“Fifteen minutes,” Junia said under her breath. The comm-pad’s glowing counter ticked down toward liquidation. Thayer seized her wrist, bare skin against bare skin without a sanitizing barrier between them. “Get in the car.” “The car? Where are we going?” The board members, still projected from their various opulent bunkers, watched with a mixture of disdain and morbid curiosity. Kincaid, perched like a vulture, offered a dry cough. “Mr. Rohe, I trust you’re not planning a last-minute flight to a tax haven?” Thayer ignored him, his focus entirely on Junia. “There’s a place. A… specific establishment. It operates twenty-four hours.” He tugged her towards the polished obsidian doors of the estate’s main entrance. Barnaby, sensing the shift in mood, let out a distressed wheeze from his designer dog carrier, which Thayer had, against all odds, been carrying himself. The automatic doors slid open to reveal the obsidian-black Grav-Royce, already humming, its driver, Philemon, waiting with an uncharacteristic flicker of anxiety in his usually stoic eyes. They sped through the city, the hyper-sanitized interior of the Grav-Royce a stark contrast to the neon-streaked cityscape flashing by. Junia watched the countdown on Thayer’s wrist-mounted chronometer tick down: *00:11:38*. Every red light felt like a personal affront. Thayer kept his gaze fixed on the roadway ahead, fingers curled tightly against the steering console. Philemon swung the vehicle off the main thoroughfare and into a narrow, dimly lit lane. The scent of ozone and exhaust fumes seeped into the cabin, a novel sensation after months of antiseptic air. Before them, bathed in the sickly green glow of a flickering neon sign, stood a structure that defied the Rohe aesthetic. It was a pre-fabricated, faux-Victorian chapel, painted a peeling pistachio green, with a drive-through service bay framed by artificial ivy. The sign, half-burnt out, proclaimed: *Eternal Vows: Quick, Convenient, Committed*. Junia stared. “Eternal Vows?” Thayer didn’t flinch. “It’s… efficient.” The Grav-Royce glided to a halt beside the cashier glass. A woman with an elaborate beehive hairdo and a sequined tracksuit peered out, chewing gum with open-mouthed enthusiasm. “Well hello there, lovebirds! Here for the midnight special? Just need two witnesses, folks. We got a robot preacher option if you’re short on friends.” “We have a witness,” Thayer said, gesturing vaguely towards the back seat where Barnaby let out a loud, indignant snort. The woman, surprisingly unfazed, merely chuckled. “A dog? Cute! That’ll be fifty credits extra for the pet-friendly affidavit.” Junia stared. The service pane was smeared with dried red sauce. Through the gap drifted stale popcorn and artificial lemon pine. Thayer pressed the sill toggle, lowering his side panel and producing a platinum corporate charge card. “Standard nuptial package,” Thayer stated, his voice devoid of irony. “With the expedited registry upload.” “Coming right up, sweetie!” The woman vanished, returning moments later with a stack of forms and two molded novelty rings, one adorned with a glittery pink heart, the other a skull trinket. She shoved them across the ledge. “Fill these out, sign here, here, and here. And pick your rings!” Junia’s hand trembled as she took the forms. The synthetic bands felt cheap and sticky. “Thayer,” she began, reflexively preparing to apologize for even raising a question. “Are you sure about this? These rings haven't been sanitized.” Thayer looked at her, truly looked at her. His expression carried none of his customary revulsion. “Junia,” he said, voice dropping low. “This is legal. This is us. The cheap trinkets, the dust, the ketchup smears. None of it matters.” He reached out, not for the forms, but for her face. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, a touch that would have once triggered a full biohazard alert. His expression was utterly vulnerable, a stark contrast to the harsh neon sign. “I just need you.” *00:02:15*. The chronometer flashed red. Without another word, Thayer leaned in. His lips, warm and firm, met hers. It wasn't a tentative peck, or a polite societal gesture. It was a kiss that tasted of urgency, of desperate hope, of a love that had defied every sterile boundary and corporate convention. It was unsanitized, raw, and absolutely everything Junia had ever yearned for. She kissed him back, the molded bands and greasy glass forgotten. “Alright, you two!” the officiant chirped, rapping her knuckles against the glass pane. “Looks like we have a valid consent! By the power vested in me by the State of Aurelis, and the Eternal Vows Franchise, I pronounce you lawfully wedded! Signature and timestamp confirmed for immediate upload to the global registry! Congratulations!” *00:00:02*. The chronometer hit zero. A triumphant chime echoed from Thayer’s comm-pad. They drove back to the Rohe Estate as the first blush of dawn painted the sky. Junia held Thayer’s hand, the toy band resting securely against her finger. Barnaby, curled on her lap, snored contentedly. As they stepped into the foyer, Thayer paused, a remote control in his hand. He tapped a sequence of buttons on a concealed panel. The soft, ambient hum of the biometric sensors went silent. The faint, ever-present scent of sterile air seemed to dissipate. The discreet ceiling vents, calibrated to mist lavender disinfectant at the slightest spike in vocal stress, clicked into locked dormancy. “No more alerts,” Thayer said, his gaze sweeping the now quiet, unscrutinizing space. “No more automated interventions. This is our home. As it is.” Junia felt a profound sense of liberation. For so long, she had walked through life apologizing for her existence, for her emotions, for Barnaby’s incessant wheezing. In this house, with this man, she had inadvertently found a space where her boundless empathy wasn’t a flaw to be corrected, but a strength to be cherished. She didn’t have to be pristine. She didn’t have to be someone else. Just then, a distinct gurgling sound emanated from Barnaby. The pug wobbled onto the crimson fibers of an imported Aevum Weave rug, a relic Thayer had once kept encased in vapor-proof film. With a final, explosive heave, Barnaby deposited a rather significant, colorful puddle directly onto its silken fibers. Junia froze, a gasp catching in her chest. Her old instincts flared, an apology already forming. “Oh, Thayer! Barnaby! I am so incredibly sorry! I’ll get—” Thayer merely smiled. It wasn't a polite, practiced smile, but a genuine, easy grin that reached his eyes. He bent down, not to recoil from the mess, but to gently pat Barnaby’s head. “Good boy, Barnaby,” he murmured, completely unbothered. He straightened, then walked to a nearby utility closet, retrieving a roll of paper towels. The once-germaphobic CEO, who measured wealth by a property’s isolation, now knelt by his cherished rug, unfazed by the very real, unsterilized mess before him. He simply began to clean it, humming a low, tuneless melody, his gaze on Junia, full of quiet contentment. The world, it seemed, was finally ready to be a little less… pristine.

Pristine No More