Last year was year 101.
This year is 101 and next year it will be year 101,
because the past and future are illegal.
because non-consumerism is illegal.
Nano-Tek Gizmek is embedded in the cells of every Humo-Sapien
transforming them into walking computers living in an VR enhanced world.
Gender is now physically fluid, allowing everyone to transform
from male to female or anywhere in between.
There are no children, because children are illegal.
The UR has survived many apocolii, thanks to the Klummtopians,
a benevolent race of warrior androids who watch over ground zero
and keep the raging forces of the Gulblätt Tillständ contained.
Welcome to the megalopolis of BOFUGRO.
It's midnight and no one is talking. On the deck of the ferry Dead Albert five darkened figures and a large mechanical spider stand in a loose huddle as it plows through garbage choked waters toward the robo-factories of Mosscroft. They will discover that they all have bought themselves identical tickets while having no memory of doing so to rescue their shared non-existent uncle Fronk.
The automated vessel pulls up to a creaky dock underneath the overhang of an unfinished bridge section of a deserted twelve lane motorway which abruptly ends over the water as if it were cut off cleanly with a hot knife. The horizon is an endless backdrop of factories, next to the dock is the Holekist Fish Fish rendering plant, almost looking cute nestled amongst the larger more serious looking industries, and where their collective uncle “Fronk” needs rescuing and their destination. Everyone scuttles on the slippery deck of the Dead Albert past bales of materials which may be raw material or waste product or both onto the shore of Bofugros vast northern industrial complex.
Meet the bug-like Lykema, (owner of the mek spiderzoid), Axen, a ripped sadistic grunt encased in combat armor, Psychopomp, a pleather jacket scythe wielding goon, Fold, who has hex patterned skin and fifteen foot folding arms, and Coda, a barely legal freckled screenager cloaked in an optic camo suit (and four grenades). Just your typical scum from the slum of Laketown. They are all denizens of the slum Laketown, so introductions are irrelevant. They are all completely unrelated, yet all have left notes to themselves which they have no memory of writing, and seem to have the same uncle “Fronk”, who presumably is in one of these factory buildings. They still aren’t talking.
It's dark and deserted and not even trash is blowing across the truncated twelve lane motorway as they make their way toward a pair of deserted drop marts in the Holekist parking lot. The first has a sign reading “Guy-Yellows" which offers virtual hats, the other is a gaudy DS Mart choked with racks of identically packaged consumables while highlights from Sportz-a-Ball matches unspool in endless loops. Both are empty and look as if they were freshly swapped out by a Mart Hopper only hours ago.
Far up the motorway they see headlights. A polished gold stretch limo materializes and silently parks in front of the DS Mart. A humo, presenting as female with the insane headdress of a celestial being emerges like a ballerina and enters the DS Mart.
Fold’s interest is piqued and decides to go into the Mart. The woman’s golden AR radiates waves of golden light rays like a garage jesus making it slightly more difficult for Fold to pluck a blister from a rack opposite her. DS Marts specialize in selling identical items, in this case blind blister packed Sportz-a-Ball player fobs. Fold attempts to use a form of compulsion on her, but she smiles sweetly and bats it back to him. She says “Are you here for my Glorious one?” and gestures sending a golden spray from her hand to the blister Fold is holding. Inside the trashy Sportz-a-Ball collectable has been transformed into a glowing TrishAnkh. “Are you Ishtar?” Fold says. “That is a name I have not used for a long time. I hope you can find my Glorious One. In this time I am called Trisha.” “Did you just make this change?” Trisha answers “That may help you, you have but to ask” while gliding out of the Mart.
A M’urk is deducted from Fold’s meager bank account as they follow while tossing the glowing TrishAnkh onto the pavement. “Did you change this thing?” Trisha pauses in her mouthing of the lyrics of an El’ Glez pop song to nod as the illegal ‘Jikk of the TrishAnkh is siphoned away. The gold tinted window slides closed and the limo disappears back into the night.
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