James pulled his collar up against the cold. It was March, but Brooklyn was still stuck in that gray, frozen rut.

  By 2068, things had only gotten worse. The sky seemed to be getting thicker and gloomier every day, like the whole world was caught in one long, restless slump.

  He headed toward a coffee shop. Today was the day he’d finally get one of those "trendy" drinks. He’d already convinced himself it was okay.

  Being an Outsider didn't mean he wasn't human, and it definitely didn't mean he had no rights. Sure, luxury wasn't exactly built for people like him, but he figured he could blow ten percent of his paycheck on a trend—just this once.

  Everyone would know his status the second they saw him. It wasn't like the old days of open hate or oppression. There were plenty of Outsiders now, about thirty percent of the population. They were the ones who couldn't keep up with the AI shift, stuck doing the manual labor for minimum wage. They had their basic income, but a healthy guy like James needed more than just a monthly deposit to keep going.

  He wasn't dreaming of some old-school life with a white picket fence and a perfect wife. He just wanted to know what that coffee, the one all over his feed, actually tasted like.

  He stepped into Coffee Lazar. A teenage girl was working the counter. There were plenty of touchscreens for quick orders, but James actually wanted to ask about the menu.

  He could feel people’s eyes on his uniform. He wasn't a social outcast, but the work clothes made him stand out in a weird way, like he was some kind of intruder in the city where he’d been born and raised.

  The girl noticed it too, her eyes flicked over James's dusty gray-brown coat, but her "professional part-timer" mask didn't slip for a second. She chirped brightly, "What can I get for you, sir?"

  James scanned the menu fast. He didn't want to look like some trend noob. He didn't want to be that guy, a thirty-five-year-old garage worker with a full beard, staring longingly at some sparkly drink like a kid in a candy store.

  But he wanted it. He was a human being, after all. Not just a worker drone.

  "Uh... I'll take the African Dream Latte," James said, his voice flat. "How is it?"

  The girl's smile didn't waver. "It uses real Ethiopian beans! We actually have our own farm there. It's really refreshing with a deep, rich flavor. Would you like whipped cream on top?"

  "No." James cut through the sales pitch. "Just as is."

  The price flashed on the screen: $6.70.

  The world had flipped on its head at least three times in the past thirty years, and currency shifts had completely warped what a dollar was even worth. Still, this coffee felt like a small fortune.

  He gave a quiet, internal sigh and swiped his wrist over the terminal. The screen blinked: $527 remaining. That was basically his entire monthly lifeline, $200 from Global Basic Income, and maybe $300 from his shifts at the garage. And this damn latte was nearly seven bucks.

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  He knew it was stupid. But he just wanted to taste it, just once, like all those carefree kids who hadn't been chewed up and spat out by the world yet.

  The girl caught a glimpse of the screen and let out a soft, instinctive giggle. James knew she didn't mean any real harm. She was likely just a kid from a comfortable family, someone already prepping for college while her parents managed their properties. This Coffee Lazar probably didn't see many Outsiders, so his pathetic balance must have simply caught her off guard.

  Still, a slow burn of anger began to rise in his chest.

  He was a human being, and it wasn't a service worker's place to laugh at a customer’s bank account. But the government made sure his struggle was on full display; every swipe revealed the strings attached to his public funds for the whole world to see.

  That was the spark that finally broke through his usual calm.

  "You shouldn't laugh," James muttered. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a sharp edge that pierced the cafe’s background hum.

  The girl froze, the air between them suddenly turning heavy. "...Excuse me?"

  "You don't laugh at someone's balance. It's rude," he said, his eyes fixed on hers. James didn't even fully understand why he was this angry. He’d accepted his status as an Outsider long ago, just like a third of the country. Inequality was the new normal, and barely anyone noticed the class gaps anymore.

  But it still stung. Whether it was real malice or just a careless giggle, it was the final straw.

  The girl’s face changed instantly. "Sir...?"

  "I know who I am," James said. "Still, you don't laugh at me openly."

  He didn't bother looking at her face because he simply didn't care, but he could feel her stiffen and shrink back in his peripheral vision.

  She was terrified. Outsider workers were notorious for being 'unstable.' Then again, thirty percent of Americans—mostly men, but a large chunk of women too—were labeled that way. What kind of screwed-up world was he living in?

  The girl didn't even speak anymore, watching for any sign that James might lash out at any minute.

  "Just go get my coffee," James said dryly. "Make it decent. Do it right, just like you would for everyone else."

  The girl froze for a few seconds before scurrying over to the espresso machine, where a robot was already starting the brew.

  "Kelly, can I help you? You look confused for some reason," the standard-issue robot chirped. It was a cheap model, lacking any real intelligence, and it spoke as she fumbled with the machine. She snapped the order at the robot, refusing to face James and practically hiding in the corner.

  Meanwhile, the other customers were slowly backing away. Nobody called the police, though. These days, emotional outbursts from Outsiders were so common that the authorities didn't want to be bothered with them anymore.

  The girl was sniffling, James could see it as she wiped her eyes, her back still toward him. He probably should have felt bad, but all he could think about was whether his drink would be okay.

  Since robots handled all the brewing these days, he didn’t have to worry about a human employee messing with it out of spite, but still, this was his first African Dream Latte. He wanted it perfect.

  The robot kept brewing as if nothing were happening, and after a few minutes, a male worker peeked out to see why his colleague was distressed.

  But the second he saw James, he ducked back inside. A scrawny college kid was no match for a six-foot-tall laborer. James wasn’t even particularly muscular—he was rather lean for the Outside work—but he was still a brute compared to these kids, whose only real struggle was when a service bot glitched during their morning routine.

  When the girl finally handed him the drink without even asking if it was for "here or to go," James knew she was completely paralyzed. He didn't care; she’d given him a to-go cup and a straw, and that was enough for him.

  "Thanks," he muttered, the heat gone from his voice. He knew he’d be remembered as "that crazy creep," for as long as she worked there.

  He picked up the cup and stepped outside, feeling strangely empty. He’d wanted his coffee, he’d gotten it, and now he’d walk the streets showing off his little piece of the hipster life.

  He could hear her finally sobbing behind him as others rushed out to help her, but who cared?

  Their lives were better than his anyway.