“Good morning, Ian,” the intercom affixed to the wall above me squawked.

Right on schedule. Always too early.

“It is the sixteenth of November. Today’s forecast contains overcast skies with a thirty-percent chance of rain. Temperatures in the low forties.”

Yesterday was the third of May. I was pretty sure the day before that was the twenty-seventh of August. The weather report was harder to scrutinize without windows in the blue-grey tin-can of a bedroom I called home.

“How are you feeling today? Any muscle soreness or tension? Perhaps nausea, or fatigue?”

Jaw clenched and teeth gritted, I allowed myself to open my eyes and willingly gave up the one mercy I could afford myself. The sleek blue-gray metal ceiling and all-too reflective mirror above greeted me as they did every morning. Matted and tangled dirty-blonde locks framed a blocky face covered by a smattering of facial hair. Patchy, for the most part. Nothing the razor in the bathroom couldn’t take care of. But it was neverending. Always relentless in its growth and creep.

“I feel fine.” The words only barely escaped my lips. The voice that accompanied them was hoarse. A graveled tone. Wrong. Speaking was an act I intended to minimize as much as possible. I suspected she knew this.

The voice over the intercom ignored my answer. “Did you have any dreams last night?”

I did. And I suspected she knew this as well. I wasn’t sure how, though. She always seemed to know when dreams accompanied sleep. And she’d be upset if I obfuscated the truth.

With a sigh, I sat up and rubbed at my eyes. Placing my sleep headphones back on the headboard charger, I obliged her questioning. “There… was a girl. She was with her mom. They were in some store together…”

Recalling a dream is like recreating a painting from memory alone. Big, beautiful pictures painted with a large brush and a mess of paint, all blending into a scene that invites you to unfocus. There’s so much to see that instead of looking at any one place or detail, you try to take in the whole thing at once. As a result, finer details are sparse. Distorted in recall.

So why was the scene I recounted from the night before so clear? I could recall specific details: the smell of the air lingering in the store, the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. How nervous I — she was.

A crackle ran through the intercom’s voice. “And what was the girl buying?” A logical leap. Not the first, by far. Likely not the last. It didn’t take a genius to assume one of the two had been involved in some sort of transaction. But she — the voice — was always doing this. Assuming. Guessing with eerie accuracy. Benign things by themselves.

But they added up.

“It was…” I took a deep breath. “Underwear. They were buying underwear.”

“Any other details?”

“F-fir…” I sputtered. I wanted to hope she’d spare me. But I knew better.

“Ian, I need you to speak clearly, young man,” her voice admonished.

I drew the white, coarse bedsheets into my closed fist. “G-getting a bra. I think. First time.”

There wasn’t a sound from the intercom for nearly a minute. Finally, another crackle.

“Certainly a conspicuous dream for a young man in his twenties,” she said, her voice somewhat elevated and breathy. “Did you experience any sort of physiological stimulation or—”

Arousal…?

“No!” I leapt from the bed and planted my feet on the cold tile floor.

That was a lie.

Her voice seared over the speaker like a whip. “I will not tolerate interruptions, Ian. I understand that you often put up walls when we broach these sensitive topics. Likely a result of the significant cognitive trauma you experienced from the accident. All long since cataloged through your physical evaluations, of course. A refresher would do well to help keep your mind on proper etiquette and manners, however. Perhaps we should schedule another appointment?”

“No, no!” I dropped to my knees on the tiled floor. The thin blue cotton scrubs I wore did little to keep the cold from seeping in. Hands clasped over the ratty hair pouring from the back of my scalp, I bowed towards the door, specifically the round, black dome positioned over the thick metal doors to my room. 

Her “eyes,” she’d once called them. The bathroom had two.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Jekelle. I apologize for interrupting. I let my impulses get to me. I promise I’ll do my best to remain quiet in the future.”

“You’ve said as much before, Ian,” she replied tersely. My only hope lay in whether she was feeling especially merciful today. There were days, rare ones, when she was almost reasonable, even. I’d used those to score a few books whose titles had surfaced randomly in my mind. I liked reading. It… it helped.

