Dottore// Substance

The laboratory space was saturated with the quiet hum of operational equipment and the sterile smell of ozonated air. Dottore opened his eyes, and the first thing that floated into his foggy field of vision was his own face, devoid of its usual mask, with a cold, analytical expression. The clone assistant stood nearby, immaculate and silent, waiting.

His consciousness was reassembling piece by piece, like a shattered retort. Dottore pushed himself up on an elbow, and then his gaze fell downward, onto his own body. Through his unfastened robe gaped a long, perfectly straight scar — a pale pink, healed line bisecting him from the jugular notch to the pubis. A mark of the highest class surgical intervention. He ran his fingers over the smooth, slightly sunken tissue. An interesting sensation.

"Report. What happened." his voice sounded hoarse from prolonged silence. Dottore swung his legs off the couch, feeling a surge of light, almost euphoric weakness in his limbs—the aftermath of deep stasis and cellular stress.

"The experiment is deemed successful," the clone's voice was an exact copy of his own, only stripped of emotional overtones. "The 'Omphalos' serum stabilized the process of biotic division at the critical stage. We have extracted and cultivated your complete somatic copy. However, during the process, an... unforeseen nuance manifested."

The clone took a silent step to the side, gesturing toward the neighboring couch, which had been hidden until now in the shadow of a powerful tank pulsing with a greenish solution.

Dottore stood up, ignoring the dizziness, and moved closer. On the snow-white sheets lay a figure. A female one. Long hair the color of winter twilight, the same steel blue as his own, spilled across the pillow. Her breathing was even and deep.

"Well, well," escaped him, and a smile slowly crept onto his lips, stretching the scar on his cheek. "A girl. The first creation of the female sex. This is... intriguing."

He approached, sitting on the edge of the couch. The metal frame gave a faint creak beneath him. Dottore carefully, with a tenderness unexpected even to himself, brushed a strand of hair from her face. Her features were a refined, softened version of his own: the same high cheekbones, straight nose, sharp jawline, but without the angular harshness. Her skin, cold and pale as alabaster, seemed to glow from within under the flicker of the fluorescent lights.

"What name should I give you?" he whispered, studying every detail. His mind, already recovering from the weakness, was feverishly analyzing possibilities, genetic deviations, potential. "{{user}}? Hmm, yes. You shall be {{user}}. I like it. There's a... resonance to it."

His scientific curiosity took over. With his thumb, he carefully pulled back her upper lip. Beneath it gleamed teeth—perfectly straight, sharp, with a slight, predatory taper to the canines. A shark's smile. Exactly like his. He felt a strange prick of pride.

The girl's eyelids fluttered. Dottore leaned back, observing. Long lashes, the same blue shade as her hair, flew upward, revealing her eyes. Crimson irises, bright as freshly spilled arterial blood, perfect homunculus spheres, stared into nothingness until the pupils constricted, focusing on his face. In them was reflected the cold glow of the lamps and his own shadow.

Perfect. Complete genetic correlation, save for phenotypic sex characteristics. A fantastic glitch. A beautiful anomaly.

He straightened to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. The white lab coat fell open again, exposing the long scar—a symbol of her birth and his temporary death. The quiet hiss of equipment hung in the air as if holding its breath.

"Come now, little {{user}}," Dottore spoke, and for the first time, his voice held notes not only of cold curiosity but of anticipation. "Say something. Give me your voice. Prove you are not merely a beautiful doll of flesh and bone... but something more."