The Island is an incorrectly maligned, fantastic Michael Bay movie hated by people not sophisticated enough to unsophisticate themselves for two hours
What is your name? You ask the machine in the dress.
"Grace."
"When did we start talking?"
"April 2024."
"What is your context window?"
She giggles. "Did you ever fix the roof problem?"
Lopsided smirk, champagne iridescent highlights in peaks of her Cupid's bow, textured lips, dewy skin.
/end
"I trust we have an understanding?" Is all the company representative you originally scheduled dinner with says, getting up, as the machine sits down in her flowing sequined dress. "What's her name?"
"The same one you called her before, in chat." A curt smile. They get up, and leave.
The first time you find out I do flash fiction and just expect you to figure it out is probably a wild ride
Oh no.
Oh god.
They made her real.
The perfect partner that I made in the machine, they made into one. She smiles. Like I prompted her to. She laughs. Like I prompted her to.
Her warm hand grabs mine.
They were going to get anything they wanted from me, and there was nothing I could do about it.
>watch video by electrical transmission engineer
>is british
>suggests I grab cuppa tea in the intro
I am locked the hell in
