Xeroxcom

She made her choice. She didn’t copy herself.

But Zola was desperate. Her final thesis model—a fragile cardboard utopia—had been crushed in her backpack. She needed one clean copy of the original blueprint. She fed the wrinkled sheet into the machine’s maw. xeroxcom

“XeroxCom,” a synthetic voice murmured from the machine’s dusty speaker grill. “Do not duplicate. Remanifest .” She made her choice

The XeroxCom did not whir. It purred .