Fashion • Wearables • Nihilism • Experience Design • Quality Assurance
A layer twelve chandelier followed Umbee as she spun recklessly through the ballroom. Her sneaker drives radiating shimmers of distorted light. The backpack force field shamelessly pushing the furniture out of the way as her feet flew by. This dance mod was unusually erratic and charmingly spastic. If it weren’t for some safety issues, this kit would be a hit on the pre-prime runways.
Most of the custom gear Umbee tested was experimental. The perks were good too, for a day pro. Last tweak, she took home a vapour pet that evolves into a riding whale. Over the last time block, she’s collected at least 100 original flashion packs as tips from the designeratti. Her favourite was the Tyrannosaurus Vest™ that shrunk your arms and enlarged your head. Not particularly attractive, but funny as hell.
During the late twenty-fifties, the sartorial ouroboros had created a vacuum of artless utility. Stretchy singlets and bald caps everywhere. People smeared through their day in joyless, dull abandon. Not a lapel, cuff or lacy tutu in sight. It was mono’clock day after day like a looping backslash.
New plants started producing for the haute and hopeful keen to rail against the drab. At first they dressed up the dreary uniforms with color and random tech fringe. The glowing butt warmers were popular long after they shouldn’t have been.
With the invention of cellular plastimesh and talent wrapping, apparel became the vehicle for the most far reaching experiences. Indescribable acts by altered actors became commonplace. It felt dangerous but after a while you were glad it did.
Testing wasn’t for the faint of heart. On one unfortunate occasion, Umbee had to take a week to grow back her face. Not sure if it ever quite returned to sender. But no one is sure of any of that anymore.
Recognition became loose and untethered from social constructs. And although some called for standardized identification packets, most were happy to explode the self and ride the bohemian balloon into blissful oblivion.
After her day project Umbee rolled home on a red ball, dodging the menagerie of characters on the tram ramp. A beautiful caramel chamaleon whistled a B flat as she whizzed by. Tonight, there were a lot of dust bears out staggering around. It was best to avoid contact with these forms. Made up of third rate nano-tech and clumps of unwanted stem cells, these accidental katamari wandered around picking up discard. They helped keep the place clean, but if you ever got cornered you might be in for a bad case of the lumps.
Synthculture redefined the modern condition. It didn’t just change perspectives. It blasted apart centuries of pain and ego. It accelerated the imagination class into an era of prolific inspiration. Free to phase, society unloaded their collective baggage and ran naked through fields of possibilities. There was nothing. And now there is everything.
Umbee shook her arms and legs to sleep in her arctop chamber and watched the reflection of her skin bounce steely light against the moon wall. Outside she could hear the orchestra — the blips and fromps of a thousand puzzle pieces clicking in and out of place.