company's logo on the left hand side of each shoe. Unbeknownst to the loud crowds that seemingly constantly pushed forwards for the large quantities of water and food that were being given out, the man held a gun at his hip - though he concealed it somehow, the item not even seeming to exist, being replaced with a looping chain that connected up to one of the belt links at his waist.

Walking forwards and pushing through the crowd, the man come closer and closer to the entrance of the UNARC facility before making it to the front of the gate and moving forwards. A guard stood in front of the man - his suit clearly causing him discomfort in the incredible heat of the afternoon sun - and raised his hand, stopped the jacket wearing individual from moving any further.

"Show some identification please. I'm going to need to see it before I can let you forward." He enquired, changing the angle of his hold up palm so as to receive some form of ID from the man, who promptly dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled up a passport, pushing it into the man's hand. The guard - clearly from the State of Japan - pulled the booklet open and scanned over the details, looking up at the man and smiling as he confirmed the passport's authenticity before handing it back. "Mr Baraka Adoyo - welcome back to the UNARC."