Flowers Dancing on Her Grave
Things die. This is obvious. Things with flesh and things with leaves. But Jinmay was neither when she died, no matter how rosy her cheeks looked—or how fine her hair shone in the blistering Shuggazoom sun.
But she died, and she was certainly a thing. A thing of coldness and metal and non-life. And everything alive around her was gone: Chiro, who touched her with warmth and gentleness when she touched him with coldness; her cyborg monkey friends, who either died in battle or had age catch up to their living parts.
Merely shells, they died as—when their brains shriveled, and they grew as aware as simple robots with advanced weapons and such. Jinmay wondered and wondered when whatever it was that made her feel human would fizzle out. Gears, gears, all needed to line up. What would happen once sand or something flooded inside her and she couldn't act properly?
And she finished the job herself, when it was just Jinmay and the Super Robot and Antauri. The Super Robot moaned like it was an old man, and Antauri tried to act normal—Antauri-normal. The silver robot simian had his anecdotes and his deep, quiet tone and his restrained manner.
It just made everything worse.
Jinmay made sure the fall hurt, made sure it was the most human feeling in the world.
Then she died smiling.
And Antauri is now the only one that leaves flowers—as phantasmagorical in their vibrance as life within a dream—dancing on her grave. He is the only one because everybody else is dead.
Author's note: I was in the mood for something cheerful. You're welcome.