Thomas gave his avatar consciousness because he tired of all the decisions. As he got older, he realized that was a mistake. He missed the control. But after many, many service calls, there was no going back. So, he paid, and paid dearly, for plot points and obstacles and playing characters. And like clay he eventually shaped him back to his will.
The Armadillo Brigade
Penelope Bookers life hit peak absurdity on June 4, 2131 outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico when her automated car hit what appeared to be the last remaining nine-banded armadillo just before sunrise. The car flipped over 4 or 5 times, but landed upright, and facing Historical Marker 295. Penelope survived. The armadillo did not. The car notified the authorities, and in the time it took for them to get there, she read the words on the dusty metal plaque several times to herself. The story was familiar, but she had forgotten. This was the exact spot her great-grandfather led the Armadillo Brigade in the final battle for the Western States. She took it as a sign.
Teresa called it time’s gallblader. A pouch so vile they should just rip it out and be done with it. I can still see her saying that. And I share her distain for the bile and gall that collects here, unsavory time fucks, everyone single one of them. But the stream needs a place like the Precipict, and we need the stream. I can see her ghosting in the convergence, but focus, focus, focus. This cycle I will find her killer.