They were already approaching the roadblock when the overhead image was displayed.
It was difficult not to get sucked in so he kept repeating his mantra: this is propaganda, this is propaganda.
But the overhead image could not be avoided by a simple mantra.
For in this epoch, unlike the past, outliers have nothing to hold onto and his very breath was used against him. Inevitably, he joined the burly men and women in the drab state issued clothing beside the roadblock. They gathered with solemn expressions. They performed the elaborate rituals appropriate for every social occasion. The value of the social rituals reduced inherent social friction. Such was the nature of the well ordered society. But it was hard to keep up with the ever changing rules. So he occasionally lost his way. The night smelled of jasmine and stale urine.
Most often, there was "rule by consensus." But in an age of homogeneity, consensus was an oxymoron.
His skin tingled as the probe interfaced with his cranial port. "You know the punishment for desertion." It was to be haunted not by one ghost, nor even a tribe of ghosts, but by an entire city.
But he must try to be himself, he said through clenched teeth. He didn't know if he could do that. Isn't solitude a kind of joke? He tried as the humming noise increased. And there's this girl. I must get back to her. Her name is Kitten and you can find her at the support group I used to belong to, the one on Monday nights.
The background noise became unbearable:
"You don't need solitude. Solitude is the prime evil which led to the calamitous conflicts of the 22nd century. Each citizen has special talents to serve the collective. Find out what makes you better. Build on that. And once you do, you'll be able to contribute to the up-link."
The probe from the Over-soul gradually retracted. The helicopter was making its final approach to the landing pad to collect the prisoner. This human would need complete reprogramming at the processing center.
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