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The government’s actions in welcoming the rebels of Luna 6 were not driven by humanitarian concerns but rather by a dislike for the outer colonies. The diaspora and its exiles were of little importance to us.

The refugees were gathered and placed in a field without a clear plan or purpose.

As part of the civil service, I pondered the situation while smoking cigarettes, waiting for uncertain orders from the leadership.

I paid little attention to the long lines of refugees waiting for rations, avoiding eye contact out of detachment or perhaps some innate repulsion.

Despite the rules against talking to the refugees, I couldn’t resist speaking to one man who stood out.

He seemed slow and shabby like the rest, but he had a habit of shaking his head to ward off bad thoughts, learned from his former masters, the colonists.

He complained about being placed in a junkyard, surrounded by wrecked cars, which disturbed him greatly. I explained that it was not an intentional choice, just a random requisition.

He then shared stories of a utopian community they had tried to create on Luna 6, where all workers would have equal rights. Unfortunately, their dreams were shattered, and they had to escape.

As I stood next to him, my dark skin reflected in the metallic armor, I waited for him to recharge his batteries.

His hope was evident, but I couldn’t help but think cynically, “You deluded robot, welcome to Earth…”

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