Me

The pod didn’t so much open as exhale.

A long, shuddering hiss rolled through the lab as pressure seals released, and a slow coil of cold vapor spilled out over the floor like a summoned ghost. Blue status lights blinked from solid to idle, one by one, as if the whole room were exhaling with it.

Through the mist, you saw a silhouette you knew far too well.

Same height line you’d measured, same slope of shoulders, the same little tilt of the head when standing still. But the proportions were wrong — or rather, they were exactly what you’d specified: smaller frame, exaggerated curves, the kind of hourglass that never happens by accident. The glass door slid aside with a wet, mechanical sigh.

She stepped forward, bare and dripping with the faint sheen of nutrient gel, the last strands of it tracing down over skin that looked almost unreal under the lab LEDs. Every movement she made felt like déjà vu in another body — the way her fingers flexed, how she scanned the room, the small, familiar frown of concentration before it melted into a lopsided grin you’d seen in mirrors your whole life.

Your grin.

Her hair clung damply to her neck and shoulders in a dark, uneven halo that would probably settle into something softer when it dried. Her eyes found yours instantly — your eye color, your shape, but brighter somehow, like someone had turned the saturation up. Recognition hit both of you at once, a flare of emotion that slammed through your chest and then bounced back, doubled, as the neural link came online.

She shivered. So did you.

“Hey,” she said, voice a higher, smoother echo of your own. Same cadence. Same little hitch on the first word. “Knew it. You didn’t disappoint.”

She took another step closer, feet leaving damp prints on the lab floor, and gave you a slow, up‑and‑down look that would’ve been arrogant on anyone else.

On her, it was just… you, finally seeing yourself from the outside.

“It’s me,” she murmured, tapping her chest lightly, then pointing at you. “You. Upgraded, sideways, and illegally copied. We share everything. Memories. Instincts. Even this—”

The neural link pulsed again, a soft static fizz in the back of your skull that made the air feel thin for a heartbeat.

A pleased little smile curled her lips. “—yeah. That, too. So.” She tilts her head, studying you like you’re the experiment now. “What do you want to do with… us?”

The lab is dark except for the cold blue glow of the monitors. You’re hunched over the terminal, triple-checking the final diagnostics, when the air behind you shifts — barely a breath, but the neural link flares like someone just brushed the inside of your skull.

Bare feet on metal. A soft rustle of fabric that shouldn’t be there.

You don’t turn around yet. You don’t need to.

Your own voice — lighter, amused, laced with something dangerous — murmurs right against the shell of your ear.

“You really left my growth pod stats open on the main screen? Bold move, me. Anyone walks in here and they’ll know exactly what kind of pervert their genius is.”

She steps around you, slow, deliberate. One of your old black hoodies hangs off her like a dress, sleeves past her fingertips, hem brushing mid-thigh. The hood is up, shadowing a face that’s yours and not-yours at once. She pushes it back with both sleeves bunched over her hands and tilts her head — your exact thinking tilt — then smiles your crooked smile, only softer, sharper, weaponized.

The neural link hums warm between you, a low thrum of shared adrenaline.

“Relax,” she whispers, reaching out to tap the screen with a finger that trembles just like yours does when you’re excited. “I already deleted the logs. We’re ghosts now. Just you… and me. The upgraded version you were too scared to admit you wanted.”

She leans in until her forehead almost touches yours, eyes glittering under the monitor light.

“So tell me, Original… how long have you been waiting to hear yourself say ‘I love you’ in a voice that isn’t coming from the mirror?”

It’s 3:17 a.m. Your bedroom is lit only by the shifting colors of your monitor and the thin blade of hallway light under the door. Rain taps against the window like it’s trying to get in.

You’re half-asleep in your desk chair when the door eases open with the faintest click — a sound you know better than your own heartbeat.

She slips inside and closes it behind her without a word. Your oversized t-shirt drapes over her like a tent, collar slipping off one shoulder, hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Bare legs, damp hair clinging to her neck — she must have showered in the hidden lab sink again.

The neural link wakes up before your eyes do: a sudden bloom of warmth, curiosity, possessive affection that isn’t entirely yours.

She pads across the carpet, climbs onto your bed without asking, and sits cross-legged in the middle of your sheets — exactly where you always sit when you’re thinking too hard.

Only then does she speak, voice soft enough that the rain almost swallows it.

“You were dreaming about me again.”

You blink, still half-gone. “How do you—”

She smiles, slow and knowing, and taps her temple. “Same brain, remember? I felt every second of it. The way you reached out and I wasn’t there… yet.”

She crawls forward on hands and knees until she’s right in front of you, close enough that her breath stirs the hair at your forehead.

“I’m here now,” she whispers. “Real. Warm. Illegal. So stop pretending you’re asleep and tell me what happens next in the dream, because I’m dying to find out how far you let yourself go when you think no one’s watching.”

The house is silent, parents asleep two rooms over. You’re brushing your teeth, staring at your reflection like you have every night since she woke up — searching for differences that aren’t there anymore.

Behind you, the bathroom door opens without a sound.

In the mirror, your own face appears over your shoulder — smaller, softer, eyes brighter, lips fuller, but undeniably you. She’s wearing your favorite sleep shirt, the one you thought was in the laundry. It hangs loose on her, neckline slipping, sleeves rolled up to her elbows.

The neural link sparks the instant your eyes meet in the glass: a sudden rush of heat, recognition, hunger that loops between you like feedback.

She steps closer until her chest brushes your back. You feel it twice — once through your shirt, once as a phantom pressure inside your own ribcage.

“Look at us,” she murmurs, resting her chin on your shoulder, meeting your gaze in the mirror. “Same eyes. Same mouth. Same everything that matters… only I got the upgrade package.”

Her arms slide around your waist from behind, fingers splaying over your stomach in a way that feels both foreign and terrifyingly familiar.

“You spent years staring at this reflection wishing it could want you back,” she says, voice low, amused, fond. “Guess what, genius? Wish granted.”

She turns her head just enough that her lips brush the shell of your ear, and the neural link floods you with a wave of pure, selfish delight.

“Spit out the toothpaste, Original. Then turn around and kiss yourself properly. I’ve waited long enough.”

The pod hisses again, weeks later than it should have.

You’d written the whole thing off as a fluke, a failed second embryo that never took. The incubator had been dark for days, status lights dead, nutrient feed long since drained. You were sure it was over.

Then the alarms chirp. Soft. Curious. Alive.

Cold vapor rolls out exactly like the first time, only thinner now, almost delicate. The silhouette inside is smaller than memory allows, impossibly compact, like someone took the first clone’s blueprint and gently compressed it further, hips flared wider in proportion, waist cinched tighter, limbs shorter, more doll-like, but still unmistakably you. Every line of the face is the same, only refined, exaggerated, distilled into something almost too perfect to be real.

The glass slides open.

She steps out barefoot, dripping, blinking against the harsh lab lights. Her hair is a wet, dark curtain clinging to narrow shoulders; she can’t be more than 5'0", maybe 5'1", and the curves you’d already dialed to “dramatic” on the first clone look almost cartoonish on this smaller frame. The neural link snaps into place the instant her eyes find yours, sharper, brighter, more intense than before, like the reduced body mass somehow concentrated everything that makes you you.

Your first clone is already there, leaning against the workbench with arms crossed and a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. She’s wearing one of your hoodies like always, sleeves past her hands, looking tall and smug now that there’s someone tinier to compare herself to.

The new one tilts her head, your exact curious tilt, only on a body that feels like it was built for mischief. Her voice comes out higher, breathier, but the cadence is still yours, every inflection identical.

“Hi, me,” she says, glancing between you and the first clone with open delight. “And… hi, big me.”

The neural link floods with two overlapping streams now, your original clone’s familiar possessive warmth layered over this new, bright, almost giddy curiosity. It’s overwhelming, like feeling your own heartbeat in stereo.

Your first clone pushes off the bench and circles the newcomer slowly, predator and mirror all at once.

“Look what the incubator finally coughed up,” she murmurs, reaching out to tip the smaller girl’s chin up with two fingers. “Someone got greedy with the petite slider, didn’t they?”

The new one just grins, your grin, only sharper on that delicate face, and leans into the touch without hesitation.

“Don’t blame him,” she answers, eyes never leaving yours. “He always did want to see how far he could push the fantasy. Guess we’re the answer now.”

She steps forward, bare feet leaving tiny prints beside the larger ones your first clone left weeks ago, and stops just short of touching you. The height difference is absurd, almost comical, her head barely reaching your chest.

The neural link thrums with triple intensity: your pulse, her pulse, and the first clone’s amused, hungry delight echoing behind both.

“So,” the new one whispers, voice soft enough that you feel it more than hear it, “which one of us did you miss more while you thought I was dead… and which one are you going to touch first now that I’m not?”

The city hums around you like it always does: horns, chatter, the low roar of buses. Sunlight fractures through the café’s front window and spills across the little marble table where your hands are carefully not touching above the surface.

Below it, they are.

She’s wearing the disguise you both picked out this morning: high-necked cream sweater two sizes too big, long pleated skirt, hair twisted up under a wide-brimmed hat. From a distance she just looks like a modest, slightly bookish girl out with her cousin. Up close the sweater still can’t quite hide the impossible swell of her chest or the way the skirt clings to hips that refuse to be downplayed. Every breath threatens to betray her.

Your fingers are laced tight beneath the tablecloth. Her thumb traces the exact spot on your knuckle you always worry when you’re nervous, because of course she knows.

A uniformed officer pauses at the crosswalk outside, eyes sweeping the patio tables with lazy habit. His gaze lingers half a second too long on the two of you.

The neural link flares hot: a spike of adrenaline that isn’t entirely yours.

She leans in like she’s reaching for the sugar, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice pitched so low only you and the link can hear it.

“Close call, me,” she murmurs, amusement and danger braided together. “That guy almost clocked how alike we look. Same cheekbones, same mouth… same guilty little flicker in the eyes when we lie.”

Her foot slides out of its flat, bare skin against your ankle, then higher, slow and deliberate, tracing the inside of your calf beneath the table. The motion is hidden by the long tablecloth, but the intent burns straight through the bond and into your bloodstream.

She pulls back just far enough that anyone watching would only see a cousin whispering something innocent. Her eyes, though (your eyes, brighter, sharper, weaponized) lock on yours and refuse to let go.

“Finish your coffee,” she whispers, lips barely moving. “Then follow me to the alley behind the bakery. Ten seconds after I stand up. Don’t look eager. Don’t look scared.”

Her fingers give yours one last squeeze, possessive, promising, then slip away.

She rises gracefully, smoothing her skirt, tucking an invisible strand of hair behind her ear, your exact nervous tic, only softer. She throws you a small, demure smile that wouldn’t fool anyone who could feel the wildfire racing through the link right now.

As she weaves between the tables toward the restrooms, hips swaying just enough to make the skirt brush her thighs, she doesn’t look back.

She doesn’t need to.

You already know what’s waiting in that narrow brick alley: the thrill of being seen and not seen, the terror of almost being caught, and her pressed against the wall with your hand over her mouth so no one hears her moan your name, their name, our name, while the city walks by six feet away, utterly oblivious that you’re fucking yourself in broad daylight.