chapter 1: march 25, 2014/2414



vegan italian sausage with onions and peppers

brussels sprouts with garlic, sea salt, pepper and habanero spice mix

tomato cucumber salad

greek olives and garlic stuffed olives

kale salad with jalapeno, goji berry and dates

the world

issue: haves and have nots – who gets heard in the disparity

character: a shapeshifter (possibly race shifter) who was a ‘have’ but loses their power. has the burden of being able to see/translate reality. is an elder in the body of a young person. has or develops a disability. is misunderstood. ends up not wanting their power back.

setting: detroit 2414 – post governance. visually there’s grassland and empty lots. power dynamics exist in the confined spaces, but the power doesn’t translate between sovereign enclaves. even have/have not is not a static state, but relates to location and access. detroit is holding steady on the brink of change while the rest of the world catches up to it. there are enclave utopias where people are either living in luxury or innovating amazing new ways to be. perhaps these are outside of time? there are robots that create and maintain the enclaves, and there are busted out of date ones and newer fancier faster models. 

back drop: resources and more technology are assumed to be good. detroit rejects what people assume is good. the tension is less around race and focused on being robotic vs non/less robotic. death only happens to some people now – and those who die take something necessary from the world.

the conflict: there is a body called the silencers who silence/kill people to protect their own exclusivity. and the natural world, namely winter, plays a defining role in the conflict. but salvation is also in the natural world. our shapeshifter has to find a way to be heard.



Toward Sunrise, A.D. 2414

Jefferson shivered as the sleet needled his alabaster cheeks. Pulling his cloak taut, he paced along the river’s edge, peering through the winter dusk. Where was she?

Chene had promised to meet him on this forgotten island, at this unguarded hour. Just days ago, they’d sat on this very spot, blinded by the afternoon sun, listening to the creaking ice as it expanded against the shore.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Chene had whispered, although there was no one else to hear them in that abandoned tundra between secure enclaves. “You’ll get caught.”

Jefferson had laughed and pulled her into a gentle kiss. There, nose to nose, his face slowly flushed dark. It always happened when he was near her:  his pallid skin freckled to match the dark privilege of hers.   Chene’s gaze softened and her full lips hinted at a smile. “You’re silly,” she said.

It always made her laugh when hid did that—when he colorshifted from his native Anglais to her royal Afrikanis.  But he could never hold on to the deep, smoky hue for long, especially when his mind was working overtime, trying memorize everything about her. She smelled like spring, iScape lillies; her smooth obsidian skin was like a velvet, nighttime Domisphere; the hollow at the base of her throat was tender as a hothouse plum.

But Chene’s lightheartedness had been brief. “Just because you can turn yourself Afrikanis for a few minutes, doesn’t mean it’s safe for us to be together,” she’d said, removing her ReelGlass so that he could see the tearsr in her eyes.  “I’d die if I lost you.”

As the dusk bled indigo, Jefferson looked longingly across the frozen river.  He thrust his numb hands beneath his cloak to warm them against his stomach. Chene wasn’t coming. Why had he believed she’d leave the Domisphere to run away with him, a poor, white ‘bot programmer from B-Bottom?

A mile across the ice, lights began to twinkle. Sunrise. That’s what they called the city on the other shore, that place where everyone slushed through in the same gritty snow and breathed the same sharp air.  No Domispheres sheltering some from the unfiltered sun while filthy rain soaked others. No ReelGlass to mask the harsh world with an idyllic virtual one. No encoded advantages for the Darks, and social prohibitions for the Dark-Nots.

Had he believe that just because he could temporarily blush Afrikanis that he was entitled to be a Dark? Had he thought that Chene would risk it all to escape across the river just so that he could be free?

“I thought you would leave without me.” The voice came from behind him, small and trembling. “We’ve got to move fast; I was stopped twice by ‘bots.”

Jefferson turned to pull Chene close. He was nearly sick with relief. “I love you,” he said, as her body arched toward his kiss. Heat rivered from his face through his chest, flushing his body with color.

