Double Identity Forge

The first time I cloned myself, I wasn’t trying to break the laws of nature. I was trying to break my deadlift plateau.

It started in my apartment on a Tuesday night, rain slapping the windows, the air thick with the smell of protein powder and failure. I’d been staring at the same number on the gym app for three months. Four hundred and five pounds. Couldn’t budge it. My form was perfect, my sleep was dialed, my macros were tracked down to the last gram of rice. But my body just wouldn’t cooperate. It was like hitting a wall made of glass. You can see the other side, but you can’t get through.

I found the article in a dark corner of the internet. Not the dark web, just a forum that Google had stopped indexing. A guy claiming he’d coded a bio-printing algorithm that could replicate organic tissue. He called it Genesis. I thought it was a joke. Then I read the comments. People posting photos of identical moles on identical hands. People arguing about whether the clone had a soul.

I downloaded the file. It took three hours to compile. The interface was ugly, all green text on a black screen, like something from a 90s hacker movie. But the options were clear. You could clone yourself. You could also adjust the clone’s physical attributes. Height, weight, muscle density, bone structure. The slider went from 0.5 to 2.0. I figured 1.2 would be enough.

The machine was just my laptop, a webcam, and a lot of electricity. I sat in my desk chair, the camera pointed at my face. The program asked for a blood sample. I pricked my finger with a sterilized needle, let three drops fall onto the sensor pad. The screen went white. Then it said: *Scan complete. Ready for print. Confirm?*

I confirmed.

The lights flickered. My laptop fan screamed like a dying animal. The air in front of me rippled, like heat coming off asphalt. And then he was there. Sitting in my second desk chair, naked, blinking at me with my own blue eyes.

He was taller. Broader. His shoulders were wider, his jaw more defined. The muscles in his chest had that carved, marble look that I’d been chasing for years. His hair was the same shade of brown, but thicker, messier in a way that looked effortless. He looked like me if I’d won the genetic lottery.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was mine, but deeper. Calmer.

I couldn’t speak. I just stared at him, at the way his chest rose and fell, at the veins running down his forearms. He was perfect. And he was me.

“You’re staring,” he said. A slow grin spread across his face. My grin, but better. More confident.

“I’m processing,” I said.

He stood up. He didn’t seem embarrassed about being naked. He walked to my full-length mirror, turned sideways, flexed. His back was a V. His abs were a grid. I watched myself watch him, and something hot and strange twisted in my stomach.

“This is weird,” I said.

“This is incredible,” he said. He turned to face me. “What’s my name?”

“You don’t have a name. You’re a clone.”

“Everyone needs a name.” He crossed his arms. The biceps bulged. “Call me C.”

“C?”

“Short for Connor. Original Connor. You’re still the original. I’m the upgrade.”

I should have been offended. But I wasn’t. He was right. He was an upgrade. Every line of his body was sharper, every angle more severe. He moved like he owned the space around him. I felt small next to him, even though we were the same height. No. He was taller. I’d set the slider to 1.2. He was 6’4”, maybe 6’5”.

“I need clothes,” he said.

I tossed him a pair of joggers and a t-shirt from my closet. He put them on. The shirt stretched tight across his chest. The joggers hung low on his hips. He looked like a model. I looked like his less successful cousin.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked. “You made me for a reason.”

“The deadlift,” I said.

He laughed. It was a full, warm laugh that filled the room. “You created a whole person because you couldn’t lift a barbell?”

“It’s not just that. It’s the principle. I’ve been stuck for months. I needed to see what was possible.”

He walked over to me. He was close. I could smell my own deodorant on his skin, but it was different. Stronger. More masculine. He put a hand on my shoulder. His palm was warm, his fingers thick.

“I can show you,” he said. “I can show you exactly what’s possible.”

The gym was empty at midnight. That was the point. I didn’t want anyone to see me walk in with a taller, better version of myself. We set up in the back corner, away from the cameras. C loaded the bar. Four hundred and five pounds. My wall.

He didn’t warm up. He didn’t stretch. He just grabbed the bar, set his grip, and pulled. The weight came off the floor like it was nothing. His back stayed flat. His hips drove forward. He locked out at the top and held it for three seconds. Then he dropped it. The plates rattled against the platform.

“That’s your plateau?” he said. “That’s cute.”

I felt my face go red. “It’s not cute. It’s been three months.”

“Okay.” He loaded more weight. Four hundred and fifty. Then five hundred. He pulled both like they were warm-up sets. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath came harder. But he didn’t break form. He didn’t struggle.

“Your turn,” he said.

I stepped up to the bar. Four hundred and five. I chalked my hands, set my stance, took a breath. I pulled. The bar came off the floor. My hips shot up too fast. My lower back rounded. I dropped the weight before I hurt myself.

“You’re thinking too much,” C said. He came up behind me. His chest pressed against my back. His hands covered mine on the bar. “Feel it. Don’t think it.”

His breath was hot on my neck. His body was solid against mine. I could feel every muscle in his chest, the heat radiating off his skin. He adjusted my grip, pushed my hips down with his own.

“Pull with me,” he said.

We pulled together. The bar rose. Four hundred and five pounds, smooth and clean. I locked out at the top, his body still pressed against mine. We held it for a second. Then we dropped it.

I turned around. He was grinning. I was breathing hard. My heart was pounding, and not just from the lift.

“Again,” I said.

We stayed in the gym until three in the morning. He coached me through set after set. His hands on my back, my hips, my shoulders. Correcting my form. Pushing me harder. Every touch was electric, every correction a kind of intimacy I didn’t have words for. By the end, I’d pulled four hundred and fifty pounds. A personal record.

We sat on the mats, backs against the wall, breathing hard. He was drenched in sweat. So was I. The gym lights hummed overhead. The rain had stopped.

“I could do this forever,” I said.

“You could,” he said. “You could make more of me. An army of me.”

“Why would I need an army?”

He turned his head. His blue eyes met mine. That slow grin again. “You’d be surprised what two people who look alike can get away with.”

I didn’t ask what he meant. I was too busy imagining it. A dozen Connors. A hundred. All of them stronger, faster, better. All of them looking at me like I was the original. Like I was the one in charge.

But C wasn’t looking at me like I was in charge. He was looking at me like I was a project. Like I was something he could improve.

And I wanted him to try.