066. The Z-axle

Brandon desperately wanted a girlfriend. Someone who'd play Mario Cart with him until the wee hours and then waste a Saturday on brunch. Just seeing an extra tooth brush take up space in his bathroom would lower the sum total of sadness in the world by a small, immeasurably significant amount.

He stared at his phone and then on his screen. No texts. No notifications. It was autumn and all his friends had retreated into their relationship caves and were too busy to drink beer and listen to him moan. A banner popped-up on his screen and, out of habit, he jerked his right hand to dismiss it. But before he could click the x he found himself halted by the copy. 

"Lonely?" the pop-up asked in a bold, sans-serif font before animating to "Print your soul mate today!". 

Brandon reeled at the idea.

You could print pretty much anything these days but humans? Brandon wasn't a science geek but he read Wired on a semi-regular basis and to the best of his knowledge you couldn't yet print a human. The problem with 3d-printers is that what want out of it you must also put in. It's the Law of Equal Mass. It's fine to pour two kilos of textiles, some plastic, some glue and some paint and print yourself a pair of size 9 Nike Air Max. Brandon shopped and printed stuff almost every day. The immediacy of it was intoxicating. Click. Print. Click. Print. But with a human being you need tissue and bone. Blood and guts and bile. 

Last year Brandon's sister had ordered a printable cat for her birthday and their parents had to order bio mass separately. A delivery-drone landed on their lawn the next day with a cardboard box. In it was the building blocks of a cat, square pieces that looked like they were cut out of a raw steak. 

It should take awhile before you know the color of someone's guts. 

And then there's the soul. How do they make the soul? Nancy's printed cat had its soul delivered in a little glass jar with a glowing liquid inside. Impatient and excited for her new pet, Nancy had wasted half the bottle on their living room floor and so her cat came out of the printer a mean little bastard. He hated Brandon and took every chance he could to scratch and bite him. The only time he let anyone but Nancy pet him was when he rested on that living room floor, midday when the sun made the linoleum cozy and hot, his belly flat on where Nancy's chubby five year old-fingers had spilt half of his soul.

Brandon lingered a little bit more before clicking on the banner. He knew it was probably spam, one letter removed from scam, but what if it wasn't?