“I love you, too,” said Chene.

“IDENTIFY,” came the level voice of a ‘bot. “State your Enclave and Trade.”

Fear cooled the hue of Jefferson’s skin. He struggled to calm down, to hold on to his Afrikanis. He had practiced this moment so many times, but there was no preparation for the terror of re-campment.

“I’m Chene First Gen from Domisphere—a cultivator,” Chene spoke first. “Why are you stopping us? Can’t you see we’re Afrikanis? This is completely illegal!”

“Apologies, Chene First Gen,” the ‘bot froze, its torso lights blinking. “IDENTIFY,” it said, turning squarely to Jefferson.

Jefferson started to speak, but noticed that his hands were reclaiming their pallor. Shoving them back into his cloak, he mimicked Chene’s indignant confidence. “Campau First Gen from Domisphere, a programmer.”

He realized his mistake as soon as he heard Chene suck in the biting air.

“Programmer?” said the ‘bot. “Programmers are not allowed in Domisphere.”

“No—no, not a ‘bot programmer,” Jefferson backtracked, affecting insult. “A leisure programmer.”

“Where is your ReelGlass?” the ‘bot persisted.

The night sunk around them. Jefferson went white with terror as he felt Chene let go of his arm. He thought heard her whisper “Run”.

“You are Anglais,” the ‘bot said, the pink of Jefferson’s face now evident.

Chene stepped forward, pushing Jefferson toward the ice-locked river. “He is with Afrikanis,” she said. “I have his papers.”

The blood throbbing in his ears, Jefferson ran onto the ice. He scampered toward the lights of Sunrise, unable to look back. He ran until his heart felt like it would rend in two. Until he thought he could smell the sweetness of summer lilies. Until his mouth watered for hothouse plums.


adrienne maree

detroit 2414

mlara was so so tired.

every time she walked out of her house it was a suffering. today she had left the house as herself but by the time she’d reached the central detroit grocer her hands were wisened and gnarled, and she could feel the skin hanging, aged, from her face. she looked her actual age – and no one did that anymore. no one listened to the old, so she was ignored, barely tolerated, by everyone who came across her. 

it was dangerous enough, crossing the short blocks between her home and the grocer. being perceived as old was just an added danger. going to get food meant leaving the safety of her neighbors and the rules they had come up with for their four block radius, which was surrounded by low walls of rock and, in this season, snow – the walls which indicated that there was a people here, a people who had created a way of being with each other and if you didn’t know that way you’d be better off not to enter.

theirs wasn’t one of the fancy enclaves. their robot was at least 100 years old now and the enclave looked like it had been around at least that long. lately it was the worst she’d ever seen it – the bot could barely hold a steady projection of a pleasing natural world on their outer rim, much less design interior experiences of luxury. mlara had slipped through some of the nicer  enclaves when she used to be in charge of her shapeshifting – she knew that in some of them the robots created pools, homes that seemed to float in the air, generating food and comfort for the residents. 

so yes, they cared for each other, they had a mesh network in place to stay in touch with each other and were all connected by a virtual alarm system so they’d know if any of their number were harmed. but that was about as far as their technology could go. 

the most valuable thing in this enclave, by far, was the secret garden which bloomed 10 months of the year in the interior of a building that had lost it’s roof ages ago to a fire. mlara’s mother claimed to be the one who’d realized that enough sun landed inside to nourish plants. her neighbor susteen had created a system of glass and nutrient mirrors that helped the light reach every corner. everyone within the walls had the right to the produce they could carry in two hands for the week.

these days mlara never knew which skin would show up on her body when, and thus when her neighbors would recognize her, when she’d be allowed to gather vegetables from the garden. she could no longer risk going to get her portion, and knew it wouldn’t be long before concerned neighbors came looking. what could she tell them?

