Another night on the factory line, blue gloves turning over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over all the slabs of pink, cutted Vega-Vita-Meat steak as it rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls down on the production slide. Your job is to strip the hard, fleshy bits on the sides off and throw it into the basket, which are then reprocessed by workers on a lower level. You do not know what they are used for.
Despite the repetitiveness of the work, the awful stink that hangs off you, there is a certain relief that you have a job at all, that they haven't replaced you with robot workers, but you know it is just a matter of when that happens. What will you do when you are no longer necessary? It has never occurred to you what you'd be good at. You're not suited to the spy life, or high adventure, or anything glamorous like that.
The bell rings. First break. You think about how robots will never need to take breaks.