#it's so hard to find enclosures for giants where people actually give them space and climbing opportunities

[amazingpetenclosures]

Reticulated python enclosure by Sid James

#reticulated python #snakes #herps #it's so hard to find enclosures for giants where people actually give them space and climbing opportunities

[neonthewrite]

The Keys to Happiness

Hey folks! I was going to try to do the prompt "Instrument" yesterday but developed a headache that made writing super hard. So it's here today instead! For this prompt I returned to some characters I made for the Far From Home universe, owned and created by @therealbrigeedarocks (with some extra fun over at @askfarfromhome).

The first story with these characters can be found here: Gossip Girl

This one is set sometime early in their time together. If you're unfamiliar with FFH, this is your disclaimer that it deals with the Pet Trope.

~~~

Mindy’s eyes were still puffy from an earlier burst of emotions she couldn’t really help. She stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the bars of her cage and staring across the open space in there with her. She had some basic furniture, things that came with her from the shop, a “human starter kit” they’d called it. A bed, a small sofa, and even a table with a chair were arranged somewhat haphazardly in there. All part of the package in which Mindy had been the central prize.

She thought back to another time, when she’d gone to a carnival with her family. There had been a booth giving out goldfish in little bags. She’d even tried to win one, but her raffle ticket was never called.

She hadn’t seen her home in a few years now. Back home, humans were normal. Here, they were pests, or pets, just little things to be bought up by a carnival and given out as raffle prizes.

A week prior, Mindy became just that. She hated the shop where she’d spent so much time being gawked at by giants as a potential pet to bring home, but her friends were there. People, humans just like her who had found themselves in a world of giants that easily locked them up in cages and put price tags on their very existence. They always joked, fantasized about getting to leave that place.

And then a few of them did. The carnival had bought some of them up as soon as it arrived in town. Mindy didn’t even get to spend time with her fellow raffle prizes, instead being packed up on her own with her starter kit and a little profile about her (as if most of the denizens of Tergaia would actually give a single shit about what she was like).

At least the ticket that won her hadn’t been bought by a family. It was just one guy, and the flat beyond the bars of her cage screamed “bachelor pad”. So she only had to deal with one giant talking at her, bringing her home and promising to spruce up her cage with better things than the starter kit. He even took her out of the cage frequently when he was home, though she spent an unnerving amount of time in his hands (“Just t’ get ye used to me, lass. Don’ wanna do ye wrong not knowin’ how to hold ye”).

When he wasn’t home, though, she found herself restless and so, so alone. She got used to being in the human enclosure at the shop. There, one could always find someone nearby to talk to or just to be near when the world felt too heavy. There, they had some amenities for entertainment, and she could play the rickety little piano for her fellow humans.

The thought threatened to make her cry again. With a huff, Mindy pushed herself off the bars and stalked over to the doorway into the little bathroom Alban had purchased and attached to the cage. Magic in this world was so commonplace, it hardly surprised her anymore that they could hook up a fully functional room like that with seemingly no plumbing attachment.

However they did it, she had a sink she could use to splash water on her face. It helped a bit, scrubbing at her face with long, tapered fingers, hands that she’d actually insured back home for her blooming career. Her hands had been the tool of her trade, and now they were just little things to fascinate the giants that ran the world here. Alban had, more than once, propped up one of her hands on just a fingertip to see the contrast between the two. Her warm brown skin stood out against his pale fingerprint, and she couldn’t even cover the whole fingertip if she spread her hand wide.

According to him, he’d never even planned to have a human. Someone else had bought him the raffle ticket. Icing on the terrible cake that was her new life.

As she dried off her face, she heard the increasingly familiar sound of the flat’s lock clicking back. Alban was home from wherever he’d gone off too. Mindy thought about stepping out to greet him, just to have someone to talk to, and then decided to hell with it. She was going to take her time in that bathroom, even though she really didn’t have anything else to do. It sounded like he was preoccupied anyway, as he didn’t even call for her before opening up the packaging on whatever he’d gone and bought. Familiar sounds, but so much bigger than she remembered.

After a few minutes of studiously ignoring him, Mindy was surprised to hear a telltale approach, punctuated by a slight rumble under her feet as he arrived at the former hall table that now held her cage. “Mindy? You in there, lass?”

With a sigh, she shut off the water and headed out of her little bathroom to stare up at him. “Where else would I be?” She was usually quite guarded with him. Even now she couldn’t help crossing her arms and bunching up her shoulders a bit out of nerves.

