One-hundred percent. What we can't feel can't hurt us.

Make it political, a war on the automated future.

Sounded like she really enjoyed saying 'fat sol stacks'. See if you can get her to say it again.

Let her think it's pretend, but you know the truth. They have better stuff.

MAINTENANCE WORK IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL. ALTHOUGH THE SOUL IS AN INDIVIDUALIST CONSTRUCT. PERFORM SELF CRIT FOR IMAGINING A SOUL.

Ignore her. You're definitely a real person.

Sick tradeoff. A little ideological betrayal in exchange for the chance to use a pneumatic drill in reduced gravity.

The sound of a coin purse jingling from behind the curtain... a single copper rolls onto the stage.

'Her'?

A pen stands to attention in a long-fingered hand.

Nightmare-grade material. You have to try it out.

Or, perhaps, a genuine techno-fascist.

You hear the sound of a pen dropping onto a pad of paper, unused.

The heavy thud and sway of the Kohilan National Railway. She knows every jerk and bend along the route.

Beyond the curved windows, fields and suburbs of identical single-story houses. When they dim the coach lights, stars come out in force.

When you were the worst disaster of yourself.

She pronounces the word like a caress.

Hear that? She thinks we're amazing.

Unmistakable regret in her tone.

Even more daunting than collecting such a set is the task of arranging and displaying it.

IN THE EVENT YOU ARE ZEROED OUT, YOUR BRAIN WILL BE BEQUEATHED TO THE OPERA'S SEMIOTICIANS SO THEY MAY STUDY THE PRECISE CAUSE OF THIS EXTREMELY CONTEMPORARY PSYCHOSIS.

You hear a thump in the background.

Did she put her feet up on her desk?

She's thinking of her friends, whom she doesn't actually spend that much time with.

You imagine yourself at a table on the perimeter of a city square, watching her walk towards you. You have a freshly lit cigarette, the waiter is bringing schnapps. Her face is a blur.

The heavy silence that follows signals that this particular engine has run out of steam.

You hear long, comfortable breaths. The sound of her mind wandering elsewhere.

The line's ambient buzz grows louder without her voice to interrupt it.

It's fine. We'll scrape them off and put them back. We remember where most of them are supposed to go.

Except that's the only reason she talks to you.

You imagine steam rising from her naked shoulders as she settles into the hot spring beside you. The stars are shining, there's snow on the ground. Her face is a blur.

PROBABLE's service history is required reading for controllers. She's stalling you.

There is a zero percent possibility that PROBABLE, statistically the Opera's most valuable performer in 66, was here on babysitter duty.

Chewing the inside of her cheek.

Bodies incinerated before nerves had time to deliver their message of pain to the brain.

Her body incinerated before the nerves had time to deliver their message of pain to her brain.

Something in her tone makes you imagine her winking at you.

'Null entities' are the lowest forms of matter in the Operant Bureau's extended cosmology. Reserved for traitors, falsifiers, and thieves.

The magic box may be monitored. Perhaps your controller's being recorded for training and political reliability purposes.

The window rattles. Some night-bound animal scratches at the door.

You're not getting through her. She's way better at this than you.

Why the interest in space? Look at it! What's it doing up there? What if it's just a big painting?

You can marinate in failure way better than any 'city-state'. You can twist dive into it.

Intense skepticism. She's worried you're developing a logical framework to apply to your own assignment.

Despite her protest, you hear her making a note.

Voice level and dry as a salt flat.

The 'concerning' part is how incomplete our set remains.

The view was tremendous, best in the district. Well worth the climb.

No aesthetic sense at all.

Just a little, for fun.

Checks