The Diet

"I f***ing hate dieticians. To them reality is entirely about obsessing over what they eat and what they drink."

Jacob Bricklebury was a senior researcher for MI1, specialising in robotics and the innovation thereof. His current occupation was designing reconnaissance and combat drones, specifically in reducing aerodynamic drag and efficient refuelling. To him his work ultimately contributed to the scale and length to which a war would be fought, the weight of casualties on both sides of the battle and the overall geopolitical landscape of the war zone and resulting debris. Consequently when a dietician enters his life and demands that he stop eating crisps, he decries it as an infuriating triviality.

Set Pt.2

Pt.1
He rose from the ground, anti-angelic in a plume of soot and dust; a negative of the pearly gates, splintering as they landed with a crack on the adjacent concrete. Tartan robe clashed with grass, holed slippers absorbed the dew of a crisp spring morning, the joyful shrieks and twitters of passing aviary; the nostalgia tore a tsunami through his memory. He turned to face his old house, his bungalow. It hadn't changed much; the roof tiles were a tad worse for wear, and the wood panelling showed signs of rot, but nothing 37 years of neglect hadn't catered for. The nest atop the chimney still remained, although with no sign of it's former inhabitants. Shame, he'd become fond of their midnight warblings.

Set Pt.1

That was it, the last beans had been eaten, the oxygen was wearing thin and it was time to emerge into a new world.

'As social experiments go, this was a good one', thought Dara. 'Culture shock experienced for the first time on a human who hasn't been in a coma'. He wandered, lurching toward the hatch, dragging his feet against the floor, such that the bulkhead gave him a small static shock. Gripping the circumference of the seal lock, he waited for the timer to count down.