And wonders how easily her skin could be removed from her body. A little boy stands in the crowd, he can barely see anything, there’s no data on him, he just stands there and is a useless bauble. Children are always useless baubles. Sergej doesn’t like them, these children, he always starts crying when he looks at one for too long, and he’s a man and too stupid to understand that he is crying about his own life when he looks at a child for too long, that he is crying about his own life and about everyone who once had hopes and some sort of cuteness.

Sergej has seen enough.

He has to get going.

These idiots.

Think

THE FRIENDS

Who sit around for hours. Waiting for a miracle. Staring at their bugged computers, staring at excited people pointing at themselves, toasting each other, laughing. Or just disinterestedly moving along or moving along after looking at themselves.

They feel. Nothing. The shock causes a cold dissonance in their bodies—unable to analyze what exactly went wrong with their long-planned liberation strike with which they hoped to wake up the populace. They had anticipated all sorts of reactions. Outrage, an uprising, an outcry, but not indifference.

There is nothing.

In the gazes.

Of the people, in the middle of whom

HANNAH

Is standing.

In a nearly pristine part of the huge park, in a group of ten people assembled in a circle around Sergej. Serious men. Grinding their jaws. One has jet-black dyed hair and piercings. Mortar rounds tattooed on his chest. Sergej wears camouflaged clothing, has an ammo belt around his waist, a knife strapped to his knuckles, and camouflage face paint for authenticity’s sake.

“So, comrades,” he says. “First let’s set aside the bodycams for now.” The men do so. One or two of them quickly fire up cortex stimulators on their heads.

Sergej continues. “We’re here today to prepare for the imminent global escalation. For survival after a megadisaster scenario in a world of ash and rubble where enemy gangs rove.”

“What is rove?” asks the tattooed guy.