Grimes should have known better than to believe Elon when he said he needed to stop by SpaceX for “a brief moment.” His resolve to leave Earth intensified daily, and when his team of reply guys-turned-mathematicians called him about commencing Phase Two — testing the acclimation of 10,000 New York City rats on Mars — he had the Cyber Truck auto-pilot set to the Hawthrone compound before she could blink.
While she waited for Elon, Grimes popped her seventh caffeine cube of the day and got back to her favorite hobby: sketching designer space-wear on her iPad. "This is, like, so sick," she thought to herself, drawing a flowing, heat-resistant cape with intricate slits measured specifically for breathing tubes. She loved her opulent Rodarte gown and her ornate, cyber-medieval crystal headdress, but she couldn’t wait for the ecstasy of intergalactic couture. All her childhood Dune fantasies were coming to life. Yes, she’d gotten shit from the card-carrying members of the Democratic Socialists of America for saying she was ready to die with the red dirt of Mars beneath her feet, but at this point she didn’t care. They’d been on her ass since she took “anti-imperialist” out of her Twitter bio. This was nothing.
🧝🏻♀️⚔️
The relative silence in the Cyber Truck was pierced by the sound of a twinkling, artificial windchime. X Æ A-XII’s VR headset was powering down. A moment later, he began to whimper.
“Aw, it’s okay, Lil X,” she cooed as she removed the headset to see his anguished face. “Did the black void scare my little Raspberry Pi?”
She knew exactly how to settle her son down. She began to sing. His wails grew softer and softer, until the only noise left was his attempt to vocalize alongside her. Grimes beamed.
“You're, like, so smart for someone that’s, like, so tiny.”