Landing on the dried lawn that encircles the Wicked Scorpions" compound, he pauses for a moment, blinded by the bright sun causing the asphalt to flicker behind the musty wooden fence. Eyes narrowed to slits, Scorpius gazes at the dilapidated block of houses that looms across the street like a massive sarcophagus of decaying dreams. The hopelessness it exhales into the bright blue summer sky seems a more apt metaphor for his fucked-up life than the colourful graffiti the gang members have scrawled on the greenhouse behind him.