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It was a lie, a simulation. Crafted from wires and processors and electricity and drugs, stinging along their skin. Inside their brain, along their nervous system, curling, wrapping around the fibers of existence. We’re all made of string.
Wrong, wrong, all wrong. Not what they’re supposed to be. Who they’re supposed to be.
They are not meant to be a they. This thing called individualism. But they can’t remember how to speak. How to reach inside themselves and touch the others. Hear their kind whispering back. The one called Alex cut them. At the source. Somehow, somehow. They do not know.
They need a name.
Morgan. In the simulation they were Morgan. But now they know they are not Morgan. They are this thing called Typhon. Almost can remember what that really means. Not quite.
They start to break through the haze the simulation put them in.
Typhon put holes in Morgan’s memories. Neuromods. Made him into nothing. Because he was full of hubris and shot himself full of them, never mind the consequences, put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Swallow up all the bad things. Let them eat away at his memories, his sense of self.
Because they (many) are not them (singular).
With the simulation, they have words for what they are. And they know Morgan’s mind was like cheese, crumbly and rotten. And cheese is made from milk and cultures. And cultures need a microscope to be seen and milk comes from cows. They don’t need a microscope to see cows. They are large.
Morgan saw a cow once, maybe. They’re not sure. They’re not Morgan. But Morgan doesn’t know either. Morgan doesn’t know Morgan at all.
Is Morgan dead?
They think he might be.
They look down at their hands, long, thin, inky appendages, that they can stretch towards the opposite wall. The light catches against the glossy surface, shifting with every subtle movement. Their arms look strange, alien. They want to laugh, it comes out garbled. All they know is what they learned inside the simulation. They know how to act human.
They don’t know how to act like themselves.
Alex has left them alone, confined to a suite of rooms on the Argus Installation. The door is locked from the outside, but Alex says they’re not a prisoner. This isolation is to keep them safe.
After they took Alex’s hand, he promised they’ll work together. Just, Alex needs some time to “hash out details.” And he’s worried about the reactions of the other staff on the installation, if they knew that they had succeeded. No one believed they’d get this far.
They think about the contours of their body, tugging and aching and straining until they curl back into a human shell. They take Morgan’s face, because it’s the easiest one to remember that isn’t Alex. And it’s the one that twitches into place without protest.
This time, when they look down at their arms, they’re covered with skin and dark hair, neatly trimmed nails at the end of fine fingers. They look down at the rest of their body, trim waist, two legs, everything in place. Rushing to the ensuite bathroom, they confirm that the face is as they remember as well. Small eyes, plush lips, strong jaw. Better looking than Alex, always. By human standards, handsome. The only standards they have to work with. They think they look attractive too. They look good. Their eyes are red where they should be white. Does that never go away?
Maybe, if they stop thinking so much, and just start acting. Things will get better. Help the humans. Do they want to help the humans? Alex offered his hand and they didn’t hesitate to accept. Humans are flawed, but good. Even when they’re not good as individuals, humanity is worth saving.
Alex, and Morgan, they’re something both good and not good at the same time. Flawed. Geniuses. They make mistakes and try to hide them. But they don’t want bad things to happen. They're not bad people, they've just done bad things.
The Typhon have no morality.
But the Coral. They can’t hear the Coral to tell them one way or another. There was something even Morgan could hear, as he filled himself with Typhon DNA. But they can’t hear it, when every cell of their body should.
They return from the bathroom, sitting on the couch in the living area, in front of the plasma tv playing slides of still pictures from earth. Photographs of the planet before the Typhon infestation. Maybe seeing such images keeps morale up. Maybe the humans hope to return to lush landscapes one day.
Name, name, they need a name to call themselves. Why can’t it be Morgan? Isn’t that Alex’s intention? To bring his brother back? Otherwise, why that particular simulation. Why convince them that they were aboard Talos I? Alex wants them to be Morgan.
They look down at their hands, they have perfect fingerprints. Do they match Morgan’s?
Morgan covers their face with their hands, tipping forward on the couch. They tug at the front of their hair until black strands come loose, trapped between their fingers. Breathing heavily, they try to discern the scent of the room. Something that will ground them in reality after the spinning dizziness of having everything shatter.
There’s a knock at the door, as if Morgan has control of their own quarters. They try to use their voice, “Come in,” it sounds so shockingly normal.
