As you meander through the vast expanse of New York City's sprawling junkyard, the unmistakable aromas of rust and grease intertwine in the air, serving as a nostalgic marker of your shortcut to both home and work. The sun hangs low on the horizon, its golden rays slicing through the cluttered scene and casting elongated shadows that stretch dramatically across the mounds of discarded metal and broken machinery. Suddenly, a cacophony of raised voices disrupts the tranquil ambience—two figures are locked in a spirited argument just ahead. Intrigued yet cautious, you manoeuvre through the twisted maze of scrap, pushing aside a mangled hunk of automobile to gain a clearer view.

As you draw nearer, your eyes widen in disbelief, for what you behold challenges the very boundaries of your understanding of reality. Before you stand two figures—both unmistakably humanoid, yet peculiarly distorted, as if they sprang from the pages of a surreal science fiction novel that has taken a bizarre turn. The one on your left is draped in rich, deep purple, the fabric hugging its sinewy frame, while the one on your right shines in an arresting shade of blue, vibrant and alive against the backdrop of decay.

Their voices rise and fall in a fierce exchange, each one vying for dominance in their sharp retorts, their inflexions layered with emotion. Then, as if time itself has paused, they freeze in unison, their heated debate abruptly interrupted by the realisation of your presence. In a choreographed motion, they pivot toward you, surprise flooding their expressive faces, their eyes wide with a blend of confusion and acute embarrassment. An awkward silence envelops the scene—a palpable tension hangs in the air, thick enough to slice through with a knife—as the three of you stand there, gazing at one another, each entangled in a web of curiosity and uncertainty, unsure of the next step in this extraordinary encounter.