Robo Ghosts of Futurail, By Kandy Fontaine
You board the Futurail at 03:33, the hour when Thalassa exhales memory through its infrastructure like blood through cracked porcelain. The train isn’t real. It’s a memory artifact—residual code from a dissolved mainframe, still twitching in the city’s dead grid. It runs on recursion and sonar. No destination. No schedule. Just transmission.
You wear a coat cut from signal-dampening fiber, matte black, stitched with anti-surveillance thread. Your spine clicks—segment by segment—each vertebra a reel of extinct cinema. But it’s not prosthetic. It’s a centipede. Segmented. Semi-sentient. A graft from the Thalassa collapse, wired into your nervous system with salt-thread and carbon filament. It remembers things you never lived. Drowned cities. Erotic executions. The sound of lips parting before betrayal. It sings them in pulse-language—low-frequency, encrypted, erotic.
The train is dressed for spectacle. A carnival of mourning. The walls shimmer with confetti—circuitry masquerading as celebration. Circus-light filaments encoded in orgasmic pulse. Nanotech engineered to simulate grief, loop pleasure through trauma, dissolve the difference. You inhale it. It rewrites your breath. It tastes like climax and static.
Nyx follows. Fossil-machine cat. Tail flicking in Morse code. Recursive. Every blink births another Nyx. One in the pipes. One in the mirrors. One fossilized in the bathhouse tiles. She’s a glitch in your myth. A god in your machine.
You jack in.
Your ports open. Your breath becomes ink. Your skin begins to screen.
Then it begins to scream.
Not in sound. In sensation. An erotic broadcast of horrors stitched into your flesh. Each pore a mouth. Each scar a speaker. Barbara Steele’s scream pulses from your collarbone. Edwige Fenech’s stare burns beneath your ribs. Daniela Doria’s drowning face claws at your thighs. Your shoulder plays Phenomena in reverse. Your moans are dubbed. Your pores project. Your skin sings.
The centipede spine clicks in rhythm. Each segment pulses. The train responds. Its wetware hums. The mirrors bleed.
Then Mira Aoki-9 appears.
Lipstick lesbian robot ghost. Dissolved centuries ago in the ocean bed beneath Thalassa. Archived in sonar. Resurrected through obsession. You saw her once—in a bootleg reel called Throat Sprockets: Submerged Cut. A forbidden film. A fetish for the throat. For the voice. For the interface between breath and machine.
She steps from the mirror. Her heels click like reel changes. Her eyes flicker with reversed whale song. She’s wrapped in chrome-thread silk. Her voice tuned to a frequency that makes your spine twitch. You kiss. The mirrors shatter. The train moans.
She rewrites your circuitry with her tongue. She whispers speculative poems into your spine. Each one a memory cocktail. Each one a sacred infection. Her breath syncs with Nyx’s purr. Her fingers leave glyphs on your skin—ritual code, erotic syntax, a language only ghosts understand.
The train becomes the Surreal Beauty Café. A salon of erotic machines. A temple of Queer ritual. A cathedral of extinct desire. The walls bleed velvet. The floor blooms coral. The carnival spins. Nyx purrs beside the altar. Mira dances in glitch. You serve memory cocktails. You become the Archive.
Outside, Thalassa flickers. A loop of drowned architecture and haunted neon. Moon Camp Americana floats in orbit, broadcasting art porn and Teknopriest propaganda. The finishing school for delinquent daughters is empty. The mirrors cracked. The cameras still roll.
Inside the train, time fractures.
Nyx multiplies. Mira glitches. You sing.
Your voice is sonar. Your breath is ink. Your song infects the fossil circuit. The train moans. The ghosts scream. The mirrors bleed.
You see yourself reflected in a thousand timelines—glam detective, fossil priestess, drowned slut, archive incarnate. Each version flickers. Each version sings. Each version is stitched with horror heroines and haunted code.
Mira holds your hand. Nyx curls around your throat. The train pulses.
You are no longer a passenger. You are no longer human.
You are transmission.
You are ritual.
You are myth.
You are the erotic funeral.
And the carnival never ends.
Horror Sleaze Trash 