Racked by riots and ruled by corporations, London has grown to house over twenty-million people. Its limits stretch across the south-west of England. Pollution chokes the skyline, hiding the stratoscrapers of The Mile, London’s exclusive centre, from sight; though its gaudy neon signs penetrate the smog.
Corporations rule after the collapse of the mid-2000s. The NHS, under strain from underfunding and the barrage of pandemics, chemical attacks and terrorism, found itself sold off, piece by piece, to the highest bidder. The augmentation companies moved in; buying what they liked. The National Health Bank rose, supplemented by other privatised care centers.
The augmented account for 85% of the population. AdTechnika rules the roost: the world’s leading, and most elite, company. Others like Pegasus and Amexicorp have their share of the market, while Chikara’s cheap tech exploits the poor, downtrodden and needy as they prop up the NHB. It’s cheaper that way. The poor get sick, their limbs fail. Take away their organs, replace them with something better. Stronger.
Who cares how human they are?
London is a powder-keg: change is in the air, its great-unwashed are unhappy with their lot and worried for the future—Scotland is a frozen wasteland, earthquakes devastate the globe and AdTechnika drones patrol the unpredictable skies. Riots rack the city. The Brotherhood of the Flesh battle the Children of the Bionic God for the hearts and minds of the streets. Black markets thrive, and illegal fighting rings do sound business. Place your fingers on London’s mechanical pulse, and you’ll detect a skip in its rhythm.
Over it all, AdTechnika watches, a cybernetic spider surveying its web. They see all. They know all. In London 2113, anything can happen in twenty-four hours.
Zero Hour approaches.