Is now surrounded by men from the mobile strike force. Who are asking her why she’s sitting there. Don, who tends to be short-tempered, answers them with “Fuck you.” The men of the strike force, there’re five of them, and they look like killer dolls, order Don to get up if she’s not going to consume anything. Don is furious and scared, and together it renders her unable to move. The men once again order Don to get up, this time kicking the chair out from under her. A small crowd of pink-colored citizens has gathered around the incident, awed to be present at this humiliation. People love to watch others in dire situations. The illogical thinking goes, a catastrophe won’t hit the same spot twice, so they feel safe if they see another person die. Or get arrested. Or in some other way land in the shit. Almost every day now there are harsh reprimands of Black people to be watched when they sit unauthorized in a private space, that is in cafés or restaurants or in parks or shopping malls. Ever since social points superseded political correctness, the orderly pink-colored populace no longer needs to hold back. They can give free rein to their skepticism of nonpink people or gays or invalids. To the extent that they don’t act in accordance with the rules, one can also report them. “Get that rubbish out of here,” yells an overly fit man whose suit reveals its shabbiness only on the second glance.

Don lies on the ground; she’s not afraid, not angry, she’s just humiliated. The men point their machine guns at her. Slowly she stands up.

Raises her hands.

One of the strike force members kicks her in the buttocks.

Everyone’s alone. With oneself and one’s misery.

A few hundred meters

Away, the

LAB DIRECTOR

Is talking about his life. He’s waiting for the end of his interview, he’s unsure, glances down at himself, his belly has gotten soft. “I was at the Tate Modern yesterday.”

Silence. “Okay,” the lab director clears his throat. “I always go to museums before I have to go home. There’s no modern art in museums anymore. And if there is, it’s only British. And even then, only images of nature. The study of art is like all scholarly avenues closed to most young people. Since the complete privatization. Only super wealthy oligarchs or the old upper class can afford to let a child study art. That’s how it goes.

I’ve had terrible headaches ever since the encephalitis jab,” says the lab director, who no longer has any idea what the AI expects from him. And at that moment, the door opens. An energetic woman enters the room. She is the manager of the Human Resources department. “Thanks very much,” she says. “We’d forgotten you here. Apologies.