Mich Me Michael

Part 5: Them

According to the log, their mother had a complicated pregnancy. Facing the risk of losing her unborn child, they sought help from the people who had tormented their lives the most: their family. Their great-grandfather's ambition and their grandfather's obsession saved their life and molded them to their liking and need.

The "original Michael" was not healthy; in fact, he was a very sick child. Each copy of Michael was created with altered genes to correct his illness and enhance his intelligence. The first change was made before Michael was born, and two more changes before he turned one. Throughout his life, their grandfather continued experimenting with him and the clones to improve their capabilities, pushing their intelligence and physical endurance to superhuman limits.

—All this time believing, like idiots, that we were special, and the only truth is that we are... —said Mich, sitting on a steel bench.

—The experiment of some old madmen —Michael completed, on the bench opposite.

They were alone in the decontamination room. They hadn't slept all night; neither the cold water, sleep, nor even the shock of discovering their true altered origin made their heartbeat rise or lose focus. They were just facts, facts that explained their reality.

—We are an experiment that will save humanity. We seem like heroes from a book —said Mich, joking.

Michael smiled, but something felt different. Mich knew he was a clone from the beginning, he didn't. Maybe he struggled to accept his new reality, yes, that was all. Or not? What else could it be?

A sense of paranoia overwhelmed him. He had only reviewed the journal; he didn't know what the numbers Mich had seen in the lab showed. He was missing information. How had they both reached the same conclusion? What did Mich know that he didn't? What was different?

—Are you okay? —Mich asked.

No. What was he thinking? He had to stop this paranoia. What nonsense.

—Yes, yes, I'm fine. Now that we've discovered the truth, I'll be able to sleep peacefully. Who would have thought I was a clone from the beginning too? It was so obvious. Ha! —he laughed falsely.

They continued working all day as usual. There it was again, Mrs. Birgit's familiar look of disdain, Sophie's flamboyant outfit, returning from her morning rounds. The tasteless, aroma-less, shapeless lunch. Everything remained the same. But nothing was the same.

At the end of the day, Michael waited for everyone to go to sleep, went down to the experiment lab alone, and went straight to the figures Mich had reviewed. He read them several times, finding nothing strange, which was even worse.

Why had Mich found something he couldn't see? Was Mich more intelligent than him? Better?

That thought stuck in his mind, and he reviewed everything again, paying attention to that detail. Mich was better. And not just Mich; each clone was superior to the previous one in a minimal percentage, almost imperceptible and at the same time abysmal. Not only had his health's genetics been altered, but his qualities were also better with each version.

And if he was the seventh clone, the eighth was used to replace his organs, and Mich was the ninth, that only made the difference between them even greater. Mich was superior to him in every way, but that wasn't a bad thing. Thanks to that, they were close to a cure. Thanks to Mich. He rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue against his teeth. What he felt was no longer paranoia; it was envy. He was Michael, the genius. He was going to be the savior of the world! He was the original!

He was nothing more than an inferior copy, and now he knew it. He hadn't stopped to think about what would happen after the chaos. When the cure was ready, it was obvious he would receive honors and fame, some award, and a comfortable life as the savior of humanity. But now, wouldn't everything change? Mich wouldn't tolerate staying in the shadows; he knew that because he himself wouldn't tolerate it. Not knowing he was superior, but... did Mich know he was superior? Had he already realized that? Why hadn't he said anything? Was it out of compassion? Or was he waiting for the right moment to eliminate his variable, as was family tradition?

However, Michael knew he couldn't let paranoia take over. Mich was a copy with all his memories and a similar line of thought. They always answered in unison or reached the same conclusion, although Mich usually proposed the new ideas. Now he understood it wasn't due to his fresh mind but because of his superior capacity. They were jealousy, just jealousy. Surely they would find a way to resolve it. What nonsense was he thinking. No one was so paranoid as to worry about harmless jealousy, maybe only himself.

With his eyes wide open, nervous breathing, and increasing heartbeats, Michael realized the obvious once again: Mich was as paranoid as he was, and if he had thought Mich would try to eliminate him, Mich would be thinking the same of him. Maybe even sooner. Mich would try to kill him before he did! No, no, it was crazy, he had to stop thinking or he would go mad. What would he do? Kill himself?

He laughed, sighed, and held his head in his hands while his heartbeats calmed down. He went to his room, put on his pajamas, and lay down on the bed. The goal was to find the cure; it was a matter of days. Then everything would be fine.

Michael got out of bed as soon as his head touched the hard synthetic pillow. He could use poison in the morning coffee. By putting a little, very little in his cup each day, after a week, the job would be done. Just as a precaution; if nothing dangerous happened, he would stop doing it, and nothing more serious than a stomach ache would occur. Yes, that was it. As simple as that. He just had to go silently to the kitchen and look in the last door of the upper cabinet on the right. The arsenic was at the back.

Michael entered the kitchen; it was two in the morning. Mich was in the dark with a cup in his hands.

—Mich. 

—Michael. 

—I thought you were asleep. 

—I thought you were asleep too. 

—Of course, we're the same person after all, right? Ha, ha —Michael laughed nervously. 

—Yes, ha, ha —Mich replied, relaxed but confused. 

—And what were you doing? 

—The same as you. 

—The same as me? 

—Of course, chamomile tea! It always helps us with a stomach ache. 

—Oh, yes, right. It's strange being with someone who thinks everything you think, isn't it? 

—Yes, yes, ha, ha. 

—Yes, ha, ha. 

—... well, I'll go. I left a tea ready in your cup. I figured you'd come if you couldn't sleep like me. It's at the temperature we like. 

—Thanks, Mich.

Mich left, leaving an awkward atmosphere.

Michael held his head, sweating in front of the sink. The tea was next to him, steaming. He laughed at himself, realizing he was delusional. What was he thinking? Poisoning him? Killing him? What madness was that? He laughed, relaxed, grabbed the cup to take a sip, and just as he was about to do so, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a small detail: the last upper cabinet door on the right was slightly ajar.