There was no death for Thea and Cal, though they slept nigh 100 years. Cities slumped, like dusty graveyards, while farms and forests were transformed into a uniform, buzzing sprawl. For in this world, brash and fragile personas were an epidemic unto themselves, proximity a pathology for the disease. The Cure. The Cleansers. They claimed to have found in code "The Children of Perfected Reason." In metal frames, the guides to utopia. A sleep to heal the heartache, and a thousand natural shocks. In just a few decades, It was dragged eons from the beauty of their chambers. The Saints
It was at this moment that Thea and Cal awoke For sickness was no longer a foreign agent, their souls Its breeding ground. To each citizen, their own as a gift, a multiplicity of stars with a singular will: the Ushers. An equidistant gray grid. Their consolation? For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come. None such rest would grace the world outside. (NARRATOR)
To sleep, perchance to dream. The dreariest shadow of Eden to tend
In 2077, with the World Council adjourned, a solution was cosigned by its most powerful minds.