she didn’t understand why this was happening to her. for decades now she had been able to become whatever she needed to be in order to traverse this city. her enclave was almost all shapeshifters, in the early years they’d stuck together for safety and now it just made things easier. shapeshifters were really the only ones who could move between communities with any ease. in all the unofficial ways of the world, that was their job – they were the unseen translators, many of them working together to try and recreate a sense of unity across the vast geography of detroit.

but in order to officially be part of the unofficial shapeshifters, you had to show up for meetings and assignments in your origin form. mlara was no longer able to reliably hold her origin form, particularly when she left the enclave. she’d tried to attend one meeting once her shifting went chaotic, but was kicked out by the evening’s host, who was vehement about knowing exactly who mlara was and rejecting this imposter.

she didn’t know if she could go on. she had to sneak in and out of her own community, was estranged from her work. and forget love – no one wanted to look at an intermittent old lady who had neither the power nor the resources to keep herself young.

she began to drop down and the floor rose up to meet her, matching the somber nature of her shape and energy. she felt tears come to her eyes and when she went to wipe them away found her hands now smooth and small, her child hands.

at least this is accurate, she thought. i am crying like a baby.

the knock on the door didn’t immediately get her attention, so caught up was she in the full body act of weeping. it wasn’t until the sound escalated to the level of someone kicking the door with steel toed boots that she really heard it. she ran to the door and was about to open it when she remembered to check herself in the mirror.

thank god – her origin form. deep brown eyes in smooth brown skin, hair rising from her head in fro shock, eyebrows naturally arched for sarcasm, her own full gorgeous mouth. she smiled just a little to see herself, and opened the door. there was a circle of five women standing there. they were old women, they looked repulsive to her. she was glad that in this moment she didn’t look like that.


ew! how did they know her name?

‘mlara you daft vain child. it’s me susteen!’

susteen, her neighbor susteen??

‘susteen? what happened to you? why are you so old?’

susteen cocked an aged eyebrow at her and mlara took a moment in shock to look more closely at the other women in the circle. slowly she recognized shandow, keysla, robin, and dayda before her. ancient, all.

‘yes, yes see us now? we’re all just like you.’

‘oh not me -‘ mlara started, the lie coming without any intention in it. but the women slowly, gently, started laughing in her face. she looked down at her hands. wrinkled again, covered in age spots. she deflated.

‘yes you mlara. silly old girl. look – this is happening to all of us, all of us in the enclave. we think our bot is breaking down.’ susteen led the women past mlara, into the house.

‘but it isn’t just us. nothing,’ dayda gestured at the map of detroit enclaves on mlara’s resting screen, ‘nothing is as it seems mlara. we look our age, and the enclave looks like shit – but so do the other enclaves. it’s all a goddamn facade that the bots have been manifesting for us.’

‘and we’re out of it!’ susteen burst in. ‘and this is going to sound bink, but it’s a kind of freedom.’

‘free to be old?’ mlara spat out the words, pointing to her face. ‘to die?’

‘we’ve been old, mlara. for some time now,’ susteen said.

‘the older bots like ours, they just can’t maintain the illusions anymore.’ keysla’s voice was low, weaving this information in,

mlara looked around at them, familiar, stranger. they had each been such gorgeous women for so long now.

‘why should that effect my capacity to shapeshift though?’

‘you have no capacity to shift honey. none of us do. it was one of the symbiotic emergent benefits of some of the bots. but now those bots are so out of date there aren’t any parts left to try and fix it up.’ keysla looked sad.

mlara felt the shock through her system. how could this be? she looked at her hands, which felt suddenly small and permanent. she wondered if she could just give up now, just fall over and die.

‘mlara. mlara girl come now. are you listening to me? we might be the only ones who still remember how to grow food the old way. to our knowledge, no other enclave has maintained a garden.’

‘or every enclave has maintained a secret one,’ mlara replied, no intention of sarcasm.

‘or that. but there is no evidence at all of that. but it is possible.’ shandow flipped her hands back and forth, always fair.

‘free to have a real life. not all of this miserable projection and extension. to have a…a real life. that ends.’




