It is uncertain which part of the multiverse we settle within now; fragmentary, authorial in the manner of a dilapidated library, caked in fractal selves, some ethical, some less so, some petulant, others loving and graceful. One of these things is not like the others.
Settled on the train, The Karma Kameleon peered emptily through its geometric helmet, an unseen array of technomagickal delights filtering data from the surrounding atmosphere into bleeps, whorls, and lightshows behind the grey matte where its face should be. A low-field of imperception floated around the Kameleon, so that even in its disjointed plethora of fabrics - the iron mesh on its arms, the fishnet tights of carbon nanofibres, the motorcycle helmet constructed from pure Euclidean leftovers - none of the regular passengers (the nurses coming home from a long shift, the game designers yawning into their fists, the businessmen tweeting to catfish spam accounts) found its presence alarming. They knew the Karma Kameleon was there, but they simply believed it quite rational for an entity such as this to present itself on the hard, plastic chairs.
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