Their boots tore up the frosty suburban grass. Mark reached the driveway first, slamming their neighbor, Greg, against the side of a parked minivan. Greg didn’t even flinch; he just sighed, calmly dusting off his black jacket.
“Are you insane?!” Mark roared, grabbing him by the collar.
Sarah didn’t wait. She lunged for the dark grey bin, her hands shaking violently as she gripped the plastic rim. “Hold on! I’ve got you!” she cried, peering into the depths.
There was no blood. No muffled screams.
Just a rhythmic, mechanical *clicking*.
Sarah stared down at the woman’s face, wedged awkwardly against a discarded pizza box. The eyes were locked wide open, pupils whirring like camera lenses adjusting to the light. But that wasn’t what made the blood freeze in Sarah’s veins.
The woman in the trash had her nose. Her freckles. Her exact, slightly crooked jawline. It was a perfect, identical copy of Sarah.
“Mark…” Sarah whispered, stumbling backward onto the asphalt. “Mark, she looks exactly like me…”
Behind her, the violent struggle against the minivan instantly ceased.
“I told you to dispose of yours inside, Greg,” Mark said. His voice was entirely different—flat, synthetic, and completely devoid of the panic from ten seconds ago.
Sarah spun around. Mark had released their neighbor. Both men now stood shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at her with the exact same dead-eyed, predatory expression.
Mark tilted his head at an unnatural, jagged angle. “Her cognitive firmware is degrading. She’s starting to notice the glitches.”
Greg casually checked his watch. “Scrap her. The 3.0 models arrive at noon.”
Mark turned his gaze back to Sarah and took a slow, heavy step forward. “Come on,” he commanded softly.
Only this time, he wasn’t running to the rescue.