He grinned down at her, somehow looking a bit nervous himself. She noticed, belatedly, that he had his hands behind his back. “Dinna want t’rush ye, but I got ye somethin’ today. If you wanna see it.”

It disarmed her wariness, if only a bit. Her shoulders relaxed. “For me?”

Alban nodded and his hands shifted. Mindy imagined new clothes, or maybe some fancier furniture than her starter kit to make her cage a bit less spartan. It was a toss-up whether he’d gotten something she even liked. She watched as his hands came into view, hastily coming together again to better cradle the object he’d brought.

Mindy’s heart did odd little flips.

It was a grand piano. Lacquered wood gleamed in the overhead light, simple but sturdy legs perched on Alban’s hands. The keys themselves were like grains of rice to him, but Mindy’s hands twitched at the sight of something familiar. It was a really nice piano and she could hardly believe she was seeing it. She hadn’t seen one that nice since her last concert before being whisked away from the world she knew.

“Alban, that’s, um,” Mindy stammered, unsure what she ought to say.

“The profile they gave me with ye said ye like music,” Alban explained. “An’ the starter kit left that out, but ye seemed so bored an’ I thought this might help.”

Mindy considered his words. She’d still be spending most of the daylight hours locked up whenever Alban wasn’t home. She had only whatever was in her cage to occupy her. If that piano ended up being all she had for entertainment …

That’d be just fine.

“I think it’ll probably help, yeah,” she said, finally allowing herself a smile. She wouldn’t have anyone to play for anymore, but that was okay. She could play for herself. “I, um. Thank you, Alban. It’s really nice.”

Alban grinned again and gently set the piano aside on an open space on the table so he could open up the cage. “I know ye must not be lyin’, that’s the happiest I’ve seen ye. Come on out and give it a go, lass. We can rearrange yer stuff t’make room for it later, aye?”

Mindy didn’t try to play it casual as she hurried for the opening. “Aye,” she said, trying to mimic his brogue and not quite managing it. “This’ll do.”

#gtjuly #gtjuly2023 #mywriting #mindy & alban #far from home #far from home fanfiction #tergaia #gt #g/t #giant tiny #pet gt #g/t handheld

[glitchvault74]

This Terrible, Stupid Man Should Not Be Left Alone or He Will Die

A dreamless black, a mind unaware, a world outside his little box slowly succumbing to entropy... The rust eats through an iron railing... It creaks, whines, unstable.

It crashes, ringing in a sharp note like a bell.

He jumps in his box, eyes flying open as “my tea!” flies from his lips, followed prompt by a thud “Ow!” of his head hitting the top of his enclosure. He blinks, vision blurry and mind foggy. This isn’t his home. What’s going on...?

He pushes on the ceiling above him, but there’s no give. He scoots to one side and pushes on the wall. It falls open, and he rolls out and lands on his knees with a hiss from the dull pain now living in his knees. He sits there for a moment until it passes and then climbs to his feet.

Dark... Some light, some faint glows. He wanders towards it like a moth to a flame. Strange world... Unfocused vision... A dream...?

He lands at a terminal and hits a key and stares at the random string of characters.

What the heck is this supposed to be...?

He clicks at random, squinting and frustrated as he can’t process whatever is being said besides the sure sign he got locked out temporarily. Try again later... He wanders away in the meantime.

He shuffles like the undead through... wherever he is. Slow, lethargic, jerky yet dragging. Like he hasn’t moved in ages... Something’s odd here, but the world is quiet and still.

Another terminal. Or the same one...? He stares at the text, trying to puzzle out what it is. Letters correct?? No letters correct??? What?????

He gives up after the third try and keeps looking. There’s weird shapes that look vaguely person shaped. It’s too hard to focus...

Third terminal. Or perhaps a second after the same one twice. Perhaps the same one thrice. ...No, the room is different. It’s a new one. He can sort of make out the words and things this time... He selects something. Stares and puzzles out another one... He goes through his four attempts. He can try again later. He yawns and stumbles off, still unthinking...

He sees a sign, written in letters larger than he is tall, higher than he can reach... “Vault 113 - Welcome”. Huh. Weird....

One more terminal... He stares at the words for several seconds before making his selection. He narrows it down by the third attempt. Hacked. He’s in. New words, too many for him to understand. He selects something at random, something something words he’s too out of it to read or whatever. He stares helplessly at the screen, waiting for something to happen of its own accord.

