Children of the Drones

The future. 

I throw bags of rubbish out of my window, as long as they are clear of the house the giant robot roombas will clean it all in the morning. 
I am on the run with a group of friends. My medical armband gives us away as we pass a police station. We are chased by robot tanks. We split up and dodge through crowds of protestors, the drones aren’t quick enough to identify us in a large crowd. 
Around a corner and along a beautiful Edwardian road in Bath. Some buildings have scaffolding on them, yarn-bombed. Youths in hoodies wait for us to pass, then collapse the scaffolding in the path of the drone tanks. I’m grateful, but wonder how they know who we are?
I find my friend Brian, and ask him to collect drugs from my home, I’ll get sick without them. We talk in a beer garden. 
A passing giant robot toy soldier staggers dangerously close, obviously malfunctioning. I goad it to chase me up onto the pub roof, where it slips and falls, smashed to pieces. 
I need to get my bank card back. It has been stolen. I train a ginger cat to recover it for me. Instead he brings me bags of cash. We mark the bags and hide it in piles of rubbish, to recover later. 

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