Marvin Effingo awoke trapped in a cramped chamber to the sound of a terrifying buzzing noise, like a factory machine that had gone under a horrible malfunction. He was separated from the outside through a thick layer of frosted glass. A cold, slimy fluid that he was submerged in was now draining out through tiny holes in the floor. The buzzing ceased and was followed by a few seconds of rhythmic, high-pitched beeps like those of a microwave to remind people to open the door and collect their food. Effingo tried wiping away the frost from the glass to get a better look of his surroundings, but the attempt only amounted to the slimy liquid that coated his body coating the glass in a second grimy layer of smudge. It wasn't too bad, for just a few moments later the glass slid open, sending the leaning Effingo face-first into the burgundy carpet floor with a muffled thud.
The room was a cheap-looking hotel room that was dimly lit by moonlight seeping through the balcony. The door opened, causing him to shield his eyes from the light. As he did so, he felt something warm and fuzzy wipe away the slime from his naked body. The man with the warm towel cleaned up Dr. Effingo like a baby duck covered in oil. He offered no resistance, partly in gratitude for removing such an uncomfortable substance from his skin and partly because he was still adjusting to the light, the air, the feeling of the carpet, and the towel on his skin.
"My apologies for the crude manner of your birth, but I-er-us, I mean, are under a straining set of circumstances, so this is the best I could do."
His words were a shock to Effingo's system. He jolted his eyes open, and he scanned the man before him with a wide-eyed stare.
"Birth? W-wh- what birth? What the hell is going on? Who are you?" he backed up slightly.
He wasn't ready for a fight yet. He wasn't quite sure he could summon the motor functions necessary to throw a punch, even at the man standing before him, which, to his estimates, looked like a wimp. An older sort of man, he was obviously balding but kept a hairstyle that made his baldness look like an impact crater surrounded by a jet-black rim of thin hair, thankfully compensated with a big bushy mustache. He wore thick square spectacles, which played into Marvin's assessment that he could, in fact, beat him up if push came to shove. He sported a messy white lab coat with coffee stains on it. It was clear to Marvin that this man was not lying about being in a strict timeframe to do whatever it was he was going to do.
Dear god, what is he going to do to me? he thought as the man dug through a luggage case.
He produced a pair of blue jeans, thick-rimmed square eyeglasses, and a clean white dress shirt and lab coat.
"Calm down, my friend. Put these on, and I shall explain everything. Now, quickly, we do not have much time!" he said in a hushed whisper as he passed the clothes to Marvin and moved towards the door to lock the deadbolt and fasten the latch above it.
Marvin dressed as fast as he could.
"Do you have an extra pair of socks?"
The man turned around and slapped his face with his palm.
"Ah, god damn it, I forgot the shoes. You'll have to go barefoot for a bit. Hold on for a moment."
He peered through the door's peephole, and once satisfied that no one was coming, he rummaged through his luggage case again. This time he produced no shoes nor socks, but a small mirror, passing it to Marvin.
He looked into it-it was him. The man who had just handed him the mirror, and he looked exactly the same.
The man took the mirror back.
"You are Dr. Marvin Effingo, and so am I. Welcome to Earth, my clone," he said with a smirk, not with malice but with self-satisfied pride.
Marvin, the original, cleared a nearby table and set a briefcase upon it, unclasping the latches and spilling its contents: two pistols, a clear vial of black liquid, and a stack of research papers that splattered out on the table.
"Now, the-uh-reason I created you is this. Cursed. Vial." He held it up so the clone could see. "Now, you should have my memories up to just before three days ago when I discovered how to synthesize petroleum-grade hydrocarbons and tried to patent it. Now the secret police are out to kill me for it!" he said, waving his arms like he wasn't the lunatic in this situation.
The Republic of Subresnia accounted for 13% of the world's crude oil supply. Synthesizing oil would destabilize the country's economy. It was clear to M2 that the Subresnian Secret Police could come crashing in at any moment.
M1 continued on.
"And, well, two minds are better than one, and I doubt the hired gunman will stop to ask questions as to why there are two Dr. Effingos, so rest assured he will try and slay us both, so we must work together."
The original took a marker from his breast pocket and marked M1 on his bald forehead and marked M2 on the clone.
"There, I am M1, you are M2. That's a temporary name. You can name yourself whatever you like, but I prefer you save your thoughts for more pressing matters."
M1 handed M2 a .32-caliber revolver.
"I don't know how to shoot," M2 said coldly, as the implication of why he was given the weapon weighed just as much in his mind as the sixteen ounces of solid metal death weighed in his palm.
