Empire

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To anyone that's still alive, anyhow. If you're holding this letter, presumably you've looted the Pointe Bank in Jefferson Harbor. No hard feelings, though I am curious as to how valuable — if at all — the dollar is in your day. I guess there will always be those who stake their well-being on green pieces of paper, even when society lies in ruins around them.

So what do I need to tell you? You must have already gotten the jist of what's happening. Yes, they're undead. No, they're not your friends or loved ones anymore. The soul has left the building and been replaced with…well, something.

Let's go back to the beginning. I mean the beginning of everything.

When the universe erupted into existence, spitting cosmic detritus across infinity, tears were made in the fabric of space. Now, the universe is constantly opening and healing wounds on a quantum level, but these were unintentional rifts. Big ones. And though they were sealed off in a nanosecond, things still managed to pour through.

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