(Rob) the brand describes itself only to protect its true nature

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Rob follows his new Conspirasan friends? fans? back to their house. Along the way they interrogate him about the most random shit and his every response seems to blow their minds.

"Rob where did you get your very plain clothes?" I traded for them. "What's a traded?"

"But Rob how did you get your clothes to be unregistered? There's like no info about them on our screens?" I have no clue how to register clothes, or why they would need to be?

"Rob are you stressed about breaking your screen? Are you worried about how you'll survive?" Having or not having a screen has not changed my stress level, and it wasn't helping me survive in the first place.

"But Rob without a screen how will you know people's names?" I won't.

"Without a screen and a UBI how will people know what you believe in?" I guess people will just have to ask me?

"Whoaaaaa." The bros reel and laugh and slap him on the back and ask more questions. It's possible a few of the bros are taking sly selfies with him in the background but he pretends not to notice.

Finally they arrive at the house where the Conspirasans live. It's the ground floor and basement of what used to be a store - the faded signage above the entrance reads Normal Opinion but it's been hand-painted over to read GOOD Opinion ACTUALLY. Inside they've built some crummy internal walls and knocked holes in a few others in order to create a dark warren of connected rooms. There's couches and chairs and beds randomly thrown around in each of them, and every available surface is covered in trash and dirty clothes and gross shit.

Along the way they had claimed that he would love their place, which he doubted, and doesn't. They also said they proudly live in The Thornes, which he now also doubts. He may not exactly understand the geography of this city, but he's had enough experience with the Thornes to recognize when he's in it. As dirty as this place is, it's still too clean. It's horrifying, and clearly a place where a group of men live together, responsible to no one but themselves. But the only mold Rob can see is growing on the food left rotting in takeaway containers, it's not embedded in the walls. The rooms smell too much of sweat and boy and crotch and not enough of mildew and blood and corpse.

Inside, the majority of the bros peel off, flopping down on beds or kicking piles of trash out of the way to make space to sit on the floor and look at their screens. Double Trash Emoji shows Rob around, inviting him to stay as long as he likes, sleep wherever. He describes their way of life here as internally communal, with a steadfast refusal to be beholden to brands over their interpersonal relationships. This is why, he says, they don't have cleaners who come in regularly - they don't want the bad baggage and ulterior corporate agendas that come with allowing a contestant on ServiTude into your home. Ah so that's why the mess, sure.

They enter the kitchen area, a zonny emerging quietly out of the trash alongside them. "You hungry?" Double Trash asks. "Everything's fully cleansed and secure. Genuinely clean." Rob watches a group of bros crowded around a large metal pot, spooning gooey clumps of pink stuff into dirty bowls.

"No, I'm. No," is all Rob says.

Double Trash shrugs. "Come on, I should intro you to Senatron. He's sort of like, he'd be like the Daddy, right? If we conformed to the emasculation protocols forcefully embedded in the psyche of the populace."

They pass through the kitchen and down a hall leading to a much larger room. It's dimly lit but Rob can make out a man lying half naked on a very large bed, doing something on his screen. He doesn't immediately acknowledge their presence.

"Senatron," Double Trash says, clearing his throat. "Wanted to connect you with Rob, we found him smashing his screen on the ground. In front of the Grand Butera. It was honestly righteous."

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