Shambal reclines wearily in a grimy chair. It’s wooden frame creaks as he shifts uncomfortably. The hempish fabric still holds, even after decades of wear. A large WAD of lipids bulges from part of his right buttock. Many of its cells are mutated. Shambal has waited too long to have it removed without consequence.
He’s been told it’ll grow at a linear rate. The discomfort he feels now will increase, but he won’t feel anything but minor, occasional throbs for years to come. His conclusion is not to deal with it until then. If it eventually comes to suicide, by that time, he’ll have most, if not all, of his personality archived on his three dynos. They are safe for the forseeable future. They will be safe for the life of the moon.
The thing at the biological foundation explained the only alternative to surviving with the WAD. His lower body can be removed. He’d be fused to a mobile rig. Thoughts of such a future make him balk. He shudders. He’d asked boldly Would I still be able to breed? The answer was no. That part of his life would be in the past.
Shambal couldn’t deal with that. He likes fucking.
