## Bloom The humid air tasted of petrichor and something vaguely metallic, a constant background note within the Meridian. My boots sunk slightly into the manufactured loam as I walked, each step a dull thud against the biodome’s artificial quiet.…
## The Algorithm’s Harvest The dust tasted like regret. Elara spat, wiping her mouth with a calloused hand. Sun hammered the Oklahoma fields, shimmering on brittle stalks of wheat – a pathetic yield compared to last year. Data scrolled across…
## Bloom The nutrient tank pulsed violet. Gleamnships danced across the slick surface, reflecting in Elara’s goggles. Below, a labyrinth of fungal narratives spread like spilled ink across the hydroponic trays. They shifted—a response, she thought, to the encrypted signals…