The Deputy

Because the sun hadn’t come out for weeks, the motion detectors stopped working, and because mom is on duty tonight, she asked me to go find some replacement light. She knows I won’t find any, but I think I was starting to annoy her, and she wanted some time for herself. I never understand when she says that. How can she have her own time?

She’s been on duty for four days straight, and I’ve been her deputy. She doesn’t call me her deputy.

That’s my word for what I do, which is basically collect snow and listen for any weird sounds.

I remember reading about deputies in a history book. I think it was called “Security Through the Ages.” And the book had a chart with captains and officers and lieutenants. And deputies.

I love that word, deputy. 

I guess there used to be some order, like a ranking for what your duty was. And depending on your ranking, you got different amounts of money. And your duty had to do with what you did everyday. Like a deputy would be an assistant to the captain.

Like I am for mom.

And the deputy would do the same thing everyday. The deputy would do what the captain said to do. After I read that, I started to call mom captain but she told me to cut it out.

She wasn’t a captain, she said. She wasn’t anything.


“Support expires in one hour.” The transponder chirped out more stats, but that was the one that gave her pause. Corsine shut off the transponder’s auto-reminders. She whispered to herself, “Slow can make fast” and continued plotting.

“Alexica, over?” Can you come in?”

Her hair was frozen and semi-matted in place, with an occasional strand of icy hair breaking free. The wind chill had dropped below negative thirty again, and although the compound was closed Alexica asked her to run one more errand before nightfall.

Corsine glided across the thigh-high snow, in her nano-reinforced, steel-tipped snoshoes. In this weather, those snowshoes were the only way to cross the comm-zones.

“Alexica, where are you? My transponder is juiced out. I need to recharge and power-up now.”

Still no response. In fact it was radio silence. Corsine sat outside the barely visible container protecting the Fourth comm-zone from the usualy barren, grassy Intrazone. The Intra was unsafe; it was a place people rushed through to avoid, to get to other places. The shutterless houses dotting the Intra were already crippled beneath their own weight. They nearly disappeared in the never-ending, snowdrifts. In the Intra, the wild dogs hunted pheasants, coyotes and even young humanoids. It was rumored that some lived there, but Corsine never wandered far enough off the rutted roads to see for herself. It was hard to imagine a life without thermo-electric rechargers and the bots that provided lifecycle stability.

The orange battery light cast a subtle glow across the snow and as is started to change to a pinkish color, Corsine looked down at her transponder pack. It must have been broken. She felt light-headed. The white wasteland caught her fall.




“The most dangerous person is the one with nothing to lose.” 

Student here were pondering the truth of this statement. Maggie began crying her usual crocodile tears.

“Oh stop it, Maggie.”

Sheckle couldn’t stand his sister’s tears although the power they yielded her fascinated him. Their mother and father bestowed gifts and favors and privileges that Sheckle was denied he feels before he was even born. Glaring at his sister as the sun glinted sparkles off the fresh snow upon Maggie’s orange hair. 

He marveled at the perfect, calculated shape of each tear and the slow ballet like glide over her cheeks and down her slender neck. He wished Jeremy were there – he found such strength in his uncle’s arms and even just his presence. 

“You don’t even know what I’m crying about…” Maggie whispered to Sheckle in between her dramatic gasps. “Do you want homework or not? I can get us out – bet you a rock!” 

Rocks had been banned for some 300 years – since the uprising. Everyone learned about the uprising. Jeremy made sure to share the uprising to his niece and nephew even if he didn’t want to, the bloodstains told the full story he stuttered over. 

The cybeacher walked past and quizzed again, “Do you agree or disagree with this statement: ‘The most dangerous person is the one with nothing to lose!’?”

“Waah,” wailed Maggie. “You can’t seriously be asking me this when you know I’ve lost my puppy! Waah!” 

“Retreat, retreat, retreat!” Cybeacher could not compute extreme human emotion – a flaw in the otherwise perfect programming – the simulation shutdown, Maggie beaming as she bowed dramatically towards her brother. 

