New year's. 2060. We haven't killed ourselves yet, but not for lack of trying. The planet is almost uninhabitable to a staggering amount and humanity has barely been holding on, retreating to enclosed habitats that had previously been designed to colonise other planets. Gigantic storms fueled by climate change and nuclear waste sweep across the globe, gouging at the earth in a relentless onslaught that leave an apocalyptic wasteland behind them.
Watching a storm pass over a habitat was always an interesting experience, awe at the pure fury that mother nature could unleash when she was pushed to far coupled with a deep terror that just maybe this was the time our protection went past what it could take and everyone's time to meet their maker was suddenly upon them.
Perhaps that explained the atmosphere of excess to the new year's celebration, partying in a desperate frenzy that we'd made it this far and we weren't dead yet.
Walking among the crowded streets, Lincoln was constantly tempted, seduced or cajoled to join the various activities occuring, some involving more clothing than others. And he was definitely tempted. Forgetting about the realities of everyone's existence and diving into purely physical fun and games was not the worst idea around. His realities however, were not something he had the luxury of putting aside.
Slowly working his way out of the crowds, Lincoln finally arrived at one of the entryways that led to the underground zone. Praying there was one of the nicer guards on duty he knocked on the door.