Avery steps out into an uncomfortably warm afternoon. Behind her, the door to her usual morning cafe closes.
She pulls up her map.
The red dot is north and west. She glances that way, but buildings block her view. She follows the sidewalk north, hailing a pod.
She moves deeper into the residential district, past the younger generation’s housing, through the upper middle-class neighbirhoods, over the bridge above the lower class dwellers, and onto a street made of gold. An ideallic community full of mansions – they may as well be castles – stretches out before her. She can smell the ocean on the other side of the estates.
The sun dips behind the eastern tower of the western wing of a modest nine bedroom, and the world before her dips back into duller blues and greys. Her eyes begin to pay closer attention.
Plastic-faced darlings. Barbie dolls and their smooth-skinned Kens. The height of beauty immortalized with surgery. They walk plastic-looking dogs, and everyone is smiling. It’s all too perfect.
“I hate coming up here,” she grumbles.
She finally sees her objective: a floating red orb in the middle of the street. It floats in front of a strip mall cafe. As she comes to a stop on the opposite side of the street, the orb deflects her gaze her to the left and onto the cafe’s patio. Sundressed uppercrust and their simpering coteries sip the latest brews from tiny mugs while trading in the latest social graces.
Her objective glows purple.