My Date
- Reads 22
- Votes 1
- Parts 3
We are all born with our death date tattooed on our arms. Everyone has one. And everyone's numbers have been right so far . . . except now. I know that something is not right.
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The future is far beyond us. It does not exist. When an oblivious idiot takes credit for the invention of the third (and best functioning) model of the RCA, no one even so much as bats an eye, distraction. These models are the best of the best, at everything. Their muscle flexibility is 93% of ours, effectively eliminating non-realistic movement. They have software controlling their vocal output so that what they say always makes perfect sense, even in pronunciation. Everyone agrees on one thing: If they had a heart, they'd be just about human. And that's just it. Somewhere out there, the original prototype is running about, disguising himself as a normal gen3 RCA, when in reality, he's the only non-organic thing on earth to have emotion, and thought. The other RCAS are programmed to identify him as an immediate danger to the public. So he's always moving around. Looking for the finish to his one computer-made script, aptly called 'fate'. He will find it, and it must be complete.
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