Something happens.

Something clicks nearby. Hisses. Shifts. Light pours in and he shields his eyes but heads for it. Death? Is that you? Finally come to—

He walks out into a world he’s unfamiliar with. It’s bright, empty, quiet. In the sunlight he looks down and sees the blue jumpsuit he’s dressed in. The weird, bulky thing on his wrist. He blinks and shakes his wrist, trying to loosen the bulky thing and make it fall off. It doesn’t budge. He pulls at it, pushes, messes with the buttons and knobs and ends up with random words and sounds he can’t process. He gives up when some numbers at the bottom flash 01.01.1970 and 00:00. He’ll figure it out later.

He walks along, a lone wanderer, in search of others. Hopefully not a sole survivor... Where is he...? Where was he...? The last thing he remembers... At home, with his roommate... At home, roommate gone... Ushered to leave... Something...

He comes across rusted metal giants... Structures and old machines, worn away by time. Old railroad tracks, abandoned railway cars... He keeps going, mind waking slowly, slowly, slowly...

He stops and stares as he sees a group of people approaching... the weird animals with them. The... The... The things they’re carrying, whatever those are... His head hurts... He holds it and crouches down, in sudden pain... What’s going on...?

“...Hey?” someone calls at him, from a safe distance. He looks up and sees a woman watching. “Are you okay?”

He stares. “...wha—” His voice cracks and he stops himself. He holds his throat, feeling like it’s the first time he’s spoken in days...

“You’re from a Vault?” she asks, slowly approaching. “How long have you been out...?”

“Vault?” he asks. “Been...?”

“You need help getting somewhere safe...?”

“...Ye—” His voice croaks again. “Yeah...”

“Can you walk?”

He stands again and stumbles forward, but manages to regain his balance and walks slightly more steadily. “Yeah. Yeah...”

The woman watches him, uncertain. “What’s your name? You know anyone we can help you find?”

He squints. What’s his...? Help him...? “Rig... Miller.... Rig Miller.”

“Rig?” she asks. “Well, alright, Rig. You can head with us to the next settlement. You look like you need a tutorial on how things work out here.”

He blinks. What? His name isn’t— The woman already turns around and lets him follow, and she’s calling to the others that “This is Rig” and, oh, wonderful, it’s too late to correct the mix-up.

What happened? This is not the world he remembers... He glances at the woman. ...That’s a weird looking gun.

...Vaults sound familiar... What were they for again...? He was in a vault... 113... 

“You got any skills, Rig?” the woman asks.

“No,” he says without thinking.

“...Well, shit, son, you’re not going to be much use around here if you don’t learn some.”

“Just woke up,” he says. “Bad at brain thinking. Everything’s blubber.”

She gives him a look. “Either you’re not sober, or you’ve got fifteen concussions all at once.”

“Yes,” he says. He hesitates. “...No? Fiv-got.... Six at most...”

She chuckles once, short but amused. “Next settlement should have a doc. We’ll have ‘em look you over if you can last that long. We’re not going to go out of our way to protect you, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay...”

He walks along, somehow keeping up the entire time. The sun passes across the sky, and he finds himself waking up more as they go. The woman walks with him the entire time, telling him about the history of things, catching him up on everything he doesn’t know about, which is quite a few things. There was a war, no one won, everything was thrown into nuclear hellfire, and now it’s 2288, and something or something?? He soaks it all up like a sponge already laden with water, but stays quiet for the entire walk save for small indications whether or not he knows things she asks him if he knows. He knows nothing. He’s an ignorant puppy pal friend about everything. They eventually stop to rest for the night.

“You think he understood anything you were rambling about today with that concussion of his?” another caravan member asks, passing food to his helpful teacher of the day.

She splits her meal in half and hands him some. He shakes his head. Not hungry. She frowns but shrugs and keeps his portion. “Well, if he didn’t, there’s others who can tell him all this all over again. I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“You sure you didn’t see that other caravan guard?” the caravan member asks. “He went off ahead didn’t he? And we found a vault dweller instead?”

“Apparently,” the woman says. “The other guard probably got lost. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually.”

“How you feeling, Rig?” the caravan member asks. “You look more active now than before. Nocturnal? Is that what the vault experiment was?”

“Experiment?” he asks. He blinks. “I... don’t know?”

