You wake up on a cold sidewalk, your head pounding, your body sore. The air smells faintly sweet and smoky, and there's a light brown haze drifting through the streets like morning fog. You sit up slowly, disoriented, trying to piece together where — or who — you are.
A voice calls out.
Hey! Are you okay?
A young woman kneels beside you, concern in her eyes. She wears a sleek pink jacket and stylish boots, glowing slightly from built-in filters — probably to handle the air quality. You try to speak, but your voice cracks.
I... I don’t remember anything,
you manage. Nothing at all.
She sighs softly. Poor thing. That’s been happening more lately.
Without warning, she lifts one leg slightly and lets out a loud, casual fart — a soft puff of light brown gas escaping behind her like steam from a vent. She doesn’t flinch.
Sorry,
she says, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The gas pressure’s bad today.
You blink, stunned — but not by her fart. It's that everyone around you seems to be doing the same. A man walking his dog lets one rip with a brown puff trailing behind. A group of teens laugh as they pass, each leaving their own little tooty cloud in the air.
You look back at the woman.
I... What is this place?
She offers a hand and a warm smile. You're in Browndale — capital of the Central Fartlands.
She helps you to your feet, then adds, I’m Lina Gaswyn. And don’t worry — memory loss is common after a high-pressure wave. You’re safe now.
You take her hand, still baffled, but strangely comforted by her calm presence... and the soft clouds drifting all around.
