Present day. 2057.

    The north-east wind cut across the few remaining fields that surrounded Gunners Park, bringing with it little flurries of snow. Long-abandoned and now completely overgrown, many years had passed since this land yielded anything other than thistles and weeds. Only the decommissioned pylons remained, their galvanised skeletal frames seemingly impervious to the ravages of time. As landscapes go, it was as bleak as it was featureless, not a tree or hillock to break the acres of monotonous, grim nothingness. 

    In the distance, the stark silhouette of Mother City rose skyward, its cold and sepulchral presence dominating an otherwise empty horizon. Faceless grey buildings nestled amongst willowy, grey air-purification towers, a conglomeration of concrete monoliths, each one barely distinguishable from the other. Grey against yet more grey. 

    The coldest winter for nine years was still hanging on, reluctant to release its grip, its work as yet unfinished. It would be a little while longer before the next season would be ushered in.

    Plumes of smoke spilled from chimney stacks and the blades of makeshift wind generators spun enthusiastically, their chattering the only sound to be heard except for the moaning of the wind.

    On the driveway of a sizable, whitewashed property, an elderly man prodded and poked beneath the bonnet of an ancient pickup truck with an assortment of tools. Wearing a huge fur coat and leather cowboy-style hat, he would resurface from time to time to wipe his oil-covered hands on a piece of rag, and stare thoughtfully down at whatever it was that engrossed him. On the occasional trips that he made to the driver’s window, his movements were slow, and at times unsteady. Leaning in to crank the engine a few times, he would shake his head and mutter to himself as it coughed and died. So absorbed was he in his work that he failed to notice the impressively long and sleek black hover-car which had slowed down virtually to a standstill as it passed by, before swiftly accelerating away once more. Rounding the corner, it took a left turn into Gatling Drive, whereupon it headed towards its final destination, slowing down to skilfully negotiate a three-point turn immediately outside Number 7.

    Number 7, a modest ‘work in progress’ bungalow, was the last but one house along, and probably the smallest. Built largely from cement block, it would never quite manage to lose its industrial image despite being topped with a corrugated tin roof painted in olive green. However, like many of the other converted dwellings on what had been until the millennium an industrial estate, it shared what some would describe as a ‘rustic charm’. This was definitely not a sentiment shared by the passenger of the long, black machine which was now pulling up outside.

    As the engine was shut off, the car sank slowly to the ground with a pneumatic hiss, and save for the ticking of hot metal beginning to cool, was silent. Along one of its highly-polished sides, a door proceeded to open, sliding effortlessly towards the car’s rear. No sooner had it come to rest, then a tall and rather elegant figure climbed out and walked towards the driver’s window, stooping to rap on the glass with the handle of a walking cane. Only when the thin man seemed content that his instructions to the ferret-faced chauffeur had been fully understood, did he finally permit him to leave. His gaze followed the car as it lurched forward and sped away, before turning to look out across the barren fields to where the ghostly visage of the city loomed importantly, barely a couple of miles away. As always, he congratulated himself on his social standing within its walls, a great sense of pride swelling inside as he savoured the moment.

    With a spring in his step, he made his way towards a front door, which for as long as he could remember had been awaiting a top coat of paint to be applied to its dull cream primer. Set in a circular steel frame, a coloured glass window depicted a single pink rose, beneath which a small brass ‘7’ was held in place by two screws. For reasons he’d never quite understood (and never been interested enough to ask about), this numeral had at some point in the past been repositioned upside down. As before, and the time before that, the thin man shook his head and frowned.