The only exception was one specific novel that shared her namesake and title. That request had resulted in an unrelenting assertion that I was clearly mocking her.

That good day had soured almost immediately thereafter into one of the others. Those ones, the bad ones, often blew in like thunder-filled storms and the tides of a flash flood. She’d be incredibly vindictive. Punishing. Looking and watching for signs of disobedience or defiance.

There was a pause. A long, pregnant one with my well-being clutched in its hands like shining pearls.

The answer crashed over top of me like a wave from the arctic. “No. You’re due a refresher, Ian.”

“B-but, ma’am…!”

The intercom cut me off. “I will arrive at your room at 13:00 hours. Make sure to complete your daily tasks before then. We have a lot of ground to cover today, apparently.”

The threat lingering in her tone didn’t need to be spelled out. The line over the intercom cut out. Next to it, a rectangular portion of the wall overturned and revealed a simple digital display that read 08:07.

Knowing she wouldn’t entertain any further discussion, I fully crumpled to the floor. My fingers shook as they weaved through my frizzy hair. Sporadic tears traced the bridge of my nose and splattered onto the floor.

Refresher courses. Those meant she’d be here. In the room with me. Days without sightings of the doctor were the better, almost tolerable days. Time — meaningless as it was — was my own. I could spend time parsing the language of the books and files and folders she’d given me. I was able to reflect on these thoughts in my head. Understanding what this person — who this person — that kept showing up in my mind was. Piecing all the disparate threads in my brain together.

A refresher course meant the opposite. Hours spent with Dr. Jekelle in the room. Electrodes she’d stick to my skin. Either they would deliver electrified corrections, or, rarely, she’d take the matter into her hands, literally.

We’d rehearse and rehearse until she was satisfied. Convinced that I believed and understood the mantra:

My name is Ian.

I am a man.

Dr. Jekelle is my superior.

Dr. Jekelle is a luminous, ingenious scientist and bio-geneticist.

Without her intelligence, I would not be alive.

I am lucky to draw each and every breath in her presence.

Without Dr. Jekelle and her brilliance, the world would be a much worse place.

Without Spitfire, the world would fare far better.

I hate Spitfire.

One day, Dr. Jekelle will kill Spitfire. And the world will rejoice.

There was no delaying it further. I’d lost track of how many refreshers I’d been through, and I’d lose track of this one, too.

Eventually.

Slowly, carefully, I picked myself off the ground and wandered towards the attached bathroom. The large bathroom door slid up and out of sight with a loud, mechanical whir-and-click. The decor of the space was hardly different from the bedroom. Tiled floors. Metal walls. The only real difference was the sink with the large mirror above it and the shower alcove which had a floor-to-ceiling mirror on every wall. Water fell from a rainfall spout in the ceiling. It almost never reached any sufficiently warm temperature, but it was very close every once in a while.

The metal sink made nary a sound as my palms pressed weight onto it while I appraised myself in the mirror. The reflection above my bed had been correct, as usual. Limestone-tinted skin. Sparkling blue eyes. Dirty blonde hair. A jaw that tapered into a small square, and a dimple at the center. Light facial hair, sparse in thickness and coverage, had grown like clockwork since the day previous. A heavy sigh and groan later, the sink faucet was turned on and I began to work the razor at the corner of the sink across my face.

I hated having to do this. It felt wrong. I already loathed the reflection of the awkward, gaunt-looking, and almost-but-not-quite effeminate man who stared back. But the facial hair made it so much worse. Shaving kept it at bay for a day, but the cycle would repeat again tomorrow when I’d have to behold myself yet again.

Once the flecks of hair had sufficiently washed down the drain with the water, I made my way to the shower and activated it. The more complicated-than-necessary knob system never failed to grate against my nerves.

The lukewarm water cascaded over me as I made use of the scentless shampoo and soap provided by stainless steel dispensers and motion sensors. I was supposed to use a conditioner, too, for my hair. Moroccan Argan Oil. Specifically the dry-hair blend without sulfates. I don’t know why I knew that. The information was just there, available for the taking in my brain.

