The Food Thing arrived so they hid their hands and tightly closed their robes.
The colony played the game until their ears bled. Each time they restarted, they were certain they would win.
Animals collected around the cabin, insisting that fur be applied evenly.
A dozen glasses of wine later the captain explained that their mission had always been to get rid of the arms and legs.
As they watched the broadcast they felt a tickle, just a flutter, in the head. Was there a termination code? They couldn’t remember.
The grove at the center of the island was full of dugout canoes and handmade posters with rousing political slogans. Election day was close.
The electric fence at the perimeter knocked them unconscious, releasing encrypted balloons over enemy skies.
There wasn’t enough room on the raft, there was plenty of room in the water. Quorum.
The lottery winner received a complete tour. “Did you know the abattoir is powered entirely by sunlight?”
The new machine was a smooth, white rectangle about as tall as the table. It came complete with emotional commands.
A trough was placed in front of them, as long and as wide as their previous, beloved captain.
Soldering the two antennae together was more difficult than it first appeared–the squirming was violent and distracting.
Exhaust was pumped out of the overtaxed recycling center, causing euphoria and ravenous hunger in people of the surrounding zones.
Their report concluded that reality had forked into some strange, horrifying branch almost two years ago–prompting intense whiteboarding and incredible amounts of alcohol.
Magnetic disorientation lead to stray missions deployed to ancient henges seeking dissident archaic tracks.