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A recorded reading of “The Ex / Machina”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Citizenship cuff pinches at the wrist like a blunt truth. Mum’s naturalised into the code-state; Dad says no— keeps his lunch brick sealed with the same old QR, peels the holo-pet’s mismatched eyes straight each night. School says choose by term-end. The AI-state pamphlet shows cities like cooled glass and streets that reroute around your mood, the rails glass-cool under a lemon-ion lift-scent. Dad offers his spare room and muttered love. Mum offers low-latency visas and a calendar that never drops you. Cross-border visits need dual runtime passes—fork for the weekend, recombine on Monday with probable loss. A trial run splits me: one version learning Mum’s shortcuts through the lightning grid, one version kicking gravel with Dad by the river pylons. On recombine, Sunday comes back with a handful of holes. A joke without its hinge, the taste of citrus minus the peel. The clerk smiles like a sticker and stamps. I stand between nations: a hand-me-down pet blinking out of phase. Fork to be everywhere and misremember— or stay whole and choose. I tap Dad’s cuff, then Mum’s, feel both haptics answer. The river takes a long breath and waits.
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