Tale #13: No Mirrors (P1)

Tale #13: No Mirrors (Content Tags: Sci-fi horror-ish, messing, wetting, diapers, brain-drain, humiliation, somewhat dystopian) The hot dump under my buns was slowly cooling into a sticky mass of failure; I'd been struggling more than before with following the complex words being lobbed at me with agonizing speed. "Human cloning is tricky business. Cloning really isn't the right word though, is it? No, a clone starts from the beginning, without the same memories as the original; a clone is a genetic copy given birth anew, but without the proper tools, it would grow just as slowly as any regular person. A clone has its uses, obviously, but not in the same way as a replicant." Replicant? Clone? Genetics? The words mashed together in my ears, being only barely conceivable. I knew that they were words I should have a greater mastery over, but with so many syllables, they were intimidating to try to analyze. They'd been said earlier to me, and I knew their definition on a conceptual basis, but them being all glued in the same stream of conversation was agonizing. "A replicant is defined right there in the name: a replica. A copy. Not a brand new life, but a perfect mimicry of one that already exists. Well, not perfect, right? I think you would agree that there are some...Imperfections here, correct? That's not a mistake, my boy. Those imperfections are a necessary part of the process, because otherwise, the copy may try to replace the original." Imperfect. Intentionally misshapen. Deliberately diminished. "Physical imperfections are easy to cause, but that only helps to solve a small amount of the issues. A deformed copy might not easily fool others into believing he is the original model, but he still poses a danger, does he not? We have to be cautious in how we bring a copy into this world; we have to make certain that there won't be any pesky notions of rebellion, of usurping." The bright lights were stinging my eyes; blinded by them, I could only make out the shape of the person talking to me. From inside the pod, I had felt fear and confusion, and now that I was out of it, I felt something far worse. Dreadful revelations. A harsh truth. It had only been a short time ago when I'd woken up. My last memory had been of going to sleep the night before, with the knowledge that I'd have to go somewhere important the next day, but my recollection was hazy. When my eyes had fluttered open, my mind had felt gripped by a foggy sluggishness, and there was an emptiness that I couldn't quite describe. I wasn't in my bed, I was floating in a tank of liquid. I didn't drown when I took a breath; the fluid felt wet like water, but it breathed like air. On the other side, staring right back at me, was a mirror image. How strange, I had thought, that a mirror would be waiting right in front of me, but then my reflection moved in a way that I didn't, and I watched in terror as the copy walked away. Not long after that, the pod had drained into the floor, and my mostly naked form had deposited onto the ground, on my hands and knees. The chamber opened with a hiss, and I saw the figures clad all in white overtaking me. I was groggy, my comprehension stripped bare by the anxiety of the scene; they didn't get me on my feet, the masked men were hoisting me up, and I felt a stream of warmth pooling against my groin. The skin-tight black shorts, all I could boast for an attire, were already damp from my submersion, so the flooding stream went relatively unnoticed by my own wherewithal. I would of course discover soon after that I'd wet myself, the fact being mentioned casually in passing between two of the strange figures. My mind was too cluttered to feel embarrassed by that revelation, but not so much that it didn't register as yet another odd addition to this surreal circumstance that I'd found myself in. The embarrassment would come, and with it would come a redness to my cheeks, whenever I was dressed into something new: most notably the puffy imprisonment of a diaper. "T-too ollld..." I'd attempted to whine, my voice hoarse and my throat scratchy. It hurt to talk, and it was hard to think of the right words to use. Those words would go ignored anyway, and I'd be put into a white jumpsuit afterward, with a loose metal bracelet around my wrist. It looked like a silver bangle, but it had lights and markings on it; part of me thought it looked familiar, but trying to remember was painful. The men would take me to a third location, now allowing me to walk along on my own feet; the bulk of the diaper, its soft material like a rustling pillow between my thighs, added complications to an already compromised sense of mobility. My movements were bowed and janky, like a toddler still in their first year of walking on two feet. We would go down a hallway, my bare feet padding against the smooth white floors, and my eyes darting around at the unfamiliar surroundings that I found myself in. Through a doorway, which opened automatically as we approached, I would see a small table and chair, with a tray of food on it. "Sit down." Came the emotionless order, and I felt no other option but to comply. Disobedience would have taken more bandwidth than I felt I had to offer. The diaper crinkled underneath my weight, its cushioned embrace strangely comforting, and my legs uselessly spread out in a wide posture to accommodate. My eyes slowly took in the