They look. And they wait.

Can we say they are connected through their actions, even though they are separated by time, or by ignorance?

Damien stares from his window. Fear lives in his heart, now, as much as Hope. Hope that the story was true. That there really was a Night Ship RU-D01F that is lead by a red fight. Hope that, maybe this time, the world was Good and they would come with gifts. Afraid they were not, and that they would come anyway.

The next morning his mother would look from her window, oblivious of her youngest son’s trouble sleep. She shivered, looking at the ice that had formed on the lake while they slept. She hoped that today would bring her an idea of what the hell she could do with her life. Not that they were poor – she just got bored easily, and she wanted to do something…make her son’s proud.

Across the years, Nathan stared at readouts and camera feeds as they spread across screens. He was waiting for his first sighting. His first contact with The Fleet. Ready to guide them in. Watching Nathan was Derek. It was the way – someone experienced guiding someone new. Derek watched and smiled, remembering his first time.

From the sealed room, covered in filth, He twitches, shifts from foot to foot, shivers. As the sun rises he moves further back into the room before retreating under a threadbare blanket until it goes away.

The final window is high above the city in one of the few penthouses still standing. “On a clear day,” the owner would say. “The view reaches the water.” He was the only one who laughed at that. The tower he is in was built on one of the pieces of high ground that had not, as yet, flooded. But today wasn’t clear. Ash storm clouds whipped past his window, white against the gray sky.

On these days he loved to sit near his window, with a hot drink, remembering when he was a child and the wonders of Zeppelin still thrilled him.

Today he is on the bed, staring out of his window, waiting for a knock at the door. Not that he knows that.

His glassy eyes see nothing.

He has been dead, now, for 2 days. The thermostat has kept his body perfectly preserved. Even now the police are rushing to his door, thinking he’s alive, that the tape of him asking for help was actually him, and not something recorded.

He was lucky, all things considered. He was dead before his would be murderer arrived.

He police break the door in and find his body, melted and warped. The same as Jody’s bar. They call it in, fan out looking for clues. It’s then they find the old man’s eyes, resting on the window sill – staring out at the storm.

Three hours later, Detective Westerfield stood at the same window. He stared out but saw nothing – his mind on the case. This was the first closed murder. All the rest had been public – designed to spread fear. Why was this one different?

They look. They wait.

And they hope for something special.