I tried to keep my eyes closed as much as possible in the shower, hoping to block out the reflective surfaces surrounding me. They’d steam up a bit when the water was hot enough, though this day, like many, did not have that luxury in-store. A shuddering breath passed through my chest as I again scrutinized my body, looking for any sense or rationale.

Even the worst refresher on the worst day couldn’t match the crushing weight this reality pressed upon me.

The reflection to which I was unwillingly married was a man. Obviously so, that tiny voice in the back of my mind screamed.

But he was a man who resembled an amalgamation of different people. Almost… sewn together, to reference Mary Shelley. His shoulders were wide, though his ribcage possessed an immediate taper below a puffy chest that flared out to wide hips — or at least, wider than you’d expect considering the penis attached below them. I knew it was small despite not having anyone else to actively measure it against. I’d seen other penises before. As for exactly when or whose… I couldn’t say.

My eyesight immediately shifted. More than anything else in my life, it was something I wholeheartedly loathed. Hated with, perhaps, every fiber of my being. It was wrong beyond every other phantom sensation and irritant that clothed my body and psyche. But, as Dr. Jekelle had explained many, many times before, I was a man. It belonged there.

Briefly, the thought of shaving my underarms and legs passed through my mind. Almost immediately, however, I discarded it. If she discovered me freshly shaved, that’d just be another thing for her to turn her mocking glare towards.

I didn’t even know why the compulsion was there. The only other person I’d seen here had been the doctor, and she was always clothed in a pristine lab coat and full-length pants. Certainly, she hadn’t been the source of the fantasy. Nevertheless, I knew that I preferred my legs and underarms shaved. Bare. It was simply more comfortable; more of a salve for the mind.

Once completed with my shower, I toweled off and procured a new pair of scrubs from the dresser. The towel dropped from my chest as I pulled the scrubs and simple grey undergarments on. They were nothing fancy; just cotton briefs. These, too, irked me. But for a reason that eluded my grasp. I wanted something else in the place of them. Something…

A sideways glance towards my bookshelf; the bottom shelf in particular. Unlike the books I’d been able to request for personal reading, these magazines had been supplied similarly to the textbooks on the top shelf. Regardless of any input of my own. Several editions lay there, magazines Dr. Jekelle insisted I study and report back to her on. Like the dreams, she always knew about any physiological… reactions to the extremely lewd material. I found the women within extremely attractive, but at the same time felt an extreme distaste in such a reaction.

Something deep, deep within me screamed that these pictures shouldn’t have made me feel anything. That those women shouldn’t be viewed the way the magazine depicted them. Like animals. Like objects. 

That was something real. Not a memory. A core belief that I must’ve had.

So, instead, I focused on what I could. Some of the women within those pages had underwear on, fancy though it may be. And I wished — desperately — that I could have what they wore. Even if I could only swap one day of scrubs. I wanted to feel as beautiful as they looked.

09:17.

At least I had time to study a bit more, maybe finally crack a few troublesome pieces of data I’d been having issues with. I pulled the usual textbooks from the upper shelves of the bookshelf and laid them out on the metal desk. Techniques in Biogenetics, Comprehensive Human Physiology, Cellular Machines and Stem Cell Mechanics, and finally Duplication: Cellular Division and Fertilization.

I had a few files worth of documents, too, each containing information and terms I’d cross-referenced in the textbooks. Dr. Jekelle was insistent that I work my way through the documentation myself — often enough that I’d be quizzed nightly on the contents of the progress I’d made. Slowly but surely, I’d made that progress, from a basic understanding of physiology through biochemistry and even a textbook on physics. When you had literally nothing else to do, you made do with what you had. And after months (or what felt like months), I felt like I’d developed a decent grasp of the material.

Of course, I was careful to never show any sort of pride or pleasure in my progress to her, lest I invite her to dress me down with her admittedly far superior intellect.

Best as I could figure, the files she’d provided appeared to be some sort of patient files, each one labeled Subject 14-N. Basic medical information like height, weight, etc. were all present barring, strangely, eye color, hair color, and sex. But there were far more in-depth and detailed pieces of information as well. White and red blood cell counts. Enzyme levels and sequencing documentation. Stem-cell and zygote data, as well as a to-term pregnancy dossier thick with month-by-month data collection. A review of chromosomal mapping of the individual. It was almost like I was looking at the medical records of someone over the course of decades. The only thing that prevented the thought that this individual had died, too, was a lack of any sort of death certificate or mention of age; instead, there were only growth markers signifying certain heights, weights, and physical fitness levels.

