"Your account looks pretty low!"
The voice, brightly invasive, came from a drone that floated in and scanned his eyes.
"How about some comfort food?"
The hull man tuned out the drone. Probably no one was even watching. Probably it was only roaming around on auto. Its shape was that of the common torso-type, large in the shoulders to denote authority and accommodate materials, limbless, a tapering, wedge-shaped wonder the hull man pointedly ignored as best he could, determined not to let the intrusion distract him from enjoying the feeling brought on inhaling the fumes emitted by the crushed bugs.
The drone was constructed to resemble an ancient circus clown, originally. Now it looked something the worse for wear. The hull man tried an interior retreat, but found himself ticked he couldn't enjoy the crushed bug buzz.
"Account's awful low. Better get a pick-me-up!"
Organic plant-life requiring neither soil nor water to survive thrived interwoven among cords and cables carpeting every available surface under the edge of the city floating on free energy high above the ancient world, organic and inorganic abundance alike molded intertwined dramatically over time by the force of the wind.
The hull man fanned dead bug air toward the drone. The old clown torso might have caught a whiff, or, like an old dog, knew what to expect from the sight.
"Better get a pick-me-up," it repeated, wedging itself with rubbery squeaks into the gust-molded growth so that it didn't have to maintain a hover.
"Take a load off," mimic bugs said, hiding in the crannies. Soft sounds here and there of plucked banjo strings.
The hull man, sinking deeper into his memories, retreated further up into the jungle.
The clown drone followed...
MORE
EVENTUALLY
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