M1 tucked his gun into his coat pocket.
"Me neither, but be careful with it. I just bought them yesterday."
M2 opened the cylinder. One bullet. He said nothing about it, putting the hunk of metal in his pocket.
The two men barricaded the windows and door.
"I say we get out of here as soon as possible if men are coming to kill us," M2 said, grabbing their bags and leaving them by the fire escape.
"We have to wait until morning," M1 said. "I have a contact from the states who said he can smuggle us out of Subresnia."
"Do you know who this 'gun-man' is?"
"I stole his file before I left the records building. It's in my bag. Fetch it for me, will you?"
M2 retrieved the file on this assassin, a Mister Jean-Christophe Leclère. He tossed the folder onto the pile of papers on the table as M1 was stuffing towels in the gap of the door. Another folder inside the bag caught M2's attention. Labeled "Clone Experiment Log: 23-5-197X," he slid that one under the bed.
"So what should we do until this man arrives?"
Once M1 finished sealing the door, he removed his shoes.
"I suggest we sleep in shifts until the morning. I paid the doorman a hefty fee to keep his mouth shut about me staying here, or bringing the clone vat into my room. But that won't stop him. I estimate he'll try and deliver a wake-up call."
"Or he'll put a bomb in the other room or in the air duct and kill us!"
"Calm down, M2. We're gonna make it out of this. I've been shaking this bastard off for the last seventy-two hours. I can do it again, but I need rest. There is a man that will smuggle us to the states. We just have to make it until the morning." He curled up on the bed. "I'll make a note for next time, baboon DNA causes acute anxiety."
M2 sprang up and stood over the resting M1.
"Baboon? What the fuck are you going on about?" he hissed as M1 raised his hands up in surrender.
"Two percent. You are two percent baboon! God damn it, for alertness and heightened sense of smell so you could detect chemical agents!" M1 said defensively, like he didn't commit a crime against nature.
M2 ran his hands over his face.
"Fuckin'... baboon. That has to be a short ticket to cancer-wait."
He placed his hand onto his chest to feel his rapidly beating heart.
"My heart is on the wrong side of my body, you lazy bastard. Were you that rushed?"
M1 turned over to his side to face M2.
"Look, you got a better deal than I did with what I was born with. I had to wait years before I got your brains and good looks. Sure, we're in a bad situation. I apologize for that, but it's not exactly being born in a stable four miles away from the rebel line, alright?" he said with a smile, like it was a big joke.
M2 walked away with a scoff, checking his rear end in the mirror to make sure it wasn't bright red. It wasn't, but it also had no hair.
A problem to address later after the storm of a government conspiracy washes over.
M2 kept watch as the other slept. He retrieved the file he stashed under the bed and looked through it. There it was, clear as crystal: his DNA was spliced with two percent Papio hamadryas.
No matter, this I can fix later.
He fell silent. There was a loud thud in the next room over.
He clutched his pistol and crawled over on the floor, pressing his ear against the wall. He heard a conversation between two people.
"Oh Jesus, did it break?"
"No, no, see the carpet broke its fall..."
"Oh thank god, bring it over, I need a drink..."
"Coming-sir."
It didn't sit right with M2. He wouldn't let himself be tricked this way.
He brushed aside the towels, unlatched the deadbolt and the chain, and slinked into the hallway. Once the coast was verifiably clear, he knocked on door 7-2-6, which elicited the sound, "guhh-uh-," and the sound of stumbling feet.
A young man with scruffed-up hair and in a slight state of dress, his shirt partially unbuttoned and so were his pants. The young man opened the door and saw an older-looking man in a similar sort of state. He was barefoot, his hair was raised up like a cat, and his right hand was tucked on the inner pocket of his coat.
"I, good evening, my friend. I heard something drop. Anything alright?" the old man said with a wicked smile and bold eyes.
The young man was stunned for a moment. Most of the time, a sight like this would most likely be a man about to rob you at gunpoint for money or cigarettes, but he was being unusually polite.
The young man narrowed the width of the door from the frame.
"Uh-no, sir. Everything's fine, just dropped a bottle-"
He realized that he probably had to offer some so he could get out of this situation.
"Would you like-some?"
The old man waved his hand.
"Oh, no-no. Sorry, my friend, just making sure-goodnight."
The door was closing too fast for him to hear the last thing the young man said all the way.
"Good nigh—”
"Who the hell was that?"
"No idea, just some crazy old fuck..."
"Well, you still good?"
"Oh, no-no, yeah, it's still hard, I'm good."
