illphated
They came from every continent—wrinkled wanderers with titanium hips, silver-tongued grannies, ex-revolutionaries, and pensioned-out hackers. Wrapped in trench coats and luminous scarves, they moved through the misty streets like a migrating tribe of twilight philosophers. The neon rain of the Blade Runner skyline kissed their bald spots and powdered wigs as they queued quietly… all for one final destination: New Jersey.
Not the New Jersey of myth—the Jersey Shore, the diners, the Bon Jovi posters peeling off dive bar walls. No, this was the New Jersey Complex of 2099: a decaying arcology lit by flickering holograms, built atop the ruins of Newark and the dreams of five failed startup governments. Giant purple signs screamed “WELCOME TO NEW JERSEY,” powered by diesel generators and irony.
No one knew why the elderly were being called there. It started with whispers in retirement forums and encrypted bingo networks.
“They’re letting us in,” one post read. “All of us. No questions asked.”
The line snaked for miles—over broken highways, through rusted-out drone depots, past synth-food stands serving hot pixel dogs and algae milkshakes. And the oddest part? They were all laughing.
“Can you believe they still think these buildings are habitable?” chortled a Korean war vet in a velvet hover-chair.
“Back in my day, asbestos was a selling point,” said a sharply dressed woman with diamond canes and a gold-plated pacemaker.
As the line moved forward, one by one, they passed through the towering neon gates and disappeared into the crooked apartments: moss-covered high-rises with holographic facades hiding shattered windows and flooded hallways. But once inside, no one ever came out.
Speculation exploded on the underground net. Was it a trap? A cult? A new state-run euthanasia program disguised as urban renewal?
Then came the leaked footage—grainy, overexposed, but unmistakable. Inside those decrepit buildings was something else entirely: rooms larger than spaceports, filled with gardens, jazz lounges, memory simulators, and grand dining halls where holograms served nostalgic meals from lost centuries.
New Jersey wasn’t a scam. It was a reward.
Turns out, after centuries of global chaos and cultural resets, the last surviving think tank of the American Experiment had built one final utopia. A city made not for the young, the viral, or the fast—but for those who remembered the old code.
God. Family. Country. And sarcasm.
And so they entered—laughing, coughing, cackling—into the derelict halls of paradise, leaving behind a world too busy to understand the joke.
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