Artyom's head fell on the table. Suddenly he woke up then squinted at the clock flashing in the lower right corner of the monitor.

“Come on, not again!” He exclaimed loudly, seeing that the computer showed half past ten at night. He jumped up, shoved his laptop into his backpack and ran to turn off the lights in the cabin, then slammed the front gate shut behind him, not even saying hello to the security guard. He simply wanted to get home.

He’d already spent eleven hours in the cabin four times this week; it was only Wednesday. And this month… Artyom didn’t even count it. Well, that’s how it was, literally. Maybe he should be glad that his parents were elected back then, because someone had to run the power plant, the monster that produced the energy needed for comfort. Maybe they did better than the ones left down. Down there. Maybe.

Artyom rode his tiny white scooter all the way home. It wasn't powered by electricity or anything else, but by pure human muscle. Wondering how often such days would occur that week, he glanced to the right along the wide road. The well-lit street showed the tiny scratches on the glass dome that embraced the road like a dome, and through them one could see the dark green-black cloud of gas swirling beneath it, separating the world above from the world below.

A year-old Artyom experienced a global catastrophe: over a thousand WellGreen chemical plants detonated, reminiscent of Chernobyl. According to some conspiracy theories, the factories were deliberately blown up to collect insurance money. However, the theory was standing on thin legs, since their annual income was several billion dollars. According to others, a rival company hacked their systems.