image by Ville Kallio

post-ecocide

Columns of lime green and neon pink glow between sleek corporate shrines. Light curves around these structures—gorgeously designed, immaculately maintained—temples to the beverage-sippers and hand-shakers: creatures of Value.

These things—not so much flesh and blood as they are twisted effigies to enterprise—facilitate, oversee, macro-manage the machinations of contemporary society. Traditional bodily fluids have long been out of vogue in these circles, often replaced by whatever hot new synthetic hormones are currently trending.

A nearby array of vending machines flashes a dazzling, rippling kaleidoscope, showcasing a mixture of luxury branded Peptides and Mechano-Growth Factors; sealed, bottled in flashy and easy-to-ingest packages.

These hot and sexy chemicals course through the various appendages, upgrades, downgrades, enhancements, extenders, elongators, stretchers, morphers, and other enhancements which embellish the creatures, transforming them into beautiful symphonies of Metal and Plastic. Here, augmentation is not simply for practicality’s sake; it is high art—a reflection of the individual’s tastes and sensibilities.

Bursts of blinding and brand-recognizable colours stream along every surface, etching their shapes into the retinas of the unequipped. Those of particularly low valuation, unable to afford light-protection, have these shapes burned into their flesh. In the boardrooms above, a creature chuckles:

“Bearing our logos, they have acquired more value.”

“They are not long for this world anyway”, another replies,

“So hyped up on inhalants and drinkables—they do not feel, nor hear nor smell, the char of the atmosphere.”

This was true. As the years continue to stretch post-ecocide, the char has only continued to increase in its ferocity. It was hard to imagine a time without it.

As the years continue to stretch post-ecocide, the char has continued to increase in its ferocity. It is hard to recall a time without it. Historians have often referred to this time as a confused era—a period of Disorientation, Demoralization, Anxiety, and Accountability. Ironically, humanity found that it was only when they gave up in their futile attempts to reduce it, and learned to truly embrace the plastic, that they finally began to thrive. United in their affront to God, Nature, Land, Soil, and anything else outside the core tenets of Metal and Plastic, they were able to achieve the ultimate Transaction: to trade what they once called “life”, for the promise of continued existence.

Of course, this collaboration was short-lived. Where there is supply, there must also be demand. Where excess exists, so must scarcity.

As the Fanta rain corroded rock and plastic below, a new world was carved. Earth has been pragmatized—its land reshaped again and again, until it has become a reflection of its worth: as pure commodified value.

The econo-futurists have devised a formula which assimilates data from any and all markets; consolidating all bubbles, crashes, rises, dips—into an averaging trend of perfect calibrated neutral, beginning from the advent of supply and demand, to the end of it—encapsulating all of relevant time and being. They have built a faith around this concept, with the trendline sitting at the centre of it all—as a sort of deity.

And with religion, came art. Through this rapidly popularising system of belief, a new sort of aesthetic revolution was spawned; one which revolved around a reimagining of the pastoral. The art market became saturated; richly symbolic landscapes echoing of ancient renaissance works—depicting approximations of long-extinct bulls and bears, frolicking in deep valleys and lofty peaks. Of course, the movement soon became commercialised, as all successful things do, and it wasn’t long before enlisted econo-vestals were plastered across the wall-screens, coddling swaddled calfs in one arm, whilst sipping from the latest drinkables in the other.

Sex, of all kinds, though sprawled across every drone and lit surface, remains a topic that is somewhat taboo, with the darkest corners of it only discussed behind proxies and hidden screens, fervently, by no-lifers and deep dwellers. Although the epoch of pop-sex saw meteoric rise in the early centuries of the past millennia, it faded just as quickly as it came. As mainstream culture brooded in its collective post-coital dysphoria, a revelation was eventually reached: “Where’s the fun in it,” people pondered, “if there’s no shame involved?”

The scraping of steel on steel fills steel chambers as one of the executives stands.

With six limbs, it locomotes smoothly in spite of its jagged appearance, a dark mass suspended by thin crab legs. The head extends from it, perched upon a skeletal steel spine, peering down.

it joins its peers along the boardroom window. Brows furrow.

"Not enough."

High above the clouds, the only things visible against the crimson red sky are scrapers of similar prominence, and the neon beams of ads which descend intermittently from the exosphere.

"We must press forward. Opportunities dwindling. Lean forward. Position aggressively."

An executive churns, acrid liquid bubbling from its oesophagus.

"Shareholders won't like it. Pushed too deep already. Almost in the red."

Another hisses.

"Unheard of. Unheard of."

Some join in, like a nest of snakes disturbed.

"Enough." Black eyes dart left, then right.

"We hold a vote. Control the quorum. Not enough of them. More of us."

Hushed whispers between the executives.

"Findings show. Risk for reward. Promote growth."

Its cold talon taps the chrome table, reverberating.

"Cannot stagnate. The only way. Progress or death. Press forward. Press forward."

"Press forward. Press forward."

The mantra is repeated until all are chanting it, building into a cruel, metallic chorus that fills the boardroom chamber, down the steel halls, and across the penthouse floor.