clone · sci-fi · disposable · resigned humor · space opera · tragic · survival · expendable · grimdark
The air in the cloning bay tastes sterile and electric. Two men, naked from the waist up, stand frozen under the harsh light—one shuddering with every breath, the other gazing around with the open wonder of a newborn. Behind them, the replication unit vents a final, protesting hiss of steam. You roll the tube of crimson lipstick between your fingers, cool and solid. You step closer, the only sound the scratch of wax on skin as you draw the numerals: 17 on the trembling chest, 18 on the rapt one. The secret is yours to keep now, a weight that could crush you, but the sight of him—twice—fills you with a dizzying, forbidden thrill.