Smooth, purified air fills the Earth. All cities are adorned with scintillating towers of pearl white. Streets are spotless and narrow, like an intricate spider web, tracing around the city. Matt black robots fill the building shops, each demanding satisfaction with their jolly face. Nature's own creation: humanity is absent from the streets, only a stray transporting device traversing the roads occasionally. Despite the Earth being its most pristine, advanced, and heavenly self, its heart is cool and whirs with strain. On one street, a small transporter passes by. Its slick and streamlined body cutting through the air. Within lies a human—if that is what they still are. Slim screens of a sizable stature fill the walls. They blare with moving holograms of movies, games, and people. A small boy sits in the transporter, his countenance contorted to show faux happiness. His eyes are hypnotically glued to the screens, rolling nonsensically from one screen to the next to the next. His eyes seem glazed over and wet from strain. Nothing but his eyes move as if he is locked out of his body. It's a hidden dystopia. Yearning for warmth and sunlight, a minuscule shoot has emerged from a crack in the wall of a building with a hologram displaying "Happy New Year: 2225". The leaves are shrivelled and decaying with viscous gel oozing out of bulbous malformations. Drooping, the stem is scattered with shadowy specks. Its roots are malnourished and thin, desperately growing to reach the distant pond. Its life essence shines bright, but only because everything encapsulating it is dead, lifeless. What a strange utopia? Raging with fire and solar flares, the Sun fights its shackles. It has been imprisoned by the humans, draining its power like leeches. It sings of its stories of woe, blasting them into space with little hope. Trying to object, it sends beams of its holy light down to Earth. It occasionally screams in pain, knowing its death is close. The Sun's everlasting core now lasts little longer. But, it relishes the fact that its death means the death of Earth. Deep in space, towering ships of life float. Each is adorned, not with white towers but breathing trees of life and with fantastical creatures. The streets are bustling with people - they are true humans, with raw emotions like laughter and tears. They celebrate their separation from Earth each day, whilst mourning its death too. The whole colony, a seemingly isolated colony of masterfully advanced ships, draws close to a new world. This one is ornate and covered with soil and trees: Mother Nature's handiwork. It's a chance for the wrongdoings to be corrected. It's Alpha Centauri.