There was nothing beyond the hills; just giant expanses of desert, where nothing grew except cactus and nothing lived except cockroaches. The hills kept this barren wasteland cut off. On the other side of the hills, rested Nero. The city of Nero was only slightly less of a barren wasteland. Every building was the same; dry, wooden, two story structures, which lined the cobblestone streets. The people inside the buildings were as dull as their surroundings. The villagers dressed and talked the same as one another. They were all vacant of passion, as if the limbic system was shut off. The majority of the them paced around, day after day, completely emotionless.
However, there were the audacious few who ignored nature’s barriers and Nero’s habits. Something was defective in these villagers. These were the humans that dared to venture over the hills, for they longed to see what lay beyond with their own two eyes. Most who ventured away, never returned. Those who did return, came back boney, starved and wild-eyed. The sun had wreaked havoc upon their bodies, as well as their minds. Slow, hot afternoons gave the sun plenty of time to craft blisters that bubbled in a painful formation on their exposed skin. The sand had blown against their tender skin and left patterns and scrapes. Occasionally, the adventures would be found at the top of the hills with cactus spines impaling the palms of their hands and around their mouth. They were taken to the hospital but not much could be done.