Marriages broke up.
Some humans forgot how to speak.
Interaction with others grew into an art form.
ADD (Attention Deficit Disorders, and it’s High Definition variant, ADHD) became common place.
The Social Media war lasted ten days. It claimed over twenty million casualties – all over one idiotic comment a user left on someone’s video of their dog jumping from a roof into a paddling pool.
In 2068, Social Media was outlawed in a desperate bid to reverse the damage.
Popular “video” streaming sites were closed down.
People were forced to interact physically once again.
It was absolute chaos.
The events that followed the deregulation and subsequent “banning” of Social Media gave rise to the vastly superior concept of Individimedia.
Harnessing the same connectivity, Individimedia was an altogether different beast. Some experts argue that it went right where its predecessor went wrong.
Individmedia, simply put, espoused the virtues of individual broadcast and fame. It did not include the ability to comment or interact via those channels.
The result was a return to physical interaction. Today, Individimedia is installed on all human beings who were born after the year 2070. A simple piece of technology installed on the forearm of every human being.
It’s powered by micro pulses from the user’s brain. No need for batteries.
A simple tap on your skin, and the universe’s database of knowledge is at your disposal.
You can also broadcast yourself to others.
In the early part of the twenty-first century, the same people would have owned ridiculous devices such as “smart” phones (#irony, as the same imbeciles might have joked at the time – “smart”) and ghastly contraptions called tablets. Rectangular pieces of junk that rarely operated properly, if ever.
Thankfully, the only “tablets” users have today are the ones needed to contain their anxiety. We have Large Pharma for that.
God bless Large Pharma.
And God bless Individimedia.
Jamie and Emily sat in the back of another limousine making its way to the arena.
The back passenger window displayed a news reporter, the smartly dressed man with a powerful voice named Santiago Sibald, in the middle of an Individimedia newscast.
‘Tensions between the United States and Russia escalated earlier today when foreign diplomat minister, Viktor Rabinovich, was rushed to hospital after taking ill in a restaurant in Minneapolis Two.”
Shaky camera footage showed medicians operating a stretcher drone into the back of an air ambulance. Viktor lay unconscious on the stretcher with breathing apparatus over his face. The medicians slid their patient into the helicopter and flew away from the concerned onlookers.
“Unconfirmed reports speculate that Rabinovich had been poisoned with a toxic nerve agent,” Santiago continued as the footage wiped away to reveal his face. “If these assertions prove to be true, it could spell disaster for diplomacy between the United States and Russia, and unravel all attempts at peace. For more on this story, make sure you link up to my Individimedia channel. This is Santiago Sibald.”
“Poppet,’ Emily said, swiping the screen shut with her hand. “Pay attention. We’re nearly here.”
Jelly sat in her cage, toying with the bars.
“Mom, look,” Jamie said, pointing at the windshield. The arena, and surrounding fuss, crept into view. “There it is.”
“Oh, wow,” Emily leaned forward and suddenly felt the enormity of the ordeal thunder through her body. “There are thousands of them.”
Remy and his mother reached the doors to the arena and turned around for a final wave.
“Bisoubisou, Bisoubisou,” the crowd chanted the clear favorite contender of the day.
Remy held up the cage for the crowd. Most couldn’t see what lay behind the bars. Only those in the first few rows caught a glimpse of the gray, petrified cat wanting to be whisked away from the commotion.
“Hey,” a blue-haired man shouted from the railings. “Cease this cruelty right now.”
“Oh my,” Dreenagh said to her camera-drone, “What’s going on here? Looks like someone is making a go for Remy.”
The blue-haired man ushered his gang through the crowd and hopped over the railings, waving his placard at them.
“Is that who I think it is?” Dreenagh commentated, truning to the drone. “It looks like Handax Skill. We’re in trouble, now.”
“Bring that animal back here,” Handax threatened Remy.
“No,” the kid shouted in his thick Russian accent, “Leave us alone.”
The crowd went silent as the man held up his placard. The sign on the front contained a picture of the USARIC logo with a red strike through it. Underneath it in big, bold letters read:
The crowd choked with silence as the man reached into his jacket.
“This is an outrage,” Handax shot Dreenagh a look of evil, and then turned to his gang. “We will not lie down until USARIC reverses its decision to use animals for space exploration.”
“Death to human scum who practice inhumane treatment of animals,” screamed a female PAAC member.
She threw her placard to the ground and removed her denim jacket, revealing a vest stuffed with dynamite and wires tightened around her waist. “Good people, we cannot allow this corporate terriful practice to affect animals. Free the animals.”
The audience froze still, afraid to move. The armed security detail pointed their weapons at them. “Person! Raise your arms in the air and slowly lower yourself to your knees.”
“No,” the girl gripped her utility chain and threatened to yank it. “We demand satisfaction. Remy Gagarin, you have the facility and audience to do the right thing. In front of all Indivimedia, open the cage and let your pet free. Do the right thing.”
Remy, not knowing how to react, turned to his mother for a response. She spat at the floor and lowered her shade-wear down the bridge of her nose.
“Remy, do not listen to them. They are imbeciles.”
Contrary to his mother’s command, Remy set the cage to the floor. He didn’t want to die in a terrorist attack.
“That’s right,” the girl said with a smile, “Now open the cage—”
“—Person,” the main security guard roared, “I repeat, release the chain and put your arms in the air.”
Dreenagh’s drone zoomed over to the commotion several feet in the air, joining several dozens of others.
Jamie slid his thumb across the back passenger window, activating it.
“Individimedia Zero-oh-Five,” Jamie said.
The sheen on the glass sparked and displayed a live feed from the drone. The ticker-tape underneath read “Live From The One Arena, Cape Claudius. Terrorist Siege Underway.”
“Mom, look!” Jamie pointed at the screen, sending her mother into a hissy fit of anxiety. “It’s that man with the blue hair who gave us Jelly.”
“Driver?” Emily asked.