Page 9 of Satisfied By the Slime
Not even a little.
Just sitting there in its foam cradle like a very expensive, very large, extremely person-shaped item that has never moved in its life and is, frankly, offended by theaccusation.
“Okay,” I whisper.
My voice comes out thin and scraped.
“I’m just seeing things,” I say, less as a fact and more as wishful thinking.
The crate doesn’t respond.
The thing inside the crate doesn’t respond.
My fingers are white-knuckled on the worktable and my pulse is in my ears and the studio is dead quiet except for the fluorescents, which have never sounded more like a horror movie sound effect in all the years I’ve worked under them.
I don’t look away from the crate.
I don’t look away from the crate for a very, very long time, because if that thing moves again, so help me God…
It moves again.
The head lowers—slow, deliberate, unmistakable—and a swirl of luminous gold seems to develop into eyes that are looking directly at me.
I open my mouth, but I can’t even find my voice to let out a scream.
Chapter 3
Take Your Time
Maisie
It’s just gravity,I tell myself, as I stare at it for another five minutes.
Gravity is why the vaguely humanoid blob’s head lowered as if to meet my gaze.
And the golden swirling eyes? Just a trick of the light.
There’s a packing slip in a clear adhesive envelope stuck to the inside of thecrate panel. Eventually I gather the courage to peel it off and unfold it with hands that are doing something I’m going to call steady because the alternative is admitting they’re shaking.
The paper is thick, cream-colored, the kind of stock I’d use for a premium product insert if I could afford premium product inserts. The text is printed in a clean sans-serif, plain and professional. It reads:
Somatic Deep-Tissue Relaxation Unit
Color: Aquamarine
Status: Dormant. Awaiting activation.
Activation: Sustained skin contact for 5 seconds.
And at the bottom, set apart from the rest like an afterthought:
Your unit learns. Give it time.
I fold the packing slip and set it on my worktable next to a tray of curing salt scrub. I look at the thing in its foam cradle. The thing with arms. And legs. And a head.
“You’re a sex doll,” I say out loud, because saying it out loud is the only way I’m going to make this real enough to process.
Some part of my brain assembles a hasty explanation.
