Clamor goes flying up and over the edge of the rooftop, landing on rough concrete and skidding several feet before stopped by friction and wet paper that seems to have been an old math exam once upon a time, crumpled and stomped flat and left behind to be rained on and eventually plastered to the ground over the years. As the rest of them haul themselves up here, they'll see that the rest of the rooftop looks similarly trashed, with garbage here and there that hasn't been blown off the edge, some old blood splatters mostly towards the center of the space, and some ash trays overflowing with ash and cigarette butts in a corner against the clock tower wall, an old abandoned jacket piled next to them, and what looks like an empty pet food bowl caked with dried grime.

There is nothing that looks like a generator up here