The dust storm promised to settle the fuck down via it’s agent; the endlessly chipper napkin dispenser sized personal assistant. Amy had found the code and design specs while doing a deep dive into vintage net coms. She was in it for the honesty editorial on the period couldn’t provide. It was a dozen kinds of poison at any dose, but she consistently found enough anti venom delights to go back for another taste.

It was a perfect replica; a balloon stuck in a balaclava head, its eyes were a screen that conveyed the personality lacking from its minimal “british” vocalization with a selection of “jiffs”. He academically understood what they were, though time had misplaced most of the threads that connect context and content. She explained the NOPE octopus too him, but there were 3 lifetimes worth of images to witness. If he trusted his gut then most of the time Herbie was being a real smart ass.

It was a poor replacement. It made none of the right jokes, asserted nothing with the necessary conviction, and didn’t smell right. He could toss it into the howling winds, where its upgraded power supply and components would keep it quipping beneath the sands for a millennia. He should to stop it’s over annunciation from overwriting her chirps of delight as if everything was a tiny little bird stopping by to say hello. He would if he weren’t so sure without the caustic reminders, he’d let go and merely survive. If she ever found him, he had to make sure he remembered.