The bottom layers are submerged in pools of stagnant water after the maintenance bots gave up trying to clear the drainage system of debris. The Algorithm wrote off the entire strata, leaving the bilge pumps to rust. With not even the faintest trace of air conditioning, the air is heavy and sticky. Unbearably hot and humid, the stench of decomposing plant matter permeates everywhere.
No sunlight reaches down here. The canopy of overgrowth formed from invasive kudzu vines is so thick that from where we're sitting, it may as well be as thick as concrete. What illumination we still have is sparse and intermittent. The entire structure's power grid is constantly on the verge of blackouts. Maintenance teams can't clear the sand off the solar panels fast enough before they're covered again, and the wind turbines have stopped spinning from all the grit in their gears.
Being at the bottom of the pile, we get the worst of it. When the power goes and the sewage treatment backs up, the overflow spills down here. The excretions of a millions souls, just wallowing around in a makeshift septic tank.
In a narrow crust between the water line and the sealed off exits, the survivors huddle together. Many of them are homeless drug addicts, living from hand to mouth next to automated dispensaries that mysteriously bequeath us all with stale food from time to time, but always an ample supply of drugs and their associated paraphernalia. The more industrious amongst us have scavenged what scrap they can and built rudimentary lean-tos, always wary of another landslide of composted material above us destabilising and funnelling its way further done.
There's no sense of day or night, and the rhythm of the settlement is so hypnotically lethargic that we do our best to wander away and look for things to salvage. Even trying to harvest firewood is a treacherous afair: no one knows what abandoned pets are lurking in this man-made jungle. There is a constant never ending buzz from an uncountable amount of mosquitoes, a treble overlayed upon the heavy bass of the machinery rumbling inside the walls, and the ever aching and straining groan of the load bearing supports.
Most of us can't even remember how we ended up here, but I do. It was during a talk given to us by Our Dear Leader, and upon sharing with us his latest tidings of good news, my cloud connected heart rate monitor did not measure a suitably exuberant reaction to his address. I was charged under Article 58, and through sheer gravity through the downward spiral into oblivion, I found myself here, slowly rotting away at the bottom of The Line.
how do you think living at the bottom of pod-storage city would be?
The year is 20??.
The bottom layers are submerged in pools of stagnant water after the maintenance bots gave up trying to clear the drainage system of debris. The Algorithm wrote off the entire strata, leaving the bilge pumps to rust. With not even the faintest trace of air conditioning, the air is heavy and sticky. Unbearably hot and humid, the stench of decomposing plant matter permeates everywhere.
No sunlight reaches down here. The canopy of overgrowth formed from invasive kudzu vines is so thick that from where we're sitting, it may as well be as thick as concrete. What illumination we still have is sparse and intermittent. The entire structure's power grid is constantly on the verge of blackouts. Maintenance teams can't clear the sand off the solar panels fast enough before they're covered again, and the wind turbines have stopped spinning from all the grit in their gears.
Being at the bottom of the pile, we get the worst of it. When the power goes and the sewage treatment backs up, the overflow spills down here. The excretions of a millions souls, just wallowing around in a makeshift septic tank.
In a narrow crust between the water line and the sealed off exits, the survivors huddle together. Many of them are homeless drug addicts, living from hand to mouth next to automated dispensaries that mysteriously bequeath us all with stale food from time to time, but always an ample supply of drugs and their associated paraphernalia. The more industrious amongst us have scavenged what scrap they can and built rudimentary lean-tos, always wary of another landslide of composted material above us destabilising and funnelling its way further done.
There's no sense of day or night, and the rhythm of the settlement is so hypnotically lethargic that we do our best to wander away and look for things to salvage. Even trying to harvest firewood is a treacherous afair: no one knows what abandoned pets are lurking in this man-made jungle. There is a constant never ending buzz from an uncountable amount of mosquitoes, a treble overlayed upon the heavy bass of the machinery rumbling inside the walls, and the ever aching and straining groan of the load bearing supports.
Most of us can't even remember how we ended up here, but I do. It was during a talk given to us by Our Dear Leader, and upon sharing with us his latest tidings of good news, my cloud connected heart rate monitor did not measure a suitably exuberant reaction to his address. I was charged under Article 58, and through sheer gravity through the downward spiral into oblivion, I found myself here, slowly rotting away at the bottom of The Line.
very good stuff. I will post it around.
Thanks. If we have to live through clown world, I reckon we should at least get a good laugh out of it.