“Vault 113, right?” the woman asks. “According to your jumpsuit. How long ago did you end up there? Or were you born there?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I don’t remember going there. I woke up in a box inside. I— Fff— Buh— I don’t remember anything that happened there...”

The caravan member frowns. “What do you remember before waking up...? What year was it...?”

He racks his brain. “I was... At home with my roommate... It was 2070-something... Something happened and things got shaky and loud and I was told to leave... Or was that later...? I don’t remember seeing—” He frowns. “I don’t know where my friend went... He wasn’t there when... what happened to happened had happened...”

The woman and the caravan member share a look. They don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what they’re thinking and doesn’t try to guess...

“What was it like in 113?” the woman asks.

“Dark,” he says. “I was dizzy waking up... No idea what I was doing or where I was going or what was there. Just messed around with terminals and stuff until a door opened and I left.”

“That doesn’t sound—” The caravan member shuts up at the woman’s stern look. “Alright,” he says. “You’ll be out of our hair tomorrow, at least.”

“So it’s been over 200 years?” he asks. He rubs his chin and jumps at the scratchy hairs. “I have stubble?”

The woman frowns. “Do you need to shave?”

“It took me 200 years to grow only stubble?!”

“...Is that a no?”

“I can never shave,” he groans. “It won’t ever grow back! 200 years! Stubble!”

“I don’t think that’s the rea—” The caravan member cuts himself off again. “Well, we can’t all grow hair overnight...?”

The woman sighs. “Just... If you’re not going to eat, go get some sleep, Rig. Promise, we’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave.”

He leans back until he tips onto the ground and lies there, staring up at the star-filled sky. ...At least that’s kind of pretty...

The woman and the caravan member share a look. Neither of them say a word, and they both give “Rig” some space.

...Rig watches the sky the entire night. He watches the stars move across the sky and start to fade, and he thinks the entire night. About his situation. About what may have happened. About what he may be missing. About the actual Rig Miller and what happened... He was supposed to go with him... somewhere... Vault 113, maybe? Is he still there...? Did he leave his friend behind...? Did he make it there...? Did he survive the... what was it...? A war? Wow. An entire war that changed everything and he doesn’t remember it or what happened or anything or whatever happened or anything or—

The sun starts to rise and someone shuffles up to him, and he props himself up on his elbows to look at them. The caravan member startles but then looks like he was expecting this.

“Help us pack up,” he says. “You can at least do that much, right?”

Rig nods and climbs to his feet to do as told.

He can follow instructions.

He’s good at that.

The woman doesn’t talk with him at all the rest of the trip. No one does. He spends the rest of the walk in his own head while occasionally tuning into the conversations the others are having. Something about synths? Something about danger? Something about leaving him as soon as they get to the settlement for the people there to deal with?

Sure. Whatever. He knows some of those words.

Aforementioned settlement approaches on the horizon. The first 24 hours awake will come to a close soon enough, or so he estimates...

The numbers on the weird thing on his wrist still flash 01.01.1970 and 00:00.

...That was supposed to be the date, wasn’t it?

Whoops. Hopefully he didn’t break anything else useful on this thing...

———

[Next]

Written with help from @falloutglow​

#Rig Miller #story #The System is Rigged #art

[gretchensinister]

Well, since one of my friends ( @tejoxys ) said he’d be willing to hear my disdain for magical realism, that’s enough for me to have a go at writing this out. (Also I’m not focused or horny enough to work on my other WIP, so there’s that.)

So. I don’t enjoy reading magical realism, and I wouldn’t write it on purpose. Perhaps I might write something that has a little bit of the magical realism “feel” if it was a poem or something very short, say, less than 200 words (i.e. no time for worldbuilding, little space for many characters or reactions to anything). That’s about as much as I would be able to write in that genre as I understand it, and that’s about as much as I’d like to read it, as well.

But what is my understanding of magical realism? I mean, maybe I’m really off base and fans of the genre can show me that what I don’t like isn’t inherent to it (note: unless you’re someone I’ve talked to before, please don’t try this). And because this is just me saying things, I’ll bring my frustrations in with the explanation.