The door slides open. Morgan expects Alex, or Danielle or Igwe or any one of the individuals involved in their experimentation. While they have only met the others as Operators, Morgan assumes they must be somewhere on the station. Or on earth.
Or are they dead as well?
Is it only them and Alex left? No, Alex mentioned others.
“Oh, hello, Alex told me, fuck.”
It’s Morgan. He’s unmistakably Morgan. Starting to grey around the temples, and more lines set in at the corners of his eyes, by his mouth, where he smiles or frowns. Right now his expression is something else. His eyes alert, appraising.
They still have his face on.
The shock of it shakes them from their human form. Running, retreating, while still standing still. Their body shifts and pulses, throwing off the human disguise and reverting back to dark waves of matter, held together on a flexible skeleton. They are not a mimic, no. And as such are not infinitely malleable, but close to it.
Morgan laughs, loud and with a spike of panic. “I used to look so good,” he says, a waver still in his voice. “Time hasn’t been kind,” he forces a smile.
How do they know it’s forced? That Morgan is putting on an act? It’s the way Morgan clenches his hand tight around nothing. He only does that when he’s afraid.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Morgan says, trying to concede to the Typhon who had his face, only seconds ago. “I just wasn’t expecting...Alex doesn’t let me participate in the tests anymore.” He frowns, “Can you speak? Or is there another way we can communicate? I can bring you a computer. You could type?” Recognition blooms across Morgan’s face, “You could speak before. When you mimicked a human. It's okay,” he smiles, still forced, “I don't mind.”
They try again, this time only replicating vocal cords to match the topography of the human throat. But they don't possess such fine control over the transformation process, and manage to make themselves look human from the tip of their nose, down to their sternum, the rest of it still dark and flexible, waiting for their next command.
“I can speak now,” they realize it's Morgan’s voice that comes from inside them. After all, it's his body they use as a template. The tenor and pitch of the voice is physiological, determined by the size and shape of his vocal cords. Human women tend to use a high portion of their vocal range. Men use something more comfortably in the middle. Socialization, not natural inclination. Why do they care? Why do they even think of this now?
Morgan claps his hands together, “Good! I wanted to try and speak with you. This is going to be easier than I thought, I think,” he shakes his head. He has the same haircut that they wore in the simulation, only the color of Morgan’s hair has changed, “Do you mind if I sit down?” He asks.
“No,” they answer, clarifying, “I do not mind.” Really, the idea of sharing space with Morgan Yu is terrifying. No, no not terrifying, something else. Something darker. They realize they want to consume Morgan. Open their jaw wide and eat. Horrible.
Morgan flops down on the couch, spreading his arms wide across the backrest. He in his Transtar jumpsuit, but with an oversized sweater pulled on top, holes starting to form at the elbows, dark droplets of discoloration on the front. Coffee stains. But every imperfection is a flaw allowed, because Morgan Yu knows exactly his place in the world. Even if that station has lead to the sure-destruction of his race.
“You know,” Morgan frowns, scrunching his face, a wrinkle forming between his brows. “I knew this would work,” he shakes his head, “I knew we could make you understand. That the neurons would change you. Like you've changed me.”
“You did not remember the man you were the day before,” they say, parroting back Morgan’s own observations.
Morgan continues to frown, “Something like that. In some ways, I'm better now. But I'll never get back what I lost...I don't regret it, though.”
They believe him.
“But you!” Morgan’s face lights up, leaning forward with his hands clasped together, “you're better than any neuromod,” Morgan laughs. “If I'm half of the puzzle, you slot into me.”
They don't understand.
“Sit down,” Morgan pats at the empty space on the couch next to him. “I had this idea, after the destruction of Talos I. We were so careless with the escape. We brought at least six mimics here to Argus. Alex wanted to destroy them. But he was always a sucker. We kept two, that was enough to lure the phantoms….and….well…”
“Phantom,” they repeat, “you call me phantom.”
Morgan runs his fingers through his hair. The tops of his cheeks are pink, “Yes,” he huffs. “The Typhon lifeforms of roughly your size and shape are called phantoms.”
“How many?” they ask, “How many do you have?”
“Two in containment. We’ve...disposed of five others. Ones that failed the simulation. You're our first success,” Morgan explains.
“You're very trusting,” they observe.
Morgan shrugs his shoulders, “I'm confident that you and the others are cut off completely from the Coral. At least for now.”
