Morrison grew up on a rye farm outside of Cenesthesia, a typical arcology in the midlands. And, as do most children who grow up on farms, he was going to become a farmer himself one day. He didn’t find it especially fulfilling, certainly not exciting, but it was as lucrative a career as you could ever hope to find. Having spent every one of his twenty-three years on a farm, he was so far ahead of his peers that he had advantages they couldn’t even identify. Too bad for them.
Arcological sustenance farmers were the early twenty-second century spiritual successors to the Wall Street day traders of two-hundred years prior. Food was the engine that kept the world spinning.
At least, until Red Friday. It was the 13th, as fate would have it. That was the day the arcologies came down.
All of them.
It was the end of an age. The ashes were only ashes, smoldering wrecks from which nothing would ever rise. But from the farms, where the cultivation of life was a profession, the future was still a remote possibility.
On a rye farm beside the ruins of Cenesthesia, a typical arcology in the midlands, was a young man named Morrison. In the decade after Red Friday, he would unite the human race as never before and lead them through their most perilous hour.
To accomplish this, he would pay a most unthinkable, graven cost. Most unthinkable.
Notes: I used an image as a writing prompt for this piece. You may be able to find the image on the artist’s ArtStation page.
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