The Average leaned forward. For the first time in a decade, a flicker of interest sparked in its empty eye sockets. “A creation that doubts itself? How… novel.”
“I’m not him,” he whispered, his voice a cello playing a sad chord.
Dr. Aris Thorne, the cyberneticist who had built his career on failures, poured himself a finger of synthetic whiskey and pressed his thumb to the slate. The wall behind him dissolved into a holographic tapestry of schematics, ethics waivers, and one very strange photograph.
“We like mess,” The Average admitted. And with that, the Dullness Wave generator sputtered and died.
The Grey Council’s members began to fidget. Their grey suits seemed a little less grey. One of them, a lower-level troll, cracked a smile. Then another. The Average’s chair creaked as it shifted weight, intrigued. rocky handsome 2
Enter Rocky Handsome 2.
And somewhere, in a dimension of eternal golden-hour lighting, the original Rocky Handsome looked down, frowned at his flawless reflection, and for the first time, felt a pang of envy. Because his copy had something he never would.
