A synthetic chorus of corporate clones lies inert, plugged into the mythology of capital, intravenously fed obedience through glowing VR headsets that read OBEY FIAT. Here, individual consciousness is smothered beneath algorithmic sameness; the subject is no longer a subject, but a programmable node in the old financial order's decaying nervous system.
This is a factory of perception, a sterile chamber where bodies are mass-manufactured not for labor, but for belief. The painting strips away any residual romance about Wall Street’s so-called dynamism. There is no risk here, no edge, no genius trader against the odds — only repetition, compliance, and the narcotic lull of synthetic consensus. These figures are not men; they are vessels. Flat-packed identities, lacquered in uniformity, awaiting their next firmware update from a dying empire.
What is autonomy in a system built to preclude it? Wall St Indoctrination doesn’t ask — it asserts: autonomy has been replaced by liquidity, agency by protocol, human affect by the sterile feedback loop of fiat indoctrination. Each headset is a sacrament. Each neon command a scripture. And the factory never sleeps.
Light rains down like surveillance — cold, digital, omnipresent. The scene blurs at the edges, smeared like corrupted data — a visual artifact of a system collapsing under the weight of its own unreality.
This is not dystopia. This is documentation.
