PILOT

Until age six I lived a charmed life in twenty-sixth century Kabul.  Father was a mid-level government functionary.  Mother, a world-famous graphic artist, who produced illustrations for fantasy and sci fi publications on the web.
Then came the warlords with neutron bombs, lasers and chemical weapons, sending us scurrying in search of a new home.  The west was totally overpopulated.  Unless you were a deposed President or Prime Minister, you could forget political asylum.
One exception, Northern Ireland had just finished a civil war featuring  handheld neutron bomb blasters.  This left it largely depopulated, but infrastructure mostly intact and welcoming all comers.
Family dynamics changed rapidly.  Father worked at a commercial laundry; mother's work continued without interruption.  He fell in with a bad drinking crowd, soon came the marital breakdown.
We were the only Afghans in town.  At first the real Irish were happy to see anyone.  Soon developed a complex web of which new group was better than which other.  I gave up on the whole mess.  Unable to find real friends, I made mine on the web.
As a real Irish citizen, of course I was subject to the European Union draft. So I ended up an armored hoverpod pilot flying peacekeeping missions in New Guinea.  Boring beyond belief.  See, they behaved when we were around.  Turn your back, they start up.