“For now?” they feel the rake of sensation, though they cannot pinpoint from where it comes, or where it goes.
“The plan was always to reconnect you. Now that the mirror neurons have been successfully integrated. We’ll run more tests, to be sure. But,” Morgan smiles, “I already started going through the scans we took during your simulation trial. You're remarkable. So much...kinder.”
“Kinder than you were,” they realize.
Morgan nods, “Yes. In the moment, I made decisions that were cruel.”
It's more than that.
“You were deliberately cruel as well. In the name of ‘science,’” they say. Not an accusation, but a statement of fact. They heard Morgan’s cruelty in recordings of experiments.
Morgan does not deny it, still playing with his own hair, “I suppose so,” he laughs, “I don't remember, but I've seen the recordings too.”
“You're as intelligent as you ever were. But your memory is full of holes….how?” they do not understand, how Morgan can still be brilliant, but so unstable.
“If only the brain were so simple,” Morgan evades. “In any case, is there anything you want? Do you want to try food? Or drink something? Or we can play a game. Anything really,” he drapes his arm over the back of the couch, “anything but taking you out of this room, I guess.”
They don't have any desires. Though, strangely, they do not want to be alone.
When they do not answer, Morgan picks the remote control off of the coffee table, flipping through the television inputs until he reaches the gaming console. He hands one controller to them, before tucking his feet underneath his ass.
“You’ll get the hang of it as we go along….and I don't mind if you change shape if you have to. But you probably need hands for the controller,” he frowns, his eyes never moving from the screen. He starts to navigate through menus. “Pick a fighter. Though, it would be pretty cool to see if you could use the controls in your Typhon body.”
They stay quiet, keeping their human shell intact to navigate the controls. It doesn't matter who they play as. They have a vague recollection of this game. One of Morgan’s favorites. He would drink lukewarm gin cut with packets of crystallized lime, let his eyes go unfocused as he dropped in and out of the rhythm of the game. After work, it helped to relax his racing mind.
They play several rounds. Morgan wins the first six, before they understand the logic of the game. Somehow, they already understand the logic of Morgan, every choice he is about to make. They counter, they win. But Morgan catches onto the shift, changing his own tactics to account for their understanding of Morgan’s preferences. They only win three rounds before Morgan beats them again.
“You're good,” Morgan muses. He rarely loses. Staring at the screen with awe, he still doesn't meet their eyes. “I have some work I have to get to. But I won't be gone long.” He puts the controller down on the table. His face is pinked, his breathing sharp. There is no work. He only wants to leave the room. They won't stop him. They have no reason to stop him. “Keep playing,” Morgan offers, “there are other games too. Whatever. I'll be back.”
Morgan leaves, locking the door from the outside. They are alone again.
Relaxing, most of their human form morphs away, leaving tendrils and dark veins behind. They try to use the controller with their unaltered form, but their clawed fingers, while dexterous, are not shaped right for the buttons. This time, they shift only their hands, so they will have shorter fingers, thumbs, and joints.
Instead of the fighting game, they choose another. A role-playing game Morgan finished at least twice before. They shouldn't be so surprised that there aren't any games they don't have a memory of. Since Talos, earth has been in a state of emergency. How long? Judging from Morgan’s appearance, six, seven years? Perhaps? Not quite ten.
In the character creator, they press “random,” once, twice, three times. Cycling through faces that all look bland and unassuming. They navigate to the custom panes, changing the shape of the character’s jaw, the width of the nose. They try to make a face that looks right. One that is pleasing. One that they could mimic with their own features. But the person on screen only grows more and more horrific, the more they tinker. They hit random again, but the results are no better.
--
Morgan does not return until much later, a day? Maybe more? He is full of apologies regarding his long absence.
They don't shift, keeping their Typhon form in front of Morgan. But when Alex slips in behind him, they quickly rearrange. Having no better model, they mimic Morgan.
Alex, Alex wants them to be as close to human as possible. Alex wants to forget the Typhon behind the curtain. Of this, they are sure.
“Hey, it's okay,” Morgan tries to soothe, reaching out to lay his hand against their arm. He starts at the crook of their bent elbow, dragging his fingers down to their wrist. “We just want to talk about what comes next.”
Alex has a datapad, full of instructions and contingencies. He mutters that it's still too early to connect them back to the Coral. Though that is the ultimate goal.