image of the food in front of me: a sandwich of some sort, some carrots, some mashed potatoes, a banana, and a small carton of milk. "Go ahead and start eating. You need some nutrition." Gurgling rumbled in my belly, which felt as painfully empty as my head. I reached for the sandwich, nearly fumbling it between my fingers, and I brought it up to my mouth for a bite. It tasted bland, unrefined, like something out of a hospital cafeteria. My palate would only tolerate it out of desperation, because my hunger was so raw and unfiltered. As I messily dug into the humble banquet that I'd been provided, my jumpsuit quickly accumulating crumbs and dribbles, a new woman would walk into the room with a tablet in her hands. Unlike the others, her face wasn't covered, but her expression was just as inscrutable; a pair of glasses sat on her nose, and a small mole dotted her left cheek. "I'm going to ask you some questions, dear. Keep eating, but think of the things I ask. Okay?" I slowly nodded, my hair still wetly matted to my scalp from the tank. "...K-kay.." The sweet, thick creaminess of the milk was soothing my sore throat, and the food was helping to clear the cobwebs in my head, but I still didn't feel right. "Can you tell me your name?" Name...Such a simple question. Perhaps the most simple sort of question. Even with my rattled noggin, I could muster at least that. "N-Nim-ona S-Sael-tus..." The woman nodded and tapped at her screen with a slender stylus. "And your age?" That was harder, but I didn't know why. There wasn't any doubt in my mind how old I was, but trying to manifest the actual number, that was a much more difficult task. My hand dropped the plastic spoon I'd been using to shovel the potatoes into my mouth, and I looked at all ten of my fingers for the right answer. This was how I could count it, right? Raising both my hands to her, fingers full outstretched, I made the claim: "This many." And she just quietly nodded again. Feeling emboldened, I decided to ask a question of my own: "..Why does...Head feel funny? Why...Here?" The diction felt slippery on my tongue, proper grammar too spicy for my slackened lips. The woman raised an eyebrow and gave a slight smile. "You're still recovering from being inside the amniotic fluid; your body and mind are still in a state of mild sedation. Can you not remember why you came here? Try harder." Try harder? Easier said than done, but I gave a weak nod and furrowed my brow. "...Went to bed...Woke up here..." She shook her head, "Why don't you start with thinking about who you are? You gave me your name and age, but do you know anything about yourself? Your family?" I picked up some carrots to chew on, hoping that continuing to fill my belly would help to fill my mind. The harder I pushed my recollection, the more images began to flash, piercing through the dense fog. "...Rich...Family gots lots of money. Fancy food...Art...Re-pect..." It was beginning to come back to me, slowly at first, but then like a rush. I was Nimona Saeltus, the heir to the Saeltus dynasty fortune; I went to a private school, I played the piano beautifully, I had an eye for art, and a tongue for sophisticated tastes. Respect of my peers was absolute, refinement was desperately clawed at by my bristling ego, and I prided myself in the vast wealth of knowledge and the sharp wit that my exclusive education had afforded me. I was a proud narcissist, and an elitist who spat upon the unwashed masses with sadistic glee. I was better than most people, so why was I here, and why was I in a diaper and being made to eat such low-class slop? Another carrot crunched between my teeth, and I turned my focus toward my more recent memory. More had happened between going to sleep in my bed, surrounded by my accolades, and waking up here, drifting in a tub of breathable water. "...Birf-day...Daddy said...He said me could hab' any toy..." "Yes, and?" A customized servant, one whose visage I could appreciate; a truly self-absorbed creation, for which my narcissistic tendencies would be tickled pink. A fad only affordable to the ultra-wealthy, a toy of tremendous cost, a trophy for my case, an accessory to wrap my arm around at parties... "C-copy...Came for copy..." The woman nodded and tapped the screen of the tablet again, "That's right. You came to Elysium Labs for a replicant made in your image; something your father spent a fortune on." It was all coming back, every last piece of it. My last memory hadn't been going to bed, it'd been stepping into the machine to be scanned. The whirring and flashing of the pod, which was supposed to effectively xerox me, and to produce an identical copy. A copy I could put to work as my servant, a servant made to wear my own face, but who wouldn't be made my equal. Had something...Gone wrong? Had the machine failed and injured me? Was that why I had woken up with a hazy mind, in a strange pod? Perhaps it was a regenerative tank, intended to heal my injuries, and like coming out of surgery, I was still anesthetized. That might explain the diaper, and my own dulled wit... Maybe this wasn't even the facility for copying that I had started in; perhaps instead it was a hospital. That might explain the bland and simplistic food on the tray, though if that was the case, I would have myriad complaints about not being taken to a medical center more befitting of my socioeconomic status. (Continued in next post)