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Preston

Preston saunters up after yoga (not in a bar; never a bar) and coughs. She looks up. His mag grabs a few portraits, guesses at genetic background, combines that with what little else he knows and runs two hundred thousand approach simulations. The most successful queues up in his vision.

“So,” he says, with a [self-mocking smile] as indicated, “just how flexible are you?”

She straightens and socks him in the face. Preston sits down hard, nose gushing blood.

“Oh geez!” she says, hands to her mouth. “Sorry! My mag said you’d like that!”

Preston, to his surprise, really does.

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