3028

It’s 3028.

You lie in a puddle just over 4km in diameter, photosynthesizing. The photons taste like tiny buffalo wings as your greedy chloroplasts worf them down.

A gentle summer shower starts; it’s your 65,536 lovers arriving to fertilise your gaping stomata. The bliss envelopes you all and, inevitably, some of you releases tiny babies in the form of homunculi 236 nanometres long. Goodbye, Children, wave me when you have Minds!

As your family lie in a happy heap around, in and through you, you absorb all pre-existing human media in just under a tenth of a second. That was good but you’re still peckish.

So, you live the life of every baseline human who ever lived, simulating their wildly, ridiculously tiny lives in just eight of your nineteen thumbs. Then you burp. It smells strongly of cyclohexane and Ribena.

Your half-sister waves from orbit. You wave back.