Chapter 70: A Song of Circuits and Cunt-Glares
There is something fundamentally disconcerting about waking up with a vacuum-sealed steak resting reverently atop your sternum. Not a lover's arm. Not a blade. Not even a weird alien fungus with aspirations of symbiosis. No — a packaged bovine fillet. And it wasn't even warm.
Turning my head sluggishly, the culprit of this sacred morning rite was already sitting cross-legged at my bedside, beaming with a kind of pride usually reserved for hunting trophies or first kills. Kimchi — glorious, terrifying Kimchi — clasped her clawed hands together like an overexcited schoolgirl. "Good morning, mate! Kimchi has acquired nutrition for you."
Gods above, she was so proud of herself. She'd probably battled an airlock for this thing. Normally she just shoved biltong mystery slabs into my mouth without warning, often while I was sleeping. So her not feeding me like a python force-feeds a hatchling was... progress?
