in a clown-like smile, a smile that greatly exceeded any sense of warmth and seemed to hint at psychosis. Her eyes did not blink and her expression remained as devoid of motion as she was of clothes. Aside from eyelashes and eyebrows, she had not a single trace of hair anywhere on her body. Her skin was impeccable with a color that seemed to be lightly kissed by the sun. She hung in the air, her arms outstretched to her sides, held up by stainless steel mechanical ones.
Your Name is Jane JOHN NOMIS
Rory Flanagan poured himself his sixth cup of morning coffee. His hand shook slightly but he didn’t notice, lost in the aroma that arose from the coffee being poured in. The only thing keeping me going, he thought to himself as he put the pot down and began his journey back to his desk. He plopped down into his worn chair a bit too quickly, coffee splashing out of the cup and burning his hand. “Ah, geez,” he exclaimed, grabbing a used tissue to wipe off the liquid. “Can’t even sit down right.” He finished drying his hand and wiped off the newest stain on his flannel shirt. Satisfied, he discarded the tissue and slowly raised his mug to his lips, the steam clouding his square glasses. Bliss. He held the mug just a bit longer, his hands consuming the warmth as his mouth consumed the coffee. The moment passed and he placed the mug down and quickly set back to his keyboard. “Processing duplication number 738810.” He said the words to nothing in particular, knowing that the recorder in the room wouldn’t miss a thing. In front of Rory and his computer sat a large window looking over a very large conveyor belt. The belt was essentially a moving wall and Rory could see everything from behind the window. The belt whirred to life at the end of his words and shuffled off to his left, sweeping away tens of feet of empty space before finally pulling a woman into view and placing her directly in front of him. The woman was completely nude. Her face was frozen 112
John Nomis
Rory finished clacking away at his keyboard and drew his attention to the woman. He stared intently, his eyes moving methodically across every square inch of her body. As had been the case for the last three weeks, not a single blemish or shortcoming was found. His eyes met hers and he felt discomfort spread through him. It was the same exact feeling he felt with every duplication. Although he couldn’t stand it, he knew it meant everything was in order. He returned to his keyboard and input a few more lines of data before pressing an intercom button on his desk. “Can you hear me?” he asked, his eyes fixated on hers. He had requested the ability to go off script early on in his employment. “Are you awake?” seemed like the wrong question to ask and he had convinced his bosses that asking if she could hear him was the optimal way to test both overall and audio functionality. “Yes.” She said nothing more. Rory pressed a single key without looking away from her. “What is your designation number?” Off script, again. The original question had been “What is your name?” but Rory had expressed fears that the duplications would associate a deeper connection if they felt their designation number was their name. It would be easier to assign their name later, he claimed. The bosses believed him. “My designation number is 738810.” “Good, that’s very good,” he said, half to her and half because everything was running smoothly. If only they would blink, he thought. He took a moment to take a swig from his coffee now that it had cooled to the perfect temperature. Berkeley Fiction Review
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