Looking with amazement at the excitement of the natives. People with ragged clothes, bad teeth, bloated faces, gazes muddled by alcohol, danced downright boisterously. They had faith in their government again. Pride in their country again, pride in being British. Pride in being part of a global empire. This wonderful country that gifted them an income. “Fuck off.” Thought Don. Loudly. The atmosphere was perhaps best compared to the feeling laboratory apes feel when first released into the wild. A completely exaggerated cheerfulness reigned in the streets. There was silver confetti coming from somewhere, which now covered the streets. On the oversize screens on every corner came images of spontaneous basic income parties and interviews with happy citizens. Various politicians appreciatively praised the decision to take this important step for social justice in the country. “We’re surrounded by complete idiots,” said Don. “I don’t know what exactly is going on here, but they should leave us out of it.” Hannah nodded. None of the four was really what you would call an IT nerd. They just knew it was advisable for them to go underground if they didn’t want to end up in some sort of child welfare institution. They knew that as children they had no human rights. Knew that adults didn’t have any human rights, either, and that the idea to let themselves be implanted with a chip like a pet was weird. The four stood with their mouths agape, looking at the crazy big-city people as dark fell.

On their further explorations of parts of London where a delighted Chinese tourist would never end up and where there wasn’t a single aesthetically pleasing millimeter on which the eye might happily light, rubbish containers stood before buildings where people lived behind boarded-up windows. “Check it out, a gathering of the undead.” Methadone clinic, suggested

KAREN

When she saw the long line of unsteady figures. But it was a blood bank. Twenty pound payment. The place was hopping. Donate blood, people’s last idea before hanging themselves. Junkies, alcoholics with cirrhosis and covered with rashes, who urgently wanted to support the Swiss blood plasma industry and who were too fucked up to have picked up on the whole basic income thing, stood in line unsteadily waiting to have their daily liters of blood drawn.

In the first three weeks,

During which the four tried to get a sense of London and find their place in the city, they all had to deal with their disappointment on their own. Nobody said: “I’m so disappointed.” Each of them thought he or she was the only one feeling that way. They all tried to make jokes and to seem adventurous in a manner suitable for children. What good would it have done to say: