100% Compatibility
My phone vibrates, making the utensils rattle.
Embarrassing.
I should have upgraded already. Most people have switched to the Bangle, an ultra-thin sheet of hardware inserted in the forearm, just beneath the skin. It will be obsolete in a few weeks. The next big thing is the Dome Dot, even smaller technology, inserted into the brain. It leaves a visible outline on one temple, like the tiny push tabs on beverage lids.
To be honest, I’m just afraid of surgery.
You have to be put under for either device and, after breaking a leg while traveling abroad and having to get an operation from less than reputable foreign doctors which resulted in a week-sized hole in my memory, I’m not looking forward to taking another trip into anesthesia dreamland.
The phone buzzes again.
The dating app blinks, alerting me to new matches. Miss 88% Compatible is winking at me again. Date apps aren’t my thing, but lately I’ve felt…empty. Like part of me is missing.
Souls mates are probably fantasies, but when Mystery 100% popped up, curiosity won. Names or pictures aren’t allowed on the app, and messaging is restricted to 500 words between two people, forcing you to decide on a date before you reach word limit, or else they’re taken off your Radar. It’s supposed to simulate a blind date. Supposedly the excitement of the unknown fosters sparks. You can make it even more mysterious by keeping your gender secret. I did. And so did Mystery 100.
I’m not gay, nor have I ever had interest in dating men, but I don’t like to publicize personal information. God knows laptops, phones, and all sorts of other tech are already tracking personal info. They’re quite successful at stealing it too.
I told myself I’d just date the Misses that matched up. But, 100%? That’s unheard of. This app is top-notch, with the best personality algorithm in the game. If there’s a perfect match, I have to see who’s on the other side of the table.
I managed to swing a table in a high-end restaurant. There’re only a few tables in this section and everyone is well into their meals, so when the hostess greets someone I know it’s Mystery 100. He’s clearly a ‘he’. I stand and pull out his chair. Just because we aren’t going home together doesn’t mean chivalry is dead. If the app is as good as advertised, then we’ll at least have lots to talk about.
“Mathew?”
How does he know my —
I look up, and it’s like looking in a mirror.
He sits in the proffered chair as I shakily take a seat.
“How…” I drift off into stunned silence.
He sighs. “Well, this embarrassing, but…how much of Mexico do you remember?”
Mexico? Ah, it’s all falling into place. The sketchy doctors, the leg I don’t remember breaking, the gaps in my memory. And the pain. The pain strikingly similar to a bone marrow extraction, like the kind taken for cloning operations.
“We weren’t supposed to meet like this,” he says. “That app is too damn good, eh?”
“You’re my clone?” I ask, not seeing the humour.
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re mine.”