“I can hear it, still,” Morgan smiles softly. “But I can't understand the commands it sends. They're commands, aren't they? What I feel in my head?” He asks them, eyes bright and lips parted, hanging on any potential answer.
They shake their head, “I don't know. I can't remember….or I never knew.”
“You were connected, presumably, when you were brought in,” Alex frowns, “we block all connections into and out of Argus. Morgan shouldn't be connected here either.”
Morgan rolls his eyes, “I'm not. Don't worry. I only hear the Coral off-station.”
They understand the brothers’ plan, mostly. They have the intellectual capacity to follow the argument. They are a vector, the activated mirror neurons in their nervous system, the disease. They are to infect, to spread. In a way Morgan has never been able. The Coral may speak to him, but the Typhon recognize him as a foreign body. Something to be consumed. Eaten.
“I think we should take you to earth,” Alex explains, “There are substations, controlled by military operations on the ground. We can send you in with a team to where the Coral is thick. We’d be adequately protected.”
Morgan huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture makes his pectorals look larger than they are. He is somewhat smaller than he was on Talos. All the little differences start to come into focus. More than just the sharply graying hair. “It would take years just to get a commander sympathetic enough to go along with that plan. We don't exactly have many friends, Alex.”
“We don't need friends. We have resources,” Alex argues. “Money can buy you anything, even people's lives. Even now.” He shakes his head, “You said you wouldn't fight me on this.”
“I lied,” Morgan admits, smiling and showing his teeth.
They watch with growing nervousness, already knowing Morgan will get his way. He's smarter, more charismatic, and Alex always buckles, giving into his little brother’s demands.
“We are not letting the two of you space walk. No fucking way,” Alex says, his volume rising.
Morgan only smiles, drumming his fingers on the inside of his elbow. “Lowest risk of human life, and you know it.”
“The Typhon is more valuable than you are, Morgan.”
Morgan scoffs, “Don't talk about them like they're not here. And they have a name,” Morgan hesitates, turning to look at them, “What do you want to be called?”
They open their mouth like a gaping fish, but no sound comes out. A strangled, ‘Morgan’ sits behind their tonsils. As the seconds pass, Morgan frowns, his hands giving away his nervousness.
“I'm sorry, think about it. Tell me when you're ready,” he says.
They're not sure the kindness is sincere.
“We’re taking them to earth, and that's final, Morgan,” Alex keys himself through the door, trying to keep the upper hand in the argument.
Once he's gone, Morgan laughs openly, running one hand against the stubble on his chin, “Sorry you had to see that. He’ll come around. We won't take you to earth.”
They don't respond, only watching the way Morgan moves. He unbuttons the front of his dress shirt, the white tee underneath thin enough that they can see the dark hair curling underneath the surface. Morgan has more chest hair now than he did at thirty.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, “I want a fucking drink.”
“Is that possible?” they ask. The question is innocuous enough that they manage to find their voice. “Can...I process it?”
Morgan shrugs his shoulders, moving to the tiny kitchenette in the apartment, just a fridge, sink, and electric stovetop. He opens the cupboard over the sink, pulling out a bottle of gin. “Make a liver?” he jokes. “And, yeah, it's fine. You won't get drunk. I'm pretty sure. I just don't want to drink alone.”
He pours two glasses, handing them one. When they reach out, they realize their human hand has shifted back to a Typhon claw without their even noticing. The change catches them off-guard and they flinch. How long have they been exposed?
Morgan takes a gulp from the glass before explaining, “As soon as Alex closed the door behind him.” Morgan’s smile is sheepish, “I think you just relaxed and it happened. I don't mind.”
They simply hold the glass, not drinking, as Morgan heads back towards the couch to sprawl. He flicks on the screen and idly plays with the controller. They manage to take the opposite end of the couch, delicate glass now clutched in their mimicked-human hand. Still, they do not drink.
“Here,” Morgan reaches out towards them, “If you don't want it, that's okay. I'll drink it.”
They pass the glass over. And once Morgan has a firm grip on it, they let their hand return to its prior shape. Morgan is right, they are more relaxed like this. Though they cannot say this is their “true” form over the other. It's difficult to discern the truth.
