He shuffled to the kitchen, where his nutrient dispenser was already humming. The slurry came in a biodegradable pod shaped like a tiny UFO. On the side, it read: “You’re not losing yourself. You’re upgrading.” He sucked down the warm, beige paste. It did taste like brisket. Or at least, the memory of brisket that the Xylos had downloaded into his gustatory cortex last Thursday.
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After the show, Marcus felt a twinge. Not sadness. Not anger. Just a tiny, hollow echo where his ambition used to live. The diffuser noticed the dip in his pheromones and instantly recalibrated, pumping out a scent called “Ambient Oblivion.” The hollow filled with warm static. He shuffled to the kitchen, where his nutrient