Near the end of the stack were a lot of unrelated statistics and info about attempts to remove a DNA nuclei from a donor egg and replace it with a cell from another donor. They all proved to be failures, however. There were a few pieces of information in there, too, about what I believed to be gene-editing, though that was beyond my understanding until I could get some better textbooks.

More than once I wondered why she was so keen on focusing my attention toward this specific scientific subset. It was all part of some puzzle that I was supposed to figure out — a brain exercise to help unlock the foggy portions of my recollection. I knew that because she said as much constantly, often in taunting, teasing tones. That, if I were actually intelligent, I would've worked it all out ages ago.

Was there something she hoped I’d see? Maybe, though I’d never dare speak it aloud, she hoped I’d come to some conclusion she couldn’t? It was an odd choice to assign to someone who majored in Business and minored in Philosophy from… Oregon State, I believed. Might’ve just been Oregon University. Definitely one of the two.

Honestly, the only thing that stuck out to me was the patient’s chromosomes. Forty-six, as expected. 46,XX indicated the patient was probably a woman. What was odd was the FISH validation on file mapping a translocation of the SRY gene, normally found on the Y portion of XY, onto the second X’s pseudoautosomal region. Other pieces of information on the report had been redacted, leaving me in the dark. Based on the limited research material I had available, it wasn’t really possible to determine what effects may have resulted from that abnormality. I made a mental note to request medical textbooks when possible. Something about disorders of sexual development would be exceedingly helpful.

A loud DING rang throughout the room, reverberating somewhat with the aid of the metallic walls. Though I didn’t need to, I still glanced up at the clock from habit.

11:00. Exercise time.

The same timeframe every day consisted of differing exercises. It seemed to alternate between legs, arms, core, and cardio, though I’d been unable to pin down a specific pattern as they seemed to fall with little consistency. Moving to the center of the room, I waited for the clock-face to change. It’d be my guide for however long I needed to perform a certain exercise.

After a beat, the time-face faded into a prompt: Plank.

I kept on my forearms and tip-toes for several intervals of thirty seconds before shifting to Shoulder-Taps, High-Low Boats, and Butterfly Sit-Ups. It was never anything particularly intense, despite the fact that I’d been performing these same routines for months and… months. I wasn’t actually sure how long I’d been doing them. Months were decidedly the best method of tracking time because I just didn’t have a concept of how much longer I’d been here. My memory of anything before was hazy. All due to an accident, Dr. Jekelle had explained, that had resulted in significant brain damage and memory loss.

The way she always said it bugged me. The smallest smile at the corner of her lips… I didn’t know if I believed her. I didn’t remember any sort of accident, at least. When I pressed — a rare occurrence — she would divulge details. But… sometimes it was a motorcycle accident. Other times, nearly drowning. A rough fall, even. Just like the dates. Every day my certainty she’d been lying grew.

So, correction. I knew I didn’t believe her. And I felt it was likely that she was well aware of this. Probably didn’t care, seeing as how little difference it made. I was the one in the big lunch box. She was the one with the key.

Despite what little truth was available, a few facts had slowly registered in the quiet portions of my mind. I’d grown up, had a childhood. Been through school and college. Had friends, too, though I could only recall faces. Not so much the names. There was definitely a girl with whom I’d been very close. Not romantically. Any entertaining of that thought felt offensive and rank. Just best friends. My parents I remembered. Joshua and Kathie… Smith?

It was a common last name.

But I knew these things about myself. They were true, and I suspected the dreams I kept having were part-in-parcel with this weird, hazy history. Details that were clearing themselves up. My brain — maybe — fixing itself. But at the same time, those details didn’t match me. The face of that girl I kept seeing wasn’t my face. A glimpse in any of the damned mirrors all over the place confirmed that.

So why did it feel like it should be? Why did all of these past thoughts and memories feel so different from my current thoughts and emotions? It was like two separate things instead of two pieces of a whole. No matter how I turned them in my mind, they just refused to connect.

