The Wild West has been well and truly shackled. In the name of Freedom. We came across him when he was just a boy, but years spent under the beating sun have tanned his skin. At the first sign of cracks, we took him into our custody and threw him up on an operating table. There he lies now, his body folded uncomfortably into itself and restrained at every bend. His stoll has been stolen and his spurs have been spurned. Many fingers from many hands take turns to sew parts of him together and make incisions at others; closing and reopening the same old wounds.

At first it only twitches. It could be explained away by gravity, or air-conditioning if not the wind. A metal bracket loosens around a bolt. Then a joint further forward falls forward and bends to a blade. The sum of screws and soldering has become a digit. The smattering of scientists celebrating on the other side of the operating room window see it as a solution. Each part moves piecemeal, undulating like a chain, until everything clicks and together becomes The Singularity. A scalpel known as Security glints menacingly in the forceps of the robotic replacement for the human arm. Whirring emanates from the mechanical hub which the limb protrudes from as a gear shaft inside the sleek, white housing first raises, and then plunges the blade.

It slips into the valley between the pectorals of Wilderness. Sandy, sordid skin turns suddenly supple and accepts the leech without defense. A new, higher pitched, whining begins, and a pinion spins back along the rack located at what could be considered the machine's elbow. The entire forearm follows, and the scalpel it tows carves a grand canyon into the eons of calloused flesh. Already too late, the body begins to fight back and the river runs red. It does not bleed, though. Life does not trickle down from the cut to water the wounds. When the scalpel is finally removed, not due to defeat or surrender, but simply victory, the blade is as clean as it was before entry. The red tide rises as a swirling, pulsating steam-still tangling and being cut by the blade as it rushes past it and up towards the open sky. 'Oh! Freedom is the open sky!' one of the indistinguishable whole trills, and the rest giggle with glee. And then they rise against a cinder-block ceiling.

A man outside-the only one there who isn't a scientist, as one can tell just by looking because his black coat comes from the trenches rather than the labs-leans near the observation window until a fog precipitates in front of him. Then he leans back as if taking a seat, though standing, and pushes a pair of photochromic lenses firmly against his face. The corners of his lips curl.

Everything shrinks and races away. The floors of the building fly by. Adornments and paperings peel away to reveal the steel skeleton of a skyscraper, and that falls to the glittering night. Not a star in sight.

Diodes and bioluminescence take the suns' stead and spatter the Siphon in twinkling glamor. Ethereal trails of light float in the sky as if they are puppets and the strings at the same time. They undergo constant reshuffling of position, morphing from a projection of a statuesque jackalope to an advertisement for Choralium chewables.

Whatever shape it takes, the display, and the tower in which it roosts, dwarfs the surrounding area. Modular apartments reach toward but the base of the skyscraper, each cuboid, bone-colored unit that gets installed making the city feel more claustrophobic. It will only be a matter of weeks before it too becomes stained with the red powder of ichor which rises from the streets. Soon, everything but new-construction and ChorTek Tower will be caked.

One of the two young backpackers waiting outside the tower digs some diamond dust out from between two pavers with the toe of his tennis shoe. "Maybe we could just wait this out. Look at all this ichor trash! Whole city's spamming itself with a new layer of sand. The desert is rearing its head." All of his remonstrations are exaggerated by his outfit, which sees his T-shirt tied off taut at every joint by double-knotted scraps of cloth.

"No," the other answers, ducking from the suggestion even if it were not made in earnest, "this can't wait."

There is movement in the dead night. The two of them jump at it, putting their nerves on full display. It is only the advertising lights. They look up almost instinctively to see what it says.

'Welcome to Idyll' is stamped into the sky in the style of a neon sign. It flickers.