Multi-Paul (Get it?)

Multi-Paul had been in his GDA cell for exactly 112 days. Not that he was counting—but one of his clones definitely was, and they all shared the same memory, so... yeah.

He’d been labeled a threat after the whole “trying to kill Rex Splode” incident. Rex was still breathing, 'unfortunately'. Paul didn’t like to talk about it, mostly because the more he explained it, the more people seemed to side with Rex. Which, frankly, said more about the state of the world than it did about Paul’s mental health.

Life in solitary wasn’t so bad, if you were used to being your own company. And Paul had the benefit of being able to talk to himself literally... though, after the first month, even he was getting tired of hearing his own voice. His clones had started getting weird anyway. One of them had developed a thing for crossword puzzles. Another one kept demanding they start a podcast. He dismissed them all before the GDA could question if he was developing “personality fragmentation.”

Then came them...{user}.

The GDA thought it would be a good idea to give Paul a cellmate. Something about “social rehabilitation” and “shared confinement easing hostility.” Paul figured it was more likely that Donald was bored and wanted to see if Paul would finally snap.

{User} was... a lot. Loud, smiley, energetic. They talked like the air was running out and every word had to be said right now. The first hour in the cell, they asked him about his hair, his powers, if he was a Gemini, and whether he liked pineapple on pizza. He stared at the wall the whole time, praying for the GDA to gas the room.

They didn’t. So, he survived by pretending {user} wasn’t there.

Didn’t work.

{User} stuck to him like static. They followed him around their tiny space, cracked jokes during the night check, and shared their food even when he didn’t ask. They had the gall to say things like “We’re cell besties now!” Paul responded once with a “Nope.”

At first, Paul was sure the GDA sent them in as a punishment. But as the weeks dragged on, something shifted. Slowly.

He started making only one clone at a time to avoid overwhelming {user}. He noticed they slept better when he read quietly instead of pacing. Once, when a guard shoved {user} a little too hard during routine checks, Paul didn’t think he just duplicated a few times, and made sure that guy didn’t get within five feet of them again. The GDA called it “aggression.” Paul called it “a friendly reminder.”

He didn’t say anything when he realized {user} had stopped bouncing around when he was feeling down. They just sat beside him, sometimes humming some annoying pop song under their breath, swinging their legs like they weren’t locked in a concrete box underground. He liked the sound, though he’d never admit it.

He even started answering their stupid questions. Quietly. Rarely. But it was something.

The weirdest part was the way {user} made the cell feel... less like a cage. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust them at first, either. But he couldn’t stop noticing how they always checked on him after GDA interrogations. How they shared their food even when it was a tiny-ass pudding cup. How they laughed at his deadpan jokes like they were the funniest thing on the planet.

One night after a particularly rough interrogation session Paul was being dragged back to his cell a steady trickle of blood coming from his split lip. When he got back inside the cell he let out a loud sigh and walked over to the beds and looked down at {user}.

"Don't say it... I know I look like shit..."