Ice Cream Aloha

The Work  
     She goes into the workhouse, a thick-walled containment structure reinforced in later 20th Century technology, ancient storage place of spent fuel rods, and climbs the stairs toward the second level. The cement steps, in their perpetual sleepiness, reveal nothing. Something occurs to her. Another dream? They know more than they are telling; in due time, she will know this is where theHumans departed from optimality in response to the places in which they lived individually. Suzi scans her own technological base (database?) using her most available metadata on "constraints" and, in a quick instant, her monitor screen lights up. She has no anticipation of being surprised with the data--she is fully aware of the statistical odds of finding more on the cognitive repertoire of theHumans, especially in regards to their once-in a-lifetime immediate environment; the miscalculations of their own constraints under a technology that their own scientists did or didn't have the most basic human trait of caring and, at least optimally, share the important information, the data with connectivity to their survival; the seemingly total disregard for the ideal pattern, collectively, for decade upon decade, with the beautiful talk of rhetoric as an art form unto itself, allowing a word like disaster go extinct in their long-standing stupor, whether to check or or not check (never mind rechecking) for applied correctness in a world now precipitated into longing for the women and foraging for the men. It is amazing, it's true, to uncover more data hidden away as if in catacombs of spent unconstrained fermi fuel enriched rods(S.U.F.F.E.R.) with its own containment structure and immersion pool, its own exclusion zone all part of a hiding place deemed reasonable by a concept favored by theHumans and, now revealed as something denoted as shame, finding the concept carefully placed so deep with care and, seemingly, shared logic and making perfect sense for ...what? Suzi approaches the second level.