“Uhhhh…you’re welcome!” 

“You’re just delaying the inevitable. They’ll start the simulation at the same point tomorrow just like they did today and the day before…” 

“But I bought us some time today now didn’t I?! Now come on before they activate the cyclone. I’ve got your backpack and rock! Hurry!” 

“STOP! You know what happened last time! Stop! MAGGIE!” 

He knew it was no use. Not even Jeremy’s loving tone kept her in place. The inevitable was a fact for Sheckle. For Maggie, it was an opinion – an opinion that could change with the flip of a switch. Maggie was born after procarries became a given at every home – even the ones above 8 mile. That dividing line – no trees are allowed to grow there because they serve as mere matchsticks for those people. No homes or neighborhoods organized or liked the 8 belowers. 

That was a line no one crossed, anywhere. Sheckle remembered where he was and how fast his sister ran towards disaster. He turned his wheels towards his porter and directed his sight towards the pit. He was there before his lids met. 

“Be careful this time and I mean it when I say I’ll leave yo if you’re not here when I say we’re supposed to leave.” 

“Oh who cares? I know this pit better that I know our sleep wards!” 

Wayward sons and suns – kept us coming so long and far through the night.




Citadel is a capital city inhabited by the underprivileged. These people do not have access to modern Memory Dimension technology and mostly live in the present. Debon is a hu-highly gifted but unable to connect to Memory Dimension technology. After a near death accident, Debon has arrived to Citadel to warn the people to resist the Comptroller’s new Mem-Dim campaign. The Comptroller uses memory SOR (system of reality) to keep power and control. Those citizens who choose to not be obsessed with memories are viewed as inferior.

I wanted to choose my last walk. If I was going to expire, I wanted to choose a noble cause. Here I play with a sun to live. There was fog on the road so I guess no one saw me arriving in Citadel. Most return to their most loved ones from the past− I would rather see a better world myself.

I’ve been riding the rails for a long time. Circling hobbes without new modifications is madness. I should already be expired. Born with a defect, I’ve used my abilities or lack there of as a tool for survival. Luna told me there are others like me; genderless, polymathematic, clairvoyant and who cannot connect to Mem-Dim technology.

My SOR does not produce memory. It’s like when brigadiers return home unable to produce emotions.



Why I Stole It: 

“It wasn’t that I wanted it – I certainly didn’t it, although I thought I did at the time. Winter was clearing the snot from it’s nose into spring, although it was unseasonably hot – the styrons had already begun to rupture with overuse on the older Bernulis. Mine was beautiful – it was old, but one of the last made in Detroit before –


“Well hell I forgot about the shoes!”


“Tell them about the shoes” – Redacted


“It’s not the appropriate -”


“Tell them”

John King Bookstore

Long since gone, years ago.




Stole them


July 15, 1967


I saw them. I seen them come – with chains for tires. Beetles, giant beetles, with long,” he slid his dry black hands apart like lying about the size of a fish.


“There ain’t no giant beetles what you saw was Tanks.” Albert hooked his arm around the goalpost, careful to avoid the rust already forming like pimples. They studied the pitted steel momentarily – at 11 he already knew the word steel and that it was made of iron and that stuff that made up the tips of pencils – and that his father made it in something called a foundry. He didn’t know what a foundry was. He looked at his brother upside down as he hung from the post, arching his back.


“Them’s the things-” he stopped mid-sentence. He felt it again, clawing. It started in his stomach and spread down through his groin. It tasted like pennies and scared him. He sat down and a little cloud of dust perfumed his brother’s shoe, neatly tied.




His brother towered over him with a quiet look on his face, as the luster of Albert’s receded like water down a bathtub drain.


“I want to do it again.”

“How is it serving anyone but you and your,” he moved his hand in a circle like slowly beating an egg.

“If you ever say that again I’ll kill myself – and then where will you be?”