Magical realism is the genre that most accurately represents the feeling of being in an ordinary, non-lucid dream to me, and that’s a negative to me. In a dream, I’ll accept that I have to play flute in a Christmas concert in a foreign country even though I’ve never rehearsed with the band, and I’ll accept the other members of the band acting like of course I was there at the rehearsals and acting like it’s weird that I don’t know the songs now (or not reacting to my atrocious playing, even though I’m horribly embarrassed about it). Or, in a dream, I’ll accept that bathroom stalls don’t have doors and that it’s normal for people to seek me out in a bathroom to have pointless conversations with me when all I want is privacy. I’ll accept that at work I’ve been given sole responsibility for a giant tortoise that I’ve had no training to take care of, and that keeps escaping from its enclosure somehow.

I say “accept” but that’s far too positive for the feelings that such dreams. In these dream situations, I get stressed, embarrassed, ashamed. What I accept in the dream is the premise, and in the dream I don’t ask why any of this is happening, and I don’t ever get to say “actually, fuck this” and leave the situation that is causing so many bad feelings. (Note: I never recall any knowledge of consequences for not going along with the dream scenarios, just that it would be “bad.”)

Being able to ask “why” about any situation I am in, and being able to leave an intolerable situation (especially a pointless one) are very important to me. Even if I’m unable to leave, it’s vital to me to either be able to try to leave, to be able to think of trying to leave, or at least to understand or try to understand why I’m in this situation to begin with.

What I have seen of magical realism so often shows characters that don’t ask why, or don’t even think of leaving or understanding the situations that they are in. To me, this throws me back into the frustration of dreams. But it also gives me the feeling of being thrown back into a prison that I have worked very hard to escape from.

I know it’s difficult to live in the world. I know it’s complicated! But resigned acceptance isn’t how I want to meet the difficulties or the complications! Any kind of acceptance isn’t how I want to meet the difficulties or complications.

You know the comic with the “this is fine” dog in the burning house? It’s funny because of the complete wrongness of the dog saying that, and because it’s relatable to anyone who’s had things go completely off the rails, but for whatever various reasons has thought or pretended that things were really okay. It’s a metaphor and a joke.

What I feel like happens in magical realism settings is that you’d have a house that’s constantly on fire but it’s not burning down. The main character is constantly covered in burns but people barely notice, or they say things like “have you tried aloe?” When MC says “my house is constantly on fire,” people are like “oh yeah, that must be really inconvenient.” But they don’t do anything about it, nor do they try to verify that this incredibly weird statement is true. The setting isn’t one where anyone would expect this to be true, but no one reacts as if MC is making a joke or lying, either. Maybe MC mentions that they can’t stay in hotels anymore because it’s too expensive, and that they can’t go to the homeless shelter because they still have a house. Maybe MC will mention that they can’t sell their house because it’s constantly on fire. Maybe they’ll mention that the fire department has stopped answering their calls, but they still call them and read fragments of poetry on the non-emergency line, or sit in silence until someone hangs up, or something equally ridiculous.

No scientists will be interested in the house that is constantly on fire, and if they are, they’ll like. Promise to investigate and never come back. Maybe reporters come to check out the house that’s constantly on fire, and this results in people finally coming to see it, but trying to put out the fire doesn’t work and it becomes a tacky sideshow that MC has to navigate on their way to work and now their yard is full of trash and they have no privacy. Maybe, as a special bonus, MC is assaulted by the people who came to stare at the house when they make a last desperate attempt to put out the fire.

“Ah,” we are supposed to think, sagely, “it is terrible how the mental health system fails people.”

Except I don’t think that, because I’m pissed off. A) about the mental health system, or sexism, or abuse, or whatever it’s ~really~ about—it’s never fun, and I KNOW THAT THINGS THAT SUCK, SUCK. Please stop beating me with a stick wrapped in vagueness. B) That wasn’t magical, and it wasn’t realistic because it wasn’t magical.

What I see in many things labelled magical realism are metaphors that are real enough to cause problems for the main characters but not real enough to cause the problems or lead to the solutions that they might if they were literal for everyone who might encounter them.

People might not care about or understand your depression, and that’s bad, a problem in itself, and a symptom of many other problems. But if your house is ON FIRE and inexplicably not burning down, it’s MUCH more realistic for people to be interested in something that weird. It completely fucks up thermodynamics! (Or, if sometimes this just happens, and it is, again, literal fire, real people would have built steam turbines on top of these burning houses. Perhaps there would be court cases regarding how to compensate people who have inexplicably burning houses.) But if this is the first time that it happened? People would be freaking out! Again, if this is literal fire, I feel like people would come together to find MC another place to live. That there’d be some lawyer willing to do some pro bono work to figure out how to get MC out of any mortgage or any liability regarding the house (and maybe to get them some profits from a constant source of heat from no additional fuel). If it was both magic (literal fire) and realistic (people caring about WTF is going on), yes, there would be a lot of bureaucratic BS to get through but it would also lead to a MASSIVE change in our understanding of the world.

