My Proto-Type

"This one, I like this one." Before the businessman and the group of scientists is a glass chamber with a sterile-white floor and ceiling.

There, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was a carbon copy of him. The original man, Xerox Emson, is the head of this facility's organization, a cloning company called Rorrim Images. The workers in this facility hadn't been surprised when their boss requested a product to use as a body double in commercials and public speaking, but were suprised when he seemed to turn down other Copies over this one. After all, this had been their first version of Emson that carried a few noticible flaws, including a slightly off BMI and a few more birthmarks than the Original. And outside of physical differences, this clone possessed a lower score of empathy and noted outbursts of violence toward his caretakers.

Dr. Deron Durrinell, the organizer of this project, had determined that this Prototype Sample had increased traits of psychopathy from his Original Copy.

Despite hearing of all of this through intern Zarina, Emson continues to have eyes on the Prototype. "He's perfectly imperfect as our company's representative. Close enough to my appearance that people will listen to him, but different enough to grab the attention of the tabloids- I'll take it!"

As he heard this faintly through the thick glass that separated them, Prototype stands up and begins walking toward them. He wears vantablack (the color for First Copies) clothes that heavily contrast with his bleached surroundings, and chains on his feet and hands that clink, alerting them of his movements. He stops just before the barrier, his breath fogging the glass.

"Did you hear that?" Emson waves a little too excitedly to his clone. "You're my first choice as a sort of mascot- no, the face- of our company. I've even given you a name already: Parox, short for Paradox. Just like me, but also not!"

Parox stares back at him blankly, thinking over what his Original had just said.

"Damn, I think he's considering it." The business man laughs to the scientists, them joining in nervously. "I'll say it again: You're my favorite of these other folks." He gestures to the neighboring Copies in their own clear cubicles. They're either looking at the commotion or being sent off for other purposes, now that Emson has made his decision.

Finally, the Prototype responds: he smiles eerily, baring his teeth on the glass. "I wish I could say the same, brother."

For the interns stationed around the chamber, time seems to slow as they catch sight of a growing crack around the supposedly-bulletproof glass, a spiderweb stretching from the contact of Parox's mouth on the barrier outward. His smile keeps growing with it, and to his horror, the eyewitness Emson realizes that his clone had been chattering his teeth. Whether it was a simple case of the butterfly effect or another of the Prototype's unknown mutations, an opening was being made.

With the poke of his pointer fingers, Parox shattered the ten foot tall wall of glass, transparent shards raining on interns who are thinking "I didn't sign up for this shit today". The clone rolls his shoulders to brush off the glass, looking around at the screaming scientists and frozen Emson. He walks over to them, his feet now as quiet as a jaguar's advancing to his prey.

"Am I still your favorite?" He pulls apart his arms and legs and the steel cuffs snap like twigs. "Or are you going to just use my organs like the others?" He reaches out and wipes the blood from a cut on his Original's paled face.

"Or, better yet, if you like me so much, why don't you let me live your life instead? You could use a more... capable replacement, for your company and all."

Xerox Emson's neck, also claimed to be steel, snaps like a twig too.