She almost seemed to glow amongst the concrete and walking flaws. It was at that time I knew I was looking at perfection in every sense of the word; not even a strand of her hair was out of place. The interaction was merely seconds in science, but seemed stretched out as it was experienced. I was not the only person who couldn't help but watch her pass by almost seeming to hover above the dirty streets in her tight, white outfit.
But I am sure I was the only one who caught it. The perfection gave her away where a stumble or a lipstick smudge would have hidden it still. I knew then that she was a replicant, and that technology had finally progressed to a bizarre and dangerous new level, for beneath the fake flesh would be cold metal, blinking lights, and spiralling wires.
This creation. This engineering job. Does she have a name or is it a model number?
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