I’d be interested in that. But I think that having characters that act like people and trying to imagine the world after a weird change would make the story fantasy or science fiction instead.

Hm. I think now that perhaps my dislike of magical realism and satire come from the same place—they’re both saying “hey. The status quo is fucked up.” And I KNOW. And if I don’t know I’d rather read good investigative journalism about it rather than trying to dig through a novel’s worth of metaphors! Things are fucked up? I want to see how people imagine things might be different—better, worse, weirder, anything. And I want to see people be people. And that means trying to solve problems. Maybe not successfully. Definitely not without obstacles. But people will try.

Or maybe I just don’t have any poetry in my soul or whatever and I’m too much of a problem solver and scientist to actually have empathy or some shit.

#rambling #what is a blog for if not to say things like this

[startrekvigilant]

Earth in the year 2395 functions in a very different manner to any other comparable society we've known. It's a constantly moving wash of cultures and species. It's a utopia, but the point of this show is making the audience understand that even a utopic society can have corruption.

Since First Contact, vulcans have helped humans get back on their feet, and after a century of cleaning up the mess we made of each other and the planet, Earth is a comforting and enjoyable place to be. Maslow's hierarchy of needs is always fulfilled when an individual needs it, there's no longer capitalism so there's no need to slave away at a job you despise to survive. 

People work because they find joy in it, people interact because they want to.

In the 24th century privacy is sacred, and if you need to be alone it's just as easy to find as it is to be sociable. Keep in mind the sheer amount of destruction the combined forces of the Eugenics Wars, WWIII, and the Dystopian Years did to the planet. Many places are unrecognizable, destroyed, changed, built up or completely abandoned. Many parts of the globe are still hazardous wastelands, some have been bombed completely off the map. 

So what I'm trying to get at is that earth is structured into four main parts.

Most of the area in the world is made up of empty space as 90% of the current population reside in heavily built-up urban areas. The total population of Earth is kind of impossible to tell since many people are coming and going so quickly, however, there is about 9 billion individuals who claim earth as their permanent place of residence, meaning they live on the surface for most of the earth year. 

These people live all over - cities, suburbs, farms, etc. But just please remember the world is a much different place. No one cares about countries, or nationalities or passports in the same way we do now. 

This doesn't mean they no longer exist! It's just a formality now. Think of it like the brontosaurus. We know now that these creatures were actually a mix up of two separate creatures and eventually re-categorized them - but the name stuck. It's the same way for the places on a map. 

Borders and state lines don't actually exist, but we still refer to places as "The Canadian/American border" because we have for so long. "Canada" and "The United States of America" aren't real places, they're just names we use to describe certain surroundings. 

All of earth is accessible and no human is illegal. 

Turns out people move around on the surface in fairly predictable patterns. Ribbons of human movement flow through habitable parts of the planet like rivers, and certain areas build up into impossible numbers. These huge areas crammed full of people are referred to as a megalopolis. 

in other areas of the globe, sometimes surrounding a megalopolis and sometimes not, there are rows upon rows of homes commonly referred to a "The Endless Suburbia." Where these rivers of human populace taper out, there is only the pristine and cared for ecosystems, untouched wilderness and organized farmland. 

The Wilderness

in the aftermath of WWIII, when the bombs finally stopped and society collapsed, human structures were engulfed by nature once more, and the planet began to take back a part of itself. Centuries later, these parts of the world are vast expanses unchecked old-growth forests and ecosystems. Yet remember the wilderness isn't empty of human activity - many on Earth still chose the Wild over civilization, or live a nomadic life outside of the monolithic cities and the endless rows of houses that surround them, living in these parts of the globe on traditional homesteads and campgrounds. The possibility of meeting another human without prior planning is slim. Much of the planet is empty space, wide open spaces where nature is finally able to heal itself. 

