Sideshow Flora
NADIA USED TO NOD TO the cortex-swathed humanoid. Like the ringmaster and accountant, she had heard the office radio blare descriptions of aliens allegedly landing in Puget Sound, near Roswell, and somewhere in Nevada. Unlike management, she had allowed a visitor to root in her tent since the fiddly bits in her miniature greenhouse had suited him.
Dissimilar to the sadistic animal trainer, and to the trapeze girl-entangling chief investor, her star warrior was a hands-off fellow, who drunk hot chocolate as well as DMT-enhanced abath. To boot, he never rebuked her for being an intentional thinker, writer, and advocate, that is, for boldly refusing dictation from any supervisors with wandering fingers. That she had become put off by the growth hormones her bosses used on the
