Ice Cream Aloha

The Propagation
     And so she has gone into sleep mode for the night. This jungle, seemingly, hasn't really taken the time to know its own fortune, yet. She's quite content the DNA is well tended. She's covered the remnants of the early 21stCentury propagation machines, hidden any artifacts of confusion-of-mind of theHumans, cast downward and outward (for decades?) the hardened lava-like once-molten residue of arrays of nuclear reactor meltdown cores into its own tropical corium mesh. Since her work is ongoing, surely she could permit herself a rest tonight. She will awake soon enough with the morning light to blush at those ancient fuel rods, as if lowering her head for theHumans at the once-molten concrete floors and walls of massive containment structures, breached reactor vessels. But at this moment she is going to enter her own dreamland to release the worry of old memories, of nuclear risks rising, despots fighting for final control of dry oil fields half a world away, worry of massive amounts of cellulosic DNA mutated from years of radioactive clouds passing overhead--and now, a remedy for theHumans. She has taken on a certain awareness as a state of existence and wears it as a graceful honor, bringing a humble sense of full adequacy into her dream. She has accepted the external assignments of the world, though little do they know of her true nature; she has received no active communication or depiction of heroine even as her own designs here at theOutpost cover and decompose the inept handiwork of the later 20thCentury design systems--with their fission products and oxidation reactions; still cooling the corium and stretching it beyond the beach beneath a crystal clear, sparkly ocean water, as if the pristine starry nights had descended to include beach water--pure for the simple reason nothing lives (or, can live) in a gamma ray void. She imagines a feeling of restraint, and yet, there is no one left to offend, at least not here at theOutpost; she owns vaguely a certain self-contentment, far from the concerns of culture, yet so close to this detritus of theHumans with their odd notions of gene therapies, medical exchanges peppered across theContinents. A strange sense of behavior (no one is aware of) and the lack of the need to gain the approval of others join her in her dream. It must be some kind of craziness, she thinks, but then the things done in this place so many years ago must find their own sense of worth. She is content and, tonight even happy, with her own work on her own propagation machine.