Quickie: Quick Clone
When you needed a pair of hands quick, it was easy to make a quick clone.
They were shops by convenience stores and smoke shops, cheap dusty places with a jury-rigged bio-printer and a greasy clothing replicator.
100 bucks for a scan and print. The worn-down hands on the bio-printer would pour and mold, changing simulacrum polymers into a perfect copy of the template.
Zain was in here more often than not, always in need of some backup for whatever odd job he’d be running that day. Running around as a stagehand for little punk bars or manning the door were always better with company, even if that company was so shortly temporary as the quality of the crap polymers they used.
Still Zain would wake up in the printer dock, warm and limber as his simulated body relaxed under the gaze of his original. The tired old woman who operated the shop handing the original a stack of cheaply replicated clothing, fit only to last as long as the clone did.
The clone would realize every time just how good it was to be the copy. It was programmed in, the euphoria and the willingness to do whatever his twin would ask of him. A inbuilt drug of a sensation, replacing whatever self-preservation instinct humans needed, but duplicates didn’t.
The 100-price tag was a lot for just a couple days sure, but the Zains would make the most of it. Days would be work, but nights would last so much longer. Zain’s copies were always quick to wear out fast and it was definitely not from a lack of enjoyment. Zain showed his appreciation for himself, made every last one of them loved to the deepest of their biodegradable plastic blood. They all knew it to, because just moments ago they were in his shoes, separated by the slimmest moment of a scan.
The clone was almost jealous of the next Zain who’d come along, who’d surely have a just marginally more incredible time than him. Zain becoming a more and more well-oiled machine at leaving each of them crying for more.
It was going to be a hell of a three days. All thanks to quick cloning.
