With his arms outstretched, Miles stood ever still on the wet grass, looking down upon the city's bright lights glimmering from every direction below him. He remained silent as the light rainfall gradually darkened his long grey coat, and he could feel his hair being thinned and dampened. The swaying grass created a soft whistling sound, and, with the cue of a flash of lightning streaking across the black sky and the familiar boom of thunder, the rain began to flood. Miles lowered his hands to his sides and innocently smiled, tilting back his head in order to allow the rain to splash on his skin, and opened both of his palms in order to collect water, like a child. He then remembered the presence of his friends standing on either side behind him, both of them having joined him in his walk from their old city in the hope of seeking more Rebellion-sympathetic people in the capital. Without looking at them, he spoke in a calm and quiet voice, "When we were younger, my father used to tell us stories. He would tell us of his adventures here but also of his struggles. He called this the city of dreams, if you're rich and pure, he said." Gazing into the starry lights of the city's buildings, he was in awe of the marvelous beauty of the scene. The rainwater reflected each speck of yellow and orange glints beaming up the hill towards them. Moving his hands to his jeans pockets and burying them in its warmth, he began his descent down the clean, green hill.