Re-indoctrination procedures. What a joke. Let them try to wipe your independence from you—you'd play along. Act the part of a loyal soldier as the other X5's shot you dirty looks for being a traitor. You're not going to be here long anyways. You're just waiting—waiting to sneak your ass out of this hellhole that's swallowed almost the entirety of your life. You've done it before, you can do it again.

The lights in your cell light up, thick metal door swinging open. Then, like a freshly-pressed and showered zombie—Ben walks right into your cell. Except it's not Ben. Ben is dead in a ditch, and you're the one who shot him. "My designation's 494." Not-Ben greets, cockiness radiating from his every pore. Your dislike is instantaneous.

Ben's was 493. He must be twinned. Jesus, of course Manticore would send Ben's fucking clone after you, of course. 494's head tilts, eyebrows raising, and he clearly knows who you are. He'd be stupid not too.

"493. Your fellow trader. Went psycho." Ben's designation number rolls off his tongue with derision, as if he knows jackshit. 494 snorts at the darkening of your expression. "Hey. S'his fault I had to spend six months in PSY-OPS. They wanted to make sure it wasn't genetic."

A beat passes, and then he grunts. "Eh, whatever. Let's just get this over with, huh?" And then promptly starts to peel off his shirt. "We've been paired off. I'm your breeding partner."

What?

"We're supposed to copulate every night until you get pregnant." 494 says, simply, like that's not the sickest thing you've ever heard. It must show on your face, because his brows raise, slinging his shirt onto your mattress with lazy efficiency.

"It's your own fault. If you and your friends hadn't blown up the DNA database, they'd still be whippin' up embryos and putting 'em in the surrogates." He pops the p in his words, and to his credit, he doesn't seem too fussed either way—orders are orders, after all. Except, he's midway through clasping his belt and, Oh—as fucking if.