Year x7077. It's a year I will never forget. I decided to deem it as the worst year of my existence. Yes–x7077, the year I met you.
The summer sun was sickeningly hot; I could feel my insides start to overheat. In a world filled with artificial everything, you would think that someone would come up with a way to defeat the sun's heat. But despite my suffering, I kept moving. And moving, and moving; until at last a beacon of hope surfaced. A bar. At some point, drinking became my vice, even though I can no longer enjoy its taste; the feelings it gives me make me feel alive.
"Hey there, Missy, what can I get ya?" the barkeep, a man in, maybe his late fifties. By the shape of his midsection, I could tell he spent many years of his life dedicated to alcohol and good food. The jolly tone of his voice told me that even amidst the turbulent winds of the changes we've faced, unlike me, he hasn't given up on not just himself but others as well. His presence sickens me.
"Give me something strong, I've got a long trip back home ahead of me, and I'll need all the support I can get," I said. Guys like him are the type to ask questions and want to hold conversations with travelers. And it just so happens we're in a bar, the prime location to hear stories from randoms you'll likely never meet again. I'm the type of person who hates things like that. In all honesty, I don't care about you or your stories. Just get me my drink and leave me alone, old man, was the only thought running through my head.
"So, what's a pretty girl like you doing all the way out here in the sticks? It's not often that we get travelers." The man asked as he set my glass in front of me. Of course, I didn't reply, or I guess in a way I did. I gave him a glare that anyone with a brain would realize was a "leave me alone" glare. By the look on his face, he got the message; Or so I thought, he started talking to me as if he didn't have twenty other people nearby to talk to. I guess I misjudged him a bit; he's the type to talk even if you don't respond to his questions. The only thing good to come out of this was the booze he kept topping off without me even asking. I hope he's not expecting me to pay for all of this.
"So, did you hear that this year alone two times the number of people are turning themselves into machines? Isn't that just a shame?" he shook his head, "Don't they have any pride left as human beings!" I could tell the old man was starting to get worked up about this topic. Rightfully so, I guess. Over the last hundred years, the human population has dwindled in numbers, leaving only a few thousand full humans left. Full because they aren't fully machines, they are cyborgs, if you will. Fear. The fear of aging and dying drove humanity to not only create androids as their own separate beings but to then go a step further and merge themselves with that same technology. Now, like in any good society, not everyone was keen on that idea and would rather remain as 'normal' human beings. I always wonder what they meant by "normal"; using such a word to describe humanity never resonated with me. Maybe that meant that I wasn't the "normal" they were trying to maintain.
I decided to wait until nightfall to continue on my way, since by then the sun wouldn't be melting my body into a puddle on the ground. I killed time by disassociating in the bar while the old man talked enough to make my ears bleed for days. Just when I thought he would never leave, he took a bathroom break. What an idiot. What if a customer decided they didn't want to pay and skipped town…
The cool summer night greeted my skin as I stepped outside. After stretching out my body, I carried on with my journey. I said that I was on my way back home, but in a way that was a lie; in this world, there is no place for me to call home. But that's the way I like it, this is my freedom.
I spent the next several days walking wherever the wind blew me, only stopping to rest every few days. Before I knew it I had wandered into the Junkyard; the Junkyard is classified as a lawless zone, and as the classification suggests, there are no laws and no law enforcers here. In my opinion, it should be renamed to the jungle since only the strongest can survive; it's every man for himself. The only law anyone goes by here is the law of the jungle. But in a way, the people here seem to have some sort of code of respect that they live by. Don't ask me what it is because I still haven't figured it out. As I walked through the disgustingly chaotic and aggressive street, a mixture of aromas began to assault my nose, smells I couldn't even begin the describe or even imagine the substance they were coming from. 'How can anyone live here like this?" I muttered to myself. Even though I had only been here for a total of five minutes, I already understood why this place was called a junkyard, but that was an understatement if I had ever heard one.
Walking through and catching the eyes of every beggar in the city forced me to clutch onto my bag so tight that if I held any tighter, the straps would start merging into my hands. I mean, it's not like I had anything of value for them to steal, but still, the environment gave me the chills and surprisingly made me feel like I might have accidentally put something valuable in my bag. "I just need to pass through here to get to the next big city. I just need to pass through here to get to the next big city." I repeated this to myself as a way to encourage myself to get through this unfortunate trial before me. Despite how it seems, the area isn't actually that big, so I should be able to make it out a bit after nightfall, although any sane person would probably find a place to spend the night rather than walk through a dangerous area in the evening. There was no way I was spending the night here though. Or so I thought.