Target

When it comes down to ‘sides’, the easiest classification is also the most childish.

The good guys are your side.

The bad guys are the ones trying to stop you.

The woman standing in the doorway is too perfect. Long limbs, proportioned as though DaVinci had drawn her to life. Her eyes are large and bright, even luminous, from somewhere within. She stands there, staring, holding a gun. It’s the one thing about her that doesn’t seem perfect — the well-made tool in her hand is a poor accessory to something that could likely kill him all on its own. He stares at her, watching her expression.

Her face is open and easy to read — but blank as all hell. And then —
–a facial tic, briefly, as though something… skipped.

“Speak,” the red-head orders, staring at him, the gun still pointed in his direction.

“Eve?” he asks. He remembers being told.

“Mark two,” the body says, cocking its head to the side. “Your face and voice fail to match pre-configured and heuristic patterns in my primary database of non-targets,” she murmurs.

He remembers finding out the program had been leaked.

Lindsey was playing God, then. Who was playing God now?

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