As happens so frequently in life, things began to break down during the screening of 1973’s blaxploitation-themed imprisoned-women film Black Mama, White Mama. It is very nearly a truism of the modern condition that things will begin to break down when this point of human interaction is reached.
Unity eventually returned from the Maragda Building’s luxurious underground parking garage and found me in the lobby, right where she left me, screaming at the open air like a total moron.
“FIND!” I shouted. “PICTURE! HOME SCREEN!” And then, after a quick squint at the screen: “AAARGH!”
“Well,” I said. “This is the last time I ever buy furniture from one of those ‘unpainted furniture marts’.”
The dryad sighed and took a drag on the cigarette I’d loaned her, one of only four remaining in my household. “I’m not happy about it either, you understand,” she said. “But it beats being trapped in an entertainment center my entire life.”
“So,” remarked Agent All-Devouring Void, “you gonna eat those fries?”
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“It turns out that when Agent Talbot disabled the facility’s primary data loop by biting through its main power conduit, its synthetic mother-brain took note of it, and drew what it believed to be… appropriate conclusions.”