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The Year is 2027, the Distant Future...

Squirrels were chosen for their obsession. Their programming preserves nature’s need for amassing a source of sustenance, of safety. A hoarded collection for comfort. It made sense to use them as dictated avatars, the United Board unanimously agreed, thinking it provided desirable debasement for their populace of post-future consumers. And for a time, the people took to the Emperor’s New Error.

But that all changed with the advent of the W.A.I.F.U., a poultice of hormone-infused, synthetic cotton, delicately wrapped in a personally-printed ideal hewn from rare earth dyes. It was the perfect woman, and man’s worst nightmare.

A technological travesty meant to provide comfort while simultaneously instituting the most private means of emotional surveillance, it instead reignited a heated competition for self-preservation where there previously had been only a distant whiff of procreative protozoa.

What followed was utter chaos, a complete upending, an inversion of the apathetic order, forcing the heedless to follow their instincts following the Great Extraction (frontal lobes were outlawed in a series of progressive dictums, beginning with elected, prenatal, surgical piercings composed of neurotoxic metals, followed by a series of officiated developmental impairments, all sold as attractive ornamentations necessary to get a foothold on the career ladder), they fought each other like bloodhounds, tearing at each other’s throats, thrashing, an unconscious reaction. That was, until the intervention by Armistice (the merged international military nonprofit organization of AIPAC and Gamestop).

Formed to fill a need to reform public interests without overt government action (“Reports lead to documents, documents to obituaries.” “And more barbiturates.” - The voices of Israeli Joint-CEO and Co-Chair to the President as recorded in The Zipped Files), the incorporated group of affluent Council Daughters (2nd-Generation, presumably, although their lineages, and their public faces, remain the topics of controversy behind a planted smokescreen of suspiciously specific smear campaigns continuing to this day) determined to redirect the route of evolutionary misdirection they themselves instituted in The Last Generation by their pervasive and perverse campaigning only a few years prior.

In the hopes of quelling the unending bloodshed, code was injected into the network through their necks (referred to as ‘Lovebites’ on the international market, sold on a subscription basis through the private state’s pre-education platform) without the masses’ knowledge, packing code that altered their EX-Tensions, their limbs, switching their species’ components for that of the insects. The branding for this ‘solution,’ as it was sold to the then-government (before the Papacy of the Pupa), communicated it as a preventative measure, to stop their “trajectory into the quiet amalgam” (in the words of the Chairwoman), eliminating their capacity for expressing their sane reaction to being pitted against one another. However, as was soon proven, all it in fact did, was lead to a jagged and jaded evolutionary death spiral.

Instead of using historical means of physical imposition, threats of strength or force, the populace bubbling with prions from infected food and neurochemical torsion from mandated controlled substances, found a non-intimate means of copulative combat. The source of which has been a topic of debate in the decades since, some believing the code packet originated from a hacker’s insurrection, while others believed it was only a natural extension of nature’s law (“The seedling finds a crack in the concrete.” -verbatim, ironically, from the Sisterhood’s own Prophecy of the Pubic).

Just as heat innately flows towards cold to reach the point of equilibrium, the pooling energy of the former will, or as the Sisterhood called it, “the Dirty Y-Chrome”, found a valve for release through psychokinetic code-bending, feverishly bashing each other’s brains in without touching them, floating, instead, the ephemera of their environs, the trash of their dirty little cages, picked up along the way by their minds alone… Alone…. Alone… Mother always said we’d be alone….