They were neither one of the tribal chieftains in the encampment’s sprawling confines, nor one of the self-appointed Uber moles paid by aerostat to periodically sweep the premises (and shake-down residents) for unregistered value. They just survived. That’s what was important to them. Not giving up like so many before them, around them. They did what they must to survive, and to keep going.
In actual fact, they were Servicers — though while they lived in the encampment, they did their best to keep their sectarian leanings private. Their Light Under A Bushel®, so to speak. And mostly they succeeded. But sometimes, late at night, the neighbors — whose hovel from which they were separated by nothing more than choroplast political signs for candidates whose promises had rapidly vanished to nothing — could hear them quietly chanting verses in unison of the original company Terms of Service.
They believed that, even though the company had gone out of business, their Terms of Service had achieved a kind of near holy perfection as an artfully-constructed, well-reasoned, and fair and just expression of not just an ideal Service Level Agreement, but of the full spirit and letter of the Law — elevating it above the level of a mere “corporate document” into an authoritative basis for the way of Right Living which the Over-Baud / Value-On family clung to as a life raft amidst the troubles swirling everywhere around them.
In these simple verses were The Way & The Truth®, and by rigorously upholding proper, trademarked, licensed usage, they would be able to perpetuate the Terms indefinitely and force the Universe into honoring the contract and re-building the once-and-future company.