6 ♦ Daffodilna

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Suffice to say, spaghettification turns people off.

That's why I'm waiting, with as much patience and kindness as I can manifest, until Seth unwinds onto the pine-needled floor at the footsteps of Mount Glow. I'm limited by my human eyes, so she's like a brilliant flash of scintillating lights—the beautiful undulation of our molecules makes quite the aurora—until she's at last arms and legs, fetal and shivering.

Her clothes didn't make it.

The only reason my clothes are fine is because they're engineered at a molecular level to know how to line up at the end of recess, so to speak. Most clothing looks like a crowd responding to a sudden epidemic, when it gets spaghettified. Most everything that isn't conscious simply scatters. In Earth, you call it Hawking Radiation.


On the Other Side

It takes consciousness to know how to line up; how to put yourself back together. It takes consciousness to figure out how to build an avatar for a game.

I pull my sunflower dress up over my head, then drape it over Seth like a blanket. Beneath my dress, I'm wearing the graphene suit End-time issues to all its "headhunters," as we're oft called. I prefer just going by "intern," especially given the shite pay.


Graphene Clothing

Earth has graphene now, doesn't it?—so I won't go into detail about the cloth that was laser-stitched through some unfortunate artificial intelligence's factory—but it's probably good to mention headhunter outfits look a bit like a black bathing suit, with fairy-lights glinting on up from my belly button to my neck, indicating the current state of my different vitals. I love how it checks vitals. It's good to know what to look for, in case another headhunter takes over this quantascript.


Factory Bowoks

For real though, imagine being the artificial intelligence who makes these suits.

Who'd want to be powered on and find out their mission in life is to sew clothes?

What if that artificial intelligence would rather be a warrior princess than a seamstress?

Why are all the servant AI programmed with female thinking patterns?

I'm going to bust someone's chops someday over this sexism and sentienism, but not until I'm done with my internship. Don't want End-time firing me.

This job's going to look like dynamite on my resume.


Teleportation Shock

Seth's green eyes dart around haphazardly. I lean over her, rocking ever-so-gently, so my long golden hair moves in waves. She follows the curtain of golden strands, the moonlight of the Wizardhood glittering around Mount Glow, bringing my gold halo to life.

"There, there," I whisper. "Guess what? You made it. This is my favorite spot."

After getting spaghettified, Seth's eyes have brightened on the inside—the cutest little ring up along her pupils, vivid, refreshing as a squeezed wedge of lime.

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