BBU application - response by Max

Unpromted contribution

Dear Citizen,

Thank you for using Fate Calculator. Here is the forecast for your 57 simulation run.

2021: Promoted to Senior Sales Coordinator. First employee to cross total monthly sales of $200,000 in first quarter.
2022: Company representative at NAMM. Married in overseas ceremony. Moved into first flat.
2023: Birth of first child (daughter).
2024: Deceased (blunt force trauma).
2025: n/a
2026: n/a
2027: n/a
2028: n/a
2029: n/a
2030: n/a

Congratulations and/or condolences! This forecast indicates your major milestones for the next 10 years, based on current life trajectory. All data is drawn from national and corporate surveillance, medical records, and psychological profiles. The Ministry of Health & Science guarantees a 99.7% prediction accuracy for milestone occurrence, location, and date.

You have also opted to compare this simulation with past runs. We are glad to inform you that the variance across all your simulations is 0.02%. This means your forecasts are stable and reliable.

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Prompted contribution

Prompt

Response

Like a dream, her hand floated to the chopping board. Cold steel grazed against her lithe fingers until she met the warmer grain of the knife’s handle. She blinked. She was in her room now, door locked, knife clasped firmly in hand. She hadn’t noticed, but the tears that wetted her cheeks and blouse were almost gone. Evaporated like she knew the pain would.

She pressed the gleaming edge to arm. It was not her first time.

Only once before did someone notice the scars. Mrs Lee had asked in her usual retort, “What happened?”

Nothing. An accident. Mrs Lee harrumphed and walked away. She wasn’t paid enough. But it didn’t matter. The wounds were not one of attention, not blistered across flesh and seared into skin to pique the interest of duplicitous guardians.

She likened people to fruit, the natural nemesis of her beloved knife. In constant state of putrid rot, withering for time enough to spread seeds of the next generation. Even the freshest fruit was soured in some way, decomposition being second nature once its plucked; the first only when it grows. Perhaps, she had once thought, that was the purest of when anything was. When seedlings sprout, mature, take form and branch, when they are unsullied by the soil and sediments, untouched by man-added fertiliser or pruned by calloused hands, then and maybe only then are they the truest any being could be.

She pressed to cut. Raindrops of red pitter-pattered on the floor, staining over aged dun blotches in her white carpet.