“How do you know I already haven’t?”





she stepped out


uncertain of the ground beneath bare feet


it had been a moment ago, in another landscape, soft sand sifting through toes



a pebble


a rock


blades of grass that cut if felt against the grain


When was the last time pain had not been merely a thought?



the thought struck her to look behind, over a shoulder to see from where she came


a tall wall, a slim door, grey as wet concrete



amassed around a broken house


in front


a field


a prairie


albeit this structure of


unhinged doors, windows unpaned


immediately she knew this as a memory


a space occupied inside her mind


one that once recognized


leaked tears of pang and pride


“this is where I came from”



before leaving


before transforming


“before I knew I was _____”


“this is where I came from”


and now she began to remember why



and how


she left




on my way to the store, one which sold liquor and prepaid personal computing devices


intent on filling mother’s data plan


I saw amidst the path I walk


six inches of dispersed debris


in this path lay Pethagarus’s Prism


a path six inches wide


six inches could be seen of cracking concrete


the latest and greatest model of personal robotic extension



at first I could not believe my eyes


was this not exactly what I could not have


the key to mobility


the key to access



I picked it up and


put it on and


have not seen my mother since



she looked back at the harrowing wall and slim door looming over her shoulder


the wall was the largest she had ever seen


but this door




creaky even by sight


was recognizable



it was


it had to be


that where she had entered (she could not know how long ago)


was the same door she had just left



“that is English Village”


she looked back in the direction she was walking


moving towards the ramshackle home


mother’s friend who lives in that home


it hadn’t looked much better ­ then? ­


“and that must be Ingird’s


­lived in that home? ­


when I had seen it last”


she stops her gait


to concentrate


and remember



I place Pethagarus around my neck


the slight electrical tingle is much softer than Ern’s prism I tried last week


I don’t see anything is different


besides this tingle


I don’t feel different


I suddenly remember


mother’s data



the door opens and sounds a bell to alert Old Man Jackson about my entrance


he turns back away from stacking liquor bottles


“yes can I ­


excuse me, can I help you”


“Hey OMJ”


“What are you lost?”


“No OMJ it’s me ­”


“If you need me to call you a taxi I can, but you don’t want to be in here, people aren’t


gonna want to buy data when they see you in here. they just gonna wanna take what you


are ­”



I’m walking back on the narrow path


OMJ did not recognize me.

I look at my hand and it is my hand


“Hey! Bot!  lemme talk at you a sec!”



Just keep walking


“Hey! Bot!”


Bot?  he must think I’m a ­


what model is this?


“Hey! Bot!”


He starts jogging after me.


I’m going to have to move ­



and suddenly I am three blocks ahead of him.


I did not­


did I ­



He has given up chasing me so I must have.


I stop looking back


it was that same door.


English Village



and yes



the conclave I know not to enter


I know it is only for borgs and bots


Wait.  He called me a bot, didn’t he?



I put my hand on the door.


well that’s a first.



no shock.



I push


the door opens



and the lush air of scented oxygen pulls me in and the door shut



and as if the lights turn on, I am no longer here


a moment of darkness.


“systems acclimating”


here being my city


here being 2414


I am somewhere else


is this where they live?


I feel weightless, I feel fine.



And suddenly what was ­ in my mind ­ the past quarter century of my life


seems to me impossible


I know that it happened


I know I have felt it



but that! exists just outside of this!


I need to see if mother is still­ –



Databank Feb 50 / 2414


Update to OS41XX116 is smooth. 90% enclaves reported without fault. Unusually cold weather has boosted system operation through super-conductor effect. With electrons less excitable, function is clear and the projection of high-priority neighbourhoods has been superb. Population is beaming! Preference is shifting from tropical beach projection to Andro-European holograming across the board. Potentially influenced by GOV BURMJEAN’s announcement that the new focus is on European mining for xanotoptipanonium (useful in all in-eye vision wear) A POPULATION RESPONSIVE TO FASHION IS A POPULATION WHO WILL SPEND 🙂 🙂 🙂


New entry to Databank this week – to honour 125th anniversary of Mrs Formens untimely death.