There had to be a connection between these memories and my present self. I must have existed somewhere before this place.

A shudder of pain ran through my ribs as I leaned on my side with too much weight. A bruise from the last refresher still lingered, now yellow and blue despite fading in the weeks since. She’d given it to me with those fucking gauntlets she used. I’d need to tell Dr. Jekelle what she wanted to hear and keep an eye out for any sort of logical traps. Then, hopefully, I could get by with minimal residual pain.

11:50.

A trip to the bathroom allowed me time to clear my mind and rinse off. Again with the closed eyes. A staple by this point. A faint shiver shuddered through the metal beneath my feet while showering, but I brushed it off as an issue with the water pressure.

Passing by the mirror this time, I paused for a moment. The length of my hair had reached beneath my chin, though not yet to my shoulders. My eyes lingered purposefully at my forehead. Entreating, almost, for hair to cover it. With no small amount of red tinting at the edge of my cheeks, I pulled my bangs up from the sides of my face and held the bottoms at brow level. It was a poor imitation of choppy bangs (where that phrase came from was anyone’s guess). However, the longer I looked, the more clear a sensation in my chest became. Bangs felt right. It was a style I knew looked good on me.

I blinked.

No, not on me. I mean, it looked okay on me. But the face that had sprung to mind in that split-second wasn’t mine. It was that girl again. Smiling. Confident. On a lark, I pulled the hair at the rear of my head into a high ponytail and held both manually constructed styles for a moment.

A falling sensation permeated through my gut, but without any sense of understanding beyond an acute familiarity. I knew this style. But — like so many fucking things — I couldn’t place the source.

Upon re-entering my bedroom, I realized that breakfast had long since been delivered. The tray, ignored by me for several hours, lay inanimate and untouched by the door. The usually bland oatmeal was cold as stone, and wouldn’t be part of my diet today, I decided. The apple would suffice for the time being.

Dr. Jekelle kept close track of my eating habits, I’d discovered, and would remind me if I deviated any further from her normal nutrition plan. Perhaps she already had noticed and canceled the usual 12:00 lunch tray. I didn’t see it by the door at least, so it was plausible.

I worked at the apple while reviewing the documents on the desk one more time, each bite punctuating the turn of a page. Dr. Jeckelle had suggested good behavior could lead to music privileges, though I’d yet to see any followthrough. Once or twice, I’d wondered if my sleep headphones could play normal music.  She’d bitterly insisted they were only for nighttime use in “preventing migraines and night terrors”, however, leaving me to my otherwise silent work.

Another pained sigh escaped me. Despite the additional scrutiny, I just wasn’t sure what she was expecting me to spot. Maybe rereading a few chapters would be useful? As there was little time for that, I filed such a plan away for the next day's events.

A cold shiver jolted down my spine. I likely wouldn’t be capable of much until tomorrow, anyway.

12:35.

Instead, I turned my attention to some documentation nothing in my textbooks had ever been able to make sense of. Two different studies, both equally seeming like crackpot science and both again referencing Subject 14-N. One that seemed to focus on age and manual manipulation of telomeres — something that seemed more at home with a cosmetics company than whatever this facility was for — and the structure of the extracellular matrix.

The other seemed to have something to do with the brain, its hemispheres, and their related functionalities. The documents might’ve pertained to some sort of scanning capability, or “grafting” if the buzzword’s presence in the text were anything to go off of. Perhaps mapping portions of the brain for categorization purposes? Or, rather, duplication efforts for virtual study? The pictures attached, once I looked closely, almost appeared to be the same brain. It was hard to be certain, of course, since the pictures were all either CT, MRI or PET images.

Seriously, what the fuck was all this? Why was it so important? The only other ‘clue’ was the title of the second file, “Project Igor: Duplication and Manipulation of the alter-form.”

A tingle at the base of my neck warned against any further study. Muscles tensing, I slowly turned to face the clock.

12:56.

In a rush, I hurriedly cleaned up the mess I’d made of the files and textbooks. Upon returning them to their rightful places on the bookshelf, I dove to the ground and resumed the kneeling, subservient pose from earlier.

