At her feet, her old body is a mess. The chest is shattered open, ribs broken and upright, torn flesh gaping like a basking shark in the shallows. She grimaces, and then sets to work with a broom.
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Robbie stopped for a second, and looked at the wriggling thing. It was ugly, but he didn’t know it, being only made to understand aesthetic beauty—symmetry and color saturation and fullness, as it related to vegetation. This thing was smaller, something pathetic, though he couldn’t understand that either.
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