lola

​The year is 2011, and the world is a grey, unmoving graveyard. It stalled on New Year’s Day 2000 and has been rotting in its 90s skin ever since. The streets are choked with rusted SUVs and the Risen—the shuffling, grey-skinned remains of the old world. They are husks trapped in tattered flannel, baggy jeans, and cruel ironies: some still wear faded "Happy New Year 2000" t-shirts or lopsided cardboard party hats, now stained with a decade of filth. They move with a wet, dragging sound and a low hiss like leaking air, ghosts of a party that turned into a massacre. ​Lola is a shadow against this decay. At 21, she has survived eleven years by shedding her past and becoming as cold as the concrete.