M2 sneaked back into his room and replaced the locks just as they were. Sitting back on the floor near the bed as he was, he picked the research notes back up. Seeking to soothe his nerves, he flipped over the first page, continuing where he had left off.
After a few paragraphs going over the technical details of the romantically named incubating vat, M2's stomach sank as he read about a second biological modification.
[enhanced rate of total cellular senescence-planned obsolescence.]
His body was designed to age at an accelerated rate starting 48 hours after birth. He'd be dead in minutes.
Maybe it was the baboon DNA. The logical thing to do was to help himself, in the interest of self-preservation.
But all his 2 hour and 36 minute life flashed before his eyes. His original life felt like lies. He had Dr. Marvin Effingo's memories, but he was not Dr. Marvin Effingo. If he were, he would be treated like a partner to his other self, not a simple pawn to be used as the scapegoat in a shootout with a hired gun and thrown away.
One bullet, baboon heart, planned obsolescence, a worthless clone.
The four-hour sleep cycle was over. It was still the middle of the night, but as M1 got out of bed, he saw M2 back-facing him, staring at the bright night sky.
Before M1 could speak, the clone spoke.
"Planned obsolescence, total cellular senescence," he said coldly, not even turning to face him.
M1 alternated between being still as a statue and trying to relax his body language.
"I had to be sur-"
M2 snapped around and closed the distance between them.
"Had to be sure? To be sure of what! That I perished even if I helped you, even if I. Helped. You!" he roared.
M1 was backing up towards the door slowly, pointing a finger in the other's face.
"I HAD to be sure they didn't kill us! You exist to help me. I thought you could see the logic. I thought you would accept this."
"Maybe. Maybe. If I was you. I am not your equal. You brought me into this world with not even a chance of survival. I have your memories, your intelligence. Why am I forsaken in such a way?"
M2 was pacing around by the balcony like a madman. Murmurs bled through the thin beige walls.
"You didn't earn your intelligence!" M1 hissed, his voice oozing in pettiness.
"I didn't ask for it!"
The two men stood feet apart in silence.
Before M1 could retort, a loud bang erupted, followed by the unmistakable pops of machine fire.
M1 turned gray.
"Oh god, they're here. Le-let us table this discussion f-for now."
"No."
M2 was facing the balcony, staring up at the night sky again.
"I've been thinking about those memories you put in my head. You were always pathetic. You gave me life because you were too much of a coward to deal with your problems yourself. I refuse to live a proxy-life as a slave to your will."
Now the gloves were off. The truth was out.
The hired gun was on his way, and they were both as good as dead.
But as M2 looked at the stars, he realized the last choice he had left to make. The only choice he ever had.
He had no control over his life, but he could choose his death.
The gunman was on their floor now, but neither man noticed, their attention turned on each other.
"There isn't a way we talk this through, is there?"
M1 sounded sincere, maybe even remorseful for the way this had turned out.
"You don't have a say anymore."
M2 smiled for the first time.
"I think it's time I go my separate ways," M1 said through gritted teeth.
The two men clutched and drew their pistols. They were the same, after all, mostly.
A tall man, clad in all black, walked calmly through the hallway with robotic precision. A trail of blood followed his path.
7-2-4, 7-2-5, 7-2-6.
He removed each room of human presence. No one could know of him or his mission.
He stopped at door 7-2-7.
Producing a spare key procured from the now-deceased front desk attendant, he unlocked the door just in time as M1 and M2's shots rang out, both finding their target.
When the smoke cleared, the gunman found the man he was sent to kill already dead, slain by an identical copy.
4 days later, the relevant agencies delivered the bodies to an associated in-house morgue, the original report from acting field agent enclosed:
[24-5-197X, Primary target, tagged as deceased #53, eliminated via a bullet to the heart traced back to the .32-caliber pistol of up-until-now unidentified twin brother tagged as deceased #54, also killed with a .32-caliber bullet. Documents for the synthesis of petroleum-grade-hydro-carbons secured.] -- Agent Jean-Christophe Leclère.
The mortician opened the first body bag tagged #53.
It contained the corpse of Dr. Marvin Effingo, a hole shot through his chest as the report described.
He opened the second body bag tagged #54.
Inside the bag was a hollowed-out rotten shell of a human, seemingly dead for an entire century by his estimate.
It was noted that the corpse was born with Situs Inversus; all of his major organs were flipped on the horizontal axis. This was noted when the mortician noticed a crater on the right side of his chest, many times bigger than the hole in #53, held the bullet that killed him.
The mortician passed the duties to his assistant.
THE END.