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Ludmilla

“I don’t know,” says Yancy, pulling her fingers away from the softsteel pads on the back of Ludmilla’s neck, “it feels okay when I try it.”

Ludmilla shivers. “You don’t feel that? It’s twitchy and agitated, and whenever I move too fast it seizes up on me.”

“Lemme in again.” Contact: Yancy trickles into Ludmilla’s body: the altered balance and weight of her, the way her nerves talk to each other, the slightly different cast to colors. It’s lovely.

“I could stay in there all day,” she says, withdrawing.

“I’d sell it to you,” sighs Ludmilla, “if I had a spare.”

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