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“Did they name you that as some sick joke?” asks Mirabelle.

Cassandra bobs peacefully in the enclosure, a faintly luminescent little green girl with a cuttlefish head. “Not in the way you mean.  Dr. Abernathy understood the truth of Cassandra.”

“Which is?”

“She didn’t need a curse. All that is necessary to be disbelieved and then hated is that one predict with accuracy.”

The station’s lights are dimmed and flickering; water gushes somewhere, and the air thickens with the smell of burning insulation. “We’re going to die down here, aren’t we?” whispers Mirabelle.

“One hates to say one told you so.”