When the Sticks sent commands it sounded like a pile of rustling leaves or soil being turned over.
The cost of a new Reel was determined at auction. Bidders stood behind partitions showing only their teeth.
They were trapped. Cool, jazzy commands were piped into the elevator. Destroy. Eat. Reproduce. Disassemble.
A beverage made from the ground bones of memories, brewed in vats of expectation, dispensed with the blessings of heretical clergy.
A tincture was applied sparingly. The elders were summoned. He would have to go into the trees like all the others.
“When you’ve mastered the art of it everything else will seem like a slow motion car crash,” she said.
They lived for almost a million years, but they spent most of it napping. Their dreams grew planets.
Magnetic disorientation lead to stray missions deployed to ancient henges seeking dissident archaic tracks.
Parting the fur carefully, she revealed a complex tattoo, the long awaited instructions.
Archaeologists swarmed over the site, chattering excitedly in academic birdsong.
It stood as tall as the trees, they didn’t understand why they hadn’t seen it before. It was powered by their miserable boredom.
These patterns weren’t enough, the recombinatoric cube unfolded into the living space with pure, cold vengeance.
Guards stood mutely around the exhibition, which desperately reached out with a thousand loving tentacles.
Two hundred days into the experiment the only one not willing to hit the panic button was the narcissistic businessman who didn’t believe the monsters were real.
The Control Voice was weary. So many unanswered questions, so many existential quandaries. It imagined a quiet life, some little town without multidimensional aliens or irony.