I had to please her. That familiar, overbearing sense of dread was filling my chest and soul at the prospect of failure. Over and over again I replayed her words from earlier in the morning, desperately searching them for any hint of tone or timbre that might illuminate what abuse would be waiting for me.

12:59.

Would it be shock therapy again? With the electrodes and prods she’d stick all over? Or those metallic gauntlets which sent any patch of skin she touched into a burning, agonizing frenzy? Or that high-pitched device that she’d seize every muscle in my body with, holding me as a silent, paralyzed hostage she could do with as she saw fit?

13:00.

I clasped my hands in front of my face and begged mercy would find me. Anything would prevent her from coming again. I began to wind up the mantra on my tongue.

13:01.

My breath hitched. Dr. Jekelle wasn’t late. Ever. She prided herself on this — this perfect image. She was never, ever late, especially to a refresher.

13:02.

My brain was in overdrive as anxiety built and built, searching again for any understanding of what this might bode.

At 13:03, something… different began to happen.

Doors in the distance were being opened. One after the other. Loud, metallic whirring proceeding a louder CLUNK. Over and over again. She’d never allowed me to leave my room, “for my safety,” as she put it. I didn’t know how many other rooms there might’ve been. Each successive opening only made my heart beat faster, however. What was she doing? Perhaps looking for some new instrument of torture? Of suffering? Either way, the openings were coming closer and closer.

Tears were already pouring down my cheeks as what sounded like the door of an adjacent room opened up. I took one last gulp of air into my lungs and began, hoping the mantra dancing past her ears as she opened the doors would in any way help.

The door to my room opened, sending cascading white light pouring into the room.

“My name is Ian,” I sobbed into the well-worn tile. “I am a man. Dr. Jekelle is my superior. Dr. Jekelle is a luminous, ingenious scientist and bio-geneticist. Without her, I would not be alive. Without Dr. Jekelle and her brilliance, the world would be a much worse place. Without Spitfire, the world would fare far better.”

A brief hesitation to suck air through my teeth.

“I fucking hate Spitfire.”

I said the last part again, the part I knew she enjoyed the most. Whether or not it could be heard through my blubbering, I do not know. I remained there for a time. Whimpering. Sobbing. The usual stages of grief. Eventually, when seconds of nothing happening turned to minutes, I clawed my way back to semi-coherence and raised my head from the ground.

A figure cut a motionless silhouette through the white light.

It wasn’t Dr. Jekelle.

A different woman, one with a white and red spandex suit that accentuated every curve and bend of her form. The main body of the suit was stark-white with accents of red on the legs and sides of the waist. Her cape was attached at an asymmetrical angle from her left shoulder over her right arm and sported a white outer layer and red inner layer.

Her arm was stretched upward, gripping the metal so tightly that wrinkles folded outward from her in fractal patterns.

Behind her, once my eyes adjusted to the influx of light, I could see other people. Costumed, like her. Dr. Jekelle was with them, handcuffed, and smiling the biggest, widest smile I’d ever seen her wear.

“You were right, Spitfire. I did need a hobby,” she happily spat. “Turns out, duplicating your powers was trickier than I’d anticipated. Not so much the body itself. So, meet Plan B. You know about inverses, right?”

Her white hair had fallen over her goggled face, and her lab coat appeared in tatters. The other costumed people, all in a variety of colored suits, were staring at us.

At myself, and…

Her. With long, honey-blonde hair held up in a cascading high-ponytail and choppy bangs, dangling gently above limestone-tinted skin and sparkling blue eyes. Her chin tapered gently into a point, though a dimple was still clearly visible.

Spitfire. The name sprang to mind with nary a single effort paid.

The very sight of her was at once calming and disarming. But, at the same time, something else.

Her eyes widened as familiarity appeared to take over her disposition, too. A foot or so behind her, on the ribbed, black metal floor, an upside-down letter/number sequence was painted in white facing out from the door.

She spoke first. “You’re…” Her voice was like velvet and lavender, smooth and silky, and what immediately registered as right.

A beat passed as I turned the sequence around in my head.

14-N.

“...Me?” I finished.