Gregory walked down the barren cracked city street. His long black overcoat, dark gloves, and slick shoes completed an aura of mystery about him. The armband with three red strikes upon his long sleeves indicated him as a Phizhik doctor. His cigar created a trail of smoke behind him.
“Sir,” a worthless wretched city bum spoke to the doctor.
“Could you spare some change, doctor?”
“No, you god awful waste of life. You’ll probably just spend it on alcohol.” Gregory harshly answered.
“You are wrong, sir. I would’ve spent it on some blunt.”
Gregory reached into his deep overcoat pockets and tossed the city bum a dollar coin. The old man caught the coin, and looked up, baffled.
“For being honest, bum.” Gregory replied to his puzzled look.

Being a Phizhik doctor, Gregory had the job of trying to “fix” the world. Humans had destroyed their natural world, and had traded it for a new world of concrete, metal, and gaseous fumes. His and other doctors’ knowledge of chemistry was the last hope for mankind.