I'd clawed my way out of sleep three hours earlier, which meant the rest of this pathetic little universe had been awake just as long and had still managed to accomplish approximately fuck-all.
Tracks. Or racked, whatever.
The bar didn't have plates.
It had pure, obedient fields that bent reality so I could play god with physics while the mortals were still hitting snooze and doom-scrolling their way toward another existential crisis.
ARIA's whole deal was taking Earth's sad, retarded inventions and making them cry in the corner before upgrading them into something that would make the original engineers hang themselves in shame.
Gym equipment? Please.
Mortal gyms were already a joke category—iron disks bolted to a stick like some caveman's idea of gains, the kind of setup that turns accountants into statistics for died doing what he lovedobituaries.