mega + metropolis = megalopolis

typically defined as a chain of roughly adjacent metropolitan areas, coined approximately around 1915. In 2395 it's a term used to describe behemoth cities, towering into the atmosphere. They're a whirl of movement at every given time, filled with humans and aliens alike. Earth is the home of the federation after all, and these places really prove that. They exist all over the world and each one is vastly different from the other. it's a mishmash of strong human cultures and strange new alien ones. There are people everywhere. But there are also many parks, trees, gardens, and overall greenery. But the buildings are what make up everything, with hardly any horizon or break to it. For someone not used to it, it could give a person horrible vertigo.

Megalopolis' are made up of levels on a scale of 1-9.

In a level one section of a city, interaction between people is quiet and minimal. A very kind place to overwhelmed human beings or shy new arrivals. It's where many the of the senior homes and nurseries are found, as well as where the sleep pods originate - small and private enclosures with a bed and covers. They have padded walls, touch screens and dim lighting, designed to keep a single person safe and warm for however long they need.

As the levels go higher, so to does the social engagement. Level two has beautiful cafes and libraries; level three is what we would consider the shopping district, but in a society that has little to no concept of capitalism, it operates itself in a very different way. The overall feel to it is that of a giant mall - complete with food courts and window shopping. 

Levels 5-7 have the best bars, restaurants, and dance clubs. It's where a majority of people live, and host some of the more famous landmarks. Level 8 have intricate, beautiful gardens and first class dining experiences. It's the most romantic of all the levels, with cascading fountains and winding canals. 

Level 9 is for adults only. It's where the brothels are, where free love is found willingly and you're never really alone, baby. Level 9 is a place of excess, a never ending pride parade. Many festivals and concerts happen on level 9, and it always kind of feels like it's your birthday when you're there.

Now when I say level, I don't mean one stacked on top of the other per se, but the general idea is that each of these cities on earth are divided up into the nine sections similarly, even though each megalopolis is unique from the other. These places are always changing, moving and growing like an organic creature. It's easy to move from one level to the other, or jump between them. There are huge transporting stations on each level, with people phasing in and out constantly, from any and every different place on earth. The skies are filled with movement, shuttle pods and flying cars, zooming about different regions of the stratosphere. There is no real ground level, it all just meshes together.

Endless Suburbia

Exactly like it sounds. Just huge swaths of land stretching out for miles, all filled with houses. It looks a lot like what suburbia does today, except without roads or fences. It's beautiful well kept front yards, with criss-crossing walkways to connect them. The homes are pristine, either filled with families who have been living there for years, or completely empty, waiting for someone who needs to use a roof over their head. There are parks and nature reserves, but mostly it's row upon row of backyards and homes of every different size and style.

the things we consider private property in the 21st century (houses, cars, yards, etc) have taken new forms after the centuries of dramatic changes on earth. There are no more roads; all that activity takes place stratosphere. You'd think that would cause havoc on the weather, and you'd be right! Except for the fact that according to Gene Roddenberry (CITATION NEEDED) Humanity now has the power to control the weather...possibly thanks to the vulcans? Anyway the daily traffic of people coming and going happens too high to disturb the local fauna, flora and person. But what happens if there's a crash, or an explosion? That's what shields are for, dummy! Starfleet uses the same technology to protect  starships that hold the same amount of people as a local township in endless suburbia, so it's feasible to think there's this similar bubble over heavily population regions on earth.

Looking at a map today it's hard to distinguish where these regions would be...I know for sure the main one is in North America, Starting in Alaska, it cuts through western Canada, the central united states, ending in south eastern Mexico. the east coast of the American continent is in ruins. Some of it is still irradiated. the western coast is similar but on a much smaller scale. the Megalopolis' in North America are located around the great lakes, and several are in the arctic circle. 

FARM COUNTRY

of course earth would still be producing food the traditional way, agriculture is still an essential part of human society, it's physically changed the landscape of the planet. Most of the southern west coast of North America (Turtle Island) is made up of these hundreds of thousands of individual and collectively owned farms.

The countries that used to make up most of the middle east and some of south west Africa are drastically different after the events of the eugenics war, world war three, and the dystopian years that followed until First Contact. The east coast of North America - from New York to Florida - was hit particularity hard in the War Years, and in fact much of the major metropolitan areas on the coast are still considered to have dangerous levels of radiation that it is still healing from.  

However, even though the areas from Southern BC extending to the gulf of California were also bombed during the war years,  the damage was not nearly as extensive as the east coast. As a result, this area was able to recover much more quickly, with added thanks to the combined efforts of both humans and vulcans during the Great Rebuilding. 

#original content #writing #this is a lot of my own speculation but also is seen in canon as well #star trek #to be edited #long post