B. Up, up, up! If you don’t snag a flying car now, you’ll have to wait thirty seconds for the next, and that’s a whole thirty seconds of debt you’re accruing. Jumping in the car—oh no—a tooth fell out. The distraction costs you two seconds. You’ll make up for it in the air. Zipping above the Devastation, you’re mildly horrified by the crawling misery below. But you comfort yourself with the notion that civilization has finally finished sorting itself into the deserving and the un-. Still, you wonder. What if there are a few deserving mixed up in the undeserving hordes below? What if someday you, and not just a rotten tooth, fall into the abyss? You feel sick. It’s not just the untreated infection in your mouth. Before your first gig you waste an entire minute buying a Calmer from the closest Anx-No-More.

C. You’ve told the alarm-bird to fuck off twelve times, but it’s noon and you really have to go to work. Ugh. The dresser suggests one of your sexier outfits, but you’re not feeling sexy today. Why do you even have to put on clothes? The world is so fucking unfair. You throw on an ugly jumpsuit. The mirror tells you how good you look, and you tell it to go fuck itself. Then you have to convince the mirror you didn’t mean it. It takes a while, but eventually, the mirror stops crying. You step through the silken glass and there you are, at work. Ugh. You are just not in the mood for interaction today.

D. You swing a thermometer inside a wet rat-skin, testing the air outside the bunker. 38°C. Shit. You’ll have to hunt across the blasted hellscape for food tomorrow.