The work was, admittedly, useless- no one left
to dig out things for- but it was something.
The robot had been chipping away at the mountainside when its claws hit the
casket, metal dulled by way of time and dirt.
It hadn’t meant to open the thing; it just
happened. Latches came undone with a sigh, then the girl emerged, coughing. She
was covered in slime, disoriented.
It bespoke her. You are in the future, it explained, not for the first time. Time
capsules had been all the rage once; as the air steadily became more
unbreathable, governments were anxious to preserve human specimens. For the
next civilization, supposedly.
Listen, it said with remorse, you’re dying. Her eyes went wide as
saucers. This bit was always disconcerting, but the robot persevered, playing
soothing music through its speakers.
And it must have worked, because, when the
hypoxia manifested, she was smiling.
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