<div class="title-screen">
<p>Welcome to the Game. Welcome to the future. Welcome to</p>
<h1 class="glitch" data-text="PROJECT EDEN">PROJECT EDEN</h1>
[[Start Game->Home]]
</div>The year is 2XXX, a time far removed from the prospect of humanity traveling to the stars or conquering the wide array of distant planets. Yet it is also a time far enough into the future that your average citizen, if asked, could not tell you the old formations or list the names of the states of Old North America, long since split in two during the event known as The Reclamation. Few could explain how the province of Fray came to be.
But here you are, an individual stuck on a desolate rock, on a fractured continent, in the town of Fray.
The street before you is one you roamed through during your childhood. Nav Drive, the road that leads to your home, is littered with potholes, and trash lines both sides of the sidewalks. Crushed cans, brittle plastic wrappers, and sun-bleached newspapers gather in small drifts against the curbs. Torn grocery bags snag on rusted fences, fluttering weakly whenever a rare breeze manages to push its way down the street. The cement rooftops are cracked and broken, while the chipped paint on the wooden cladding, once a vibrant white, has faded into a dark, melancholy yellow.
You sit on the edge of your mattress, your head in your hands and your eyes closed in a fierce grimace. The window beside you sits open, letting in the stagnant heat of a brutal summer afternoon. The air hardly moves. It hangs in the room like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. Even the walls seem to radiate warmth, as if the house itself has been baking in the sun all day. Sweat clings to your skin, refusing to evaporate in the motionless air.
Your throat feels dry and rough, like cotton has been stuffed down it, and every breath drags hot air deeper into your chest. The heat scratches at the back of your throat, leaving your mouth painfully dry.
Beside you, a small radio sits on the floor, barely held together by tape and exposed wiring. It crackles through bursts of static, fragments of a broadcast fighting to push through the [[noise.|Radio]]
"Attention residents of Fray… the air quality index has reached troubling levels across the province…"
Static hisses through the speaker before the voice struggles back.
"Citizens are advised to wear oxygen masks when traveling outdoors. Elderly residents and young children should remain inside…"
The signal sputters again, the words warping beneath a blanket of static.
"Reports continue to emerge from the northern border as tensions escalate. Officials warn the situation may soon develop into open—"
Your hands press harder against your face before the sentence can finish.
Your fingers gently rub your face in slow, methodical circular motions. The skin on your hands feels tight and brittle from the heat, your knuckles cracking faintly when you flex them. You push your face deeper into your palms until bursts of color bloom behind your eyelids and the pressure becomes painful.
Your right leg bounces uncontrollably, producing a soft tapping sound that is the only noise besides the intermittent static from the radio. You bite your tongue hard until you can taste iron.
Your lungs burn.
Your ribs itch.
It hurts.
[[The door bell rings.|DoorBell]]