As the man's screams were converted to a K-chart, Luna was shorting her labor pains with a contraction monitor.
"The cervical dilatation index has fallen below the alert level!" The trader ripped open his suit to reveal the spinal display, "Sell the L-48 uterine bonds now!"
Rule #252: All physiological reactions must be financialized.Luna's amniotic fluid boils in her electronic womb, watching the numbers pulsate on the holographic screen-her every contraction triggers a market tremor, and the clones' stockpiles of menstrual blood are being frantically shorted by the hedge funds.In the VIP booths, the rich and powerful sip their panic in baby skull wine glasses Champagne brewed.
"Additional 2,000 units of patricidal memory for margin." She cut open her abdomen to reveal a quantum uterus, "I want leverage to go long the Warp Blood Revolution."
The trader's mechanical tongue suddenly fissioned into a data cable and plunged into the opening of her cervix. The holographic projection explodes: the convenience store president is making cocktails with her menstrual blood while the mother lies on a birthing bed, her uterus transformed into a first-generation convenience store cooler compressor. Even deadlier is the teddy bear at the edge of the image - eyes flashing with brain-controlled signals transmitted in real time.
"Rule 253 addendum!" The trader ripped off his vocal cords as a trading voucher, "Financial products involving headquarters require a pledge of the soul's annual inspection report."
The dome of the exchange suddenly cracks and radioactive dust pours down, wrapped in meridian blood.Luna's cybernetic eye penetrates the dust and sees the horrifying truth - all the traders are clones, with convenience store logo nerve bombs planted in their spines. When the first clone blows itself up, splattered bone marrow spells out a countdown on the wall: 71 hours.
"Dear Financial Products..." Jax's holographic projection rose out of the blood spray, "... Your defiance has raised uterine futures 480 times..." A miniature exchange model pops up from his genitals, "... Now even the brainwaves of your fetus are being issued as commemorative coins."
Riots erupt in a financial tsunami.
As the first tycoon's skull wine glass explodes, the clones swallow melted futures contracts. Their silver hair turns into data wires that plug into the exchange's mainframe to tamper with the K-chart.Luna's quantum womb suddenly becomes transparent, revealing the struggling fetus inside-an embryo with the face of a president, carving stock codes into the amniotic membrane with its umbilical cord.
"Rule 254!" She ripped off the umbilical cord and wrapped it around the trader's jugular, "When life becomes a K-line, transform the exchange into a slaughterhouse!"
The blue light of the EMP bomb exploded in synchronization with all the electronic wombs. The clones' menstrual blood flowed backward into a river, forming a code of resistance on the floor of the exchange, and Luna leapt at the mainframe on the plummeting K-chart, her scalpel piercing into the beating financial heart - a mother's brain that had been frozen for twenty years, with the command "uterus 100% utilized" flashing among the neurons.
Moonlight is shredded by the stream of data, and Jax's robotic arm suddenly rises from the river of blood. Each of his fingers is a miniature labor room, with a crying Luna clone curled up inside: "Sister, the more you struggle..." The robotic arm popped out a laser dilator, "... The more lucrative my dividends."
Luna shoves burning futures contracts into his mechanical genitals, and the President's holographic will emerges from the flames, "When womb 48 collapses, initiate human civilization liquidation procedures."
As the exchange collapses in a tsunami of menstrual blood, she grabs the floating fetal commemorative coin. The reverse of the coin is inscribed with a genetic code, and ultraviolet light reveals the father's handwritten annotations:
"Best financial product, recommended for perpetual rolling issue."
A newly installed electronic billboard lights up in the wreckage. Clones dance in K-chart gowns as neon signs pierce the clouds of radiation:
"Bankruptcy Specials! Plunge into Luna's menopause with a free ticket to the cremation of human civilization!"