In the next exhibit’s holographic account, a young teenage male of Southern Eagle descent snores on a pile of dirty clothes that cover his entire bedroom in a thick, dank layer. A few small green lizards devour a line of ants up his wall. He wears tattered clothes covered in numerous dirt and grease stains. A gust of wind blows past the broken screen on his bedroom window. He yawns and stretches his arms.
He rests there for a short while until the sound of a gunshot echoes from the distance. He sits up, exposing the soaked clothes from under his back. The sweat dripping off him glistens in the sun as it peeks through the window. The clothes swallow his entire forearms as he crawls through them. The clothes jam his bedroom door shut, but a hole has been cut in the middle, covered by a thin sheet, stapled at the top. He rolls past it, onto his feet, into a hallway where he balances atop a narrow plank that rests on a compressed layer of old plastics, newspapers, and other garbage.
He waves through the flies as he carefully walks the planks down the hall, going past a bathroom almost entirely filled with used diapers. He stops at the entrance of another room. A see-through drape hangs over the doorless frame. He stares expressionlessly at a middle-aged woman who shares some of his features, cradling a diapered toddler in her arms as she sits on a couch smoking a cigarette. She pays no attention to him. Her room has rusted metallic flooring, and aside from a widening collection of partially extinguished cigarette butts that nearly touches the ceiling, it is mostly spotless. Several televisions are stacked in front of her against the wall, but none appear plugged in. The teenager looks to his shoulder and sees a centipede about the size of his forearm crawl up his back. He casually and gently directs it onto his arm and walks over to an opened window with shredded drapes at the end of the hallway. He shakes off the centipede outside before climbing a rope ladder out the window.
He reaches the ground, only one story below. A young adult male real estate agent outside on the dead lawn discusses the unit for sale on the first floor with an affluent-looking couple, all of Southern Eagle descent.
“This here is a great rare find,” the real estate agent says in a smarmy, flawless Northern Eagle accent. “On the market for just eleven months. Free of any existing tenants. Those tires inside don’t come with the sale of the unit, and they will be removed before closing. Very spacious inside, I’m very excited to show you. Recently renovated. The door comes with a security bar. No windows, so great safety for families. The previous owner fully barricaded the stairs to a separate, off-market unit on the second floor, with rebar and plywood, so you‘ll have great privacy. Shall we take a look inside? It’s a great find, and I’m certain you won’t be disappointed.”
The teenager walks to a bus stop across the street from his house. The area is suburban, with identical panelled townhomes lining the streets. He sits down in the bus shelter. Inside, a young woman of Southern Eagle descent holds her nose and grimaces at him before quickly rising to her feet and waiting for the bus outside — at a comfortable distance.
The bus arrives, and the doors open for the woman. The elderly male bus driver of Southern Eagle descent greets her. The teenager makes it on the bus just as the doors close. He drops some coins in the fare box receptacle. The bus driver makes no eye contact with him and steps on the gas as soon as the woman sits down, causing the teenager to stumble.
Looking around the bus, seeing all the other seats missing, destroyed, or blocked off by the squatter at the back, the teenager tries to sit down next to the only open seat available — beside the woman. The woman blocks the open seat with her purse just as the teenager tries to sit down.
The bus driver catches the scene in the mirror and calls out sternly, “Is there a problem!?”
The woman says nothing as the bus driver frowns at the teenager in the mirror. The teenager turns away and braces on a handle on the other side of the aisle. Half a dozen Southern Eagles crowd in at the next stop. The woman does not move her purse.
The teenager, along with a few other passengers, gather near the side rear exit door as the bus approaches the next stop. The driver lets on another half dozen but does not open the exit door. Some of the passengers start fanning themselves.
As the bus drives away, one of the male passengers waiting by the exit yells out to the driver, “Hey man! Hey! That was our stop!”
The bus driver is unresponsive and continues driving on. One of the passengers requests a stop at the next stop, but the driver, again, does not stop to let them off. Some of the passengers get visibly frustrated and antsy.
The same man who yelled makes his way through the crowd to the front of the bus to speak with the driver — the man’s face fumes, “Hey man! Are you going to stop to let us off or what?”
The bus driver turns his attention to the man and accidentally hits an old lady trying to cross the street with a walker. The lady is sent flying forward, hitting the side of her head on the hard pavement. The bus comes to an abrupt stop.
The driver sighs deeply, clearly annoyed, as he puts on the parking brake and gets up, carrying a long rattan cane. The fuming man steps aside as the driver gets off the bus and approaches the lady. The teenager, the fuming man, and some other passengers decide to leave through the entrance door. As the other passengers go their separate ways, the teenager walks down the sidewalk towards the start of a massive lineup outside the Department of Family Cohesion (DFC) headquarters, going several blocks down. The bus driver yells at the old lady to move, but she just moans on the pavement as she touches her head. He beats her several times with his cane before giving up.
Two police officers exit through the crowded entrance to the DFC and approach the bus driver and the old lady on the street. They talk to the driver, and one officer points toward the bus. The driver returns to the bus. Before leaving to return to the DFC, the officers drag the lady to the nearest sidewalk and toss her walker to the side. The bus hisses and carries on unhindered down the road. The people nearby in the swelling, yet stagnant, lineup outside the DFC show no interest.
The holographic account ends in silence. Some schoolchildren drool, and others barely stand awake on hard leans. The escort claps, and they all suddenly stand alert.
Speaking to the group, the receptionist explains the next exhibit before leading them into the other room, “The creators of The Recent Centuries felt firsthand accounts of everyday life most accurately explain how life was truly back then rather than pivotal moments in history. We hope you enjoyed the first account. The next takes us forward to the year twenty-fifteen.”