The ritual begins.
At first, denial sets in. You press the "Reverse" button, that little triangle meant to undo mistakes. The machine shudders like a sleepy dog, but nothing moves. You try "Forward" again. More shuddering. A faint smell of overheated plastic begins to curl into the air—the scent of ambition dying.
The whir becomes a whump-whump-whump . A low, mechanical groan. And then, silence.