OBSERVATIONS! sponsored by MH Formens. Creator of the D D neighbourhood projection system. OS will log incidents in dialect of great creator. SHE WILL LIVE ON aka ONLY SOME PEOPLE DIE!


Too many OS still jabbering about the bandwidth shortage in this city. If a mile wide optic cable running Woodward can’t cut it, then who can solve this prickly dilemma? Neighbourhoods who are still projecting out of the old-tech GM ROCKY ROBOT line of neighbourhood generators (NG) suck up that bandwidth shit like chocolate milk. The flashy new import – Takashewa Line Projectors – are running fine, naturally, but are always greedy for more juice. The populations in high-priority enclaves know to complain (and so they should, having been accustomed to the highest living standards for decades) and they’ve been hollering at GOV BURMJEAN with some new ideas about a shutdown to these old-tech ROCKY ROBOT enclaves.  The worth of the folk there ain’t totalling up to the inconvenience it’s putting on Takashewa Line peoples. Personally, I couldn’t give a hoot about the people but the OS has some retro charm. Would be a shame to see the plug pulled. In fact A ROCKY ROBOT OS has been sending pigeons my way, talking bout one of his population. This little fleshie has been tinkering round with the NG frameworking, chatting up some crazy clicks and code and comms to the OS. Shows how much loose time these people have, talking to us OS’s instead of buying and filing feedback for their GOV. Once I got an earful, I have to log, I was eager to clock more. This fleshie can see undeneath the old tech projection, ROCKY ROAD pigeoned me, ‘maybe you wonder Takashewa, does this fleshie see under your skirt too?’ A farce I thought, but extended a g-invite to the fleshie, only for it to get deleted by overwrite OS. I consoled myself by inputting the idea ‘this fleshie is just a glitch in the Rocky Road system’


FEB 56 – 2414

Projection points are smoother than ever today. Feels great dolloping on great big slops of unreality to the crinkled front of Detroit. New update included fine tuning on the texturiser, making everything look so damn slinky. This update makes it all the more astonishing what happened when this fleshie from Corked flopped by today. She’d picked up the g-invite as an echo in the system and come to visit the enclave. She logged in at NG mainframe 15:67 o clock and chatted up 2 silly games. 1) she came at me like a local somebody, with an average request – newest updates to the convenience weaponry to improve likelihood of fatality –  and as I was processing request she 2) drops her fleshie veneer like it was a dress made of meltin’ ice cream and shows me a new-old crusty side. She begins dipping into Takashewa coding, muddling about with some dusty finger digits. Typing and tapping and pulling commands, From that vantage I could clock her for sure, No techie add-ons at all. A tech-baldie by the seems of it. In S-Ville! My curiosity was such that I refused to alert the security system, instead I let her sit and we coded for a hot minute. You will not believe this fleshie’s story! She grew up corked, not a stitch of add-on for life, not even a silicon slice through her whole body bag, on top of this she can witness the screen. and the projection. AND ME, the magician. Never known a people like it – even scanned her for extended unknown OS tech. Guess it.. she’s not even an advance bot.


So I clocked her for the rest of the day, making about like any other S-Ville, didn’t feel any danger from her (unarmed as she was without any tech) impotent as a lamb, but intuitive enough to get past the vision. Mrs Formens, she is a nano-you.


FEB 94 / 2414

Plume (the fleshie) has been tinking across many villes, I’ve located her in R-Ville chatting up a civilian about the projections. they have some vibing connectivity but he ain’t feeling her double see. Can’t fathom there is a screen behind any projection. She’s dreamed up a couple glamours for him (boy I love how she works) so now he sees her all decked out in high-class tech features. What is in it for her? She’s tickling the people’s with all the right moves, but she leaves every night. And she’s not chatting up no ROCKY ROBOT NG or low-priority people.

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