By day, the Electric Cassandra plies the streets, screaming from the cell towers, strumming prophecies upon the fibre-optic lines. By night, exhausted of visions, she nestles in the satellite dishes off the highway, where the cables whisper futures into her dreams. No mortal has seen her form, for she lives perpetually with her feet in the past, the rest of her body thrown towards an accelerated future. Only the trained -- and the doomed -- can recognise her by her step: a humming in the ground, a twinkle in the air, and the sudden blossoming of a wifi network where there was not one before.

At the radio station where I worked, they spoke of her in hushed voices. So vaunted were her blessings for those of us who eked out livings as disembodied voices that we burnt offerings at her parousia: pages of old telephone books, the solder of an old SIM card. Through putting two phones end-to-end you can eventually hear the echo that is her voice, and her whispers are transcribed on post-it notes on a daily basis by avid listeners. They say she holds domain over texts sent and unsent, over ticks both blue and grey. Even the words one types next do not escape her second sight, autocorrected or otherwise. For her, every dropped call, every missed message, has a place in her prognostication. For this, she outranks her analogue sisters, who are restricted to prophecies at subliminal speeds; it is thus her shrines that grace call centres and server rooms all over the world, granting them stability of connection and redundancy of data, and best regards for all mails to come.

The Electric Cassandra is doubted by many outside her relevant fields, who claim that her prophecies never come true the way they are intended to. In doing so, they expose their own ignorance, for faith in her derives not from the belief that better things will come, but that better things have already happened. The file not attached need not have been sent; the video call disrupted need not have been made. The butt dial, on the other hand, is so vital a link in the great chain of consequence, that without it the future of the worlds would fall apart. The Electric Cassandra knows this, and relays her messages to the willing. It is on the assurance of these that she continually draws adherents, spinning the world towards a future she has foreseen since the day of her birth: the final entropy of all information, and the heat death of the universe itself.