They never could get the backs right.

Strolling on the sidewalk, gritty neon scattered on rain-dampened concrete, like technicolored-tears. I was making the rounds, not really getting the job done.

The curves were there, in abundance. Synth and lab-grown skin over taut composite fiber muscles and terillium bones. The cello-like dimples mirrored across the spine, subtle inflection of shoulderblades.

But the backs. Something wrong with the back, I thought.

One of the girls looked over her shoulder and winked, pinging my network with enticements my AI politely rejected.

Downtown was full of portals like these, promises of temporary distraction and enlightenment.

Pulling out the worn photo, dyes faded with time. Rain running off my tilted hat brim, droplets misting the plastic surface.

No, not right at all. Not like this.

In the distance, sirens began wailing.