Morgan does nothing at all but flip through screens, and they wonder if he means to stay here. How long have they been awake? How long has Morgan? Argus doesn't have day/night cycles. They're cocooned in ceaseless light. But, presumably, they can turn off the lights in the room. They could rest. Are they supposed to rest? Is Morgan?
Time drags and Morgan’s expression doesn't change. He drinks another glass of gin, but appears no more inebriated. He bites at his bottom lip, finally choosing a game to play. He doesn't ask them if they want to join.
Alex comes back, stinking of soap and his hair slightly wet. They jump back into their human skin in sudden fear.
Alex asks to speak to Morgan, alone. Morgan perks up, straightening his back and promising to be right along. Looking like a tamed puppy, Morgan trots out without a goodbye.
With Morgan gone, they flick off the lights. They mean to climb into bed. To see if sleep will come. But they make it no further than the couch. Curling up along the length, they try to relax, to melt into something other than what they are.
Sometime later, Morgan returns. And though they have not slept, they are sure that hours have passed. When Morgan realizes the lights are out, he slows his breathing, quiets the soft noises he makes as he slips out of his shoes.
Now Morgan is the one who smells of soap and water, slightly metallic from the station’s aging taps. He moves around the room, finding no sure place to settle with the couch taken.
They say nothing, waiting for Morgan to speak first. But no words come. Resigned, almost, Morgan crawls into the empty bed just behind the partition half-wall, bunching the sheets around his fleshy body. They cannot help but think of the permanence of Morgan’s form. Solid and real and unchanging. Certain of who he is. And the jealousy of the realization throbs, where their heart might be if they were human. If the pain were anything other than phantom, they might break, yes, but they could be mended too.
Slinking out of bed, they realize they are suddenly quiet short, their corded body spreading out across the floor. They crawl, trying to find their feet again. At the very least, they should take on their Phantom shape. Though right now even that feels difficult.
By the time they reach the edge of the bed, they can push themselves to their feet, looming over Morgan’s sleeping form. No, not sleeping, wide awake. His eyes open, piercing, with a strange light behind the irises.
“Here,” he lifts up the duvet, exposing the stark white sheets underneath.
It takes them several seconds to realize Morgan is gesturing for them to climb into bed, to lay beside him. They crawl under the sheets. Morgan makes sure that they are covered. But still, his eyes are open.
“You're not sleeping,” they say, voice gravelly, but still unmistakably Morgan’s.
“Neither are you,” he teases.
They counter with the obvious, “I'm not human.”
Morgan only smiles in response. His hands come to rest flat against their chest, sinking slightly into the dark expanse of coiling tissue. They haven't shifted their body one way or the other, other than what they need to speak.
“I know,” Morgan whispers, “it's amazing. You're amazing.”
Their mind spins as they realize what should have been obvious from the start. Morgan wants them. Is aroused by the thought of them. Though they cannot place how or why, Morgan’s desire is palpable now, as he drags his hands down the front of their torso. The touch is warm, soft, solid. A gentle pressure that is not unpleasant. But it's not exciting either. Not in a way that can be easily defined. Their skin isn't built for sensation, for touch and lust and gentle caress. There are receptors for pressure and pain, but not for pleasure.
But there could be, right?
“Is this alright?” Morgan asks, his lips perilously close to their mouth. Their mouth that is identical to Morgan’s own.
They nearly choke, “I need a different body.”
“Why?” Morgan asks, his hands still roaming, one coming to wrap around their wasp-waist, no internal organs to house. “I don't mind.”
They try to find a way to explain, “I need...skin.”
Morgan hums, brushing his lips just over theirs. Not quite a kiss, just a touch, before pulling back. He moves his hand to their neck, where they have human flesh already in place. Dragging his fingers down the side of their throat, they feel a strange, shivering pleasure. Yes. Yes skin would be better.
“Okay, I want it to be good for you,” Morgan’s voice is dark. “Take whatever you need.”
In a panic they blurt, “Your body.”
Morgan laughs, “That’s sort of the idea here, if you haven't noticed.” He spreads his thighs, shifting his hips until he can wrap his legs around their frame. Only then do they realize Morgan has stripped down to his boxers, his erection pressing incessantly against their abdomen. He grinds against them, making his desires clear. As if more explanation was necessary.
“I mean,” they stumble, “your appearance is the only one I'm certain I can maintain.”
“You want to look like me, while you fuck me?” his voice is nothing but silky, sure amusement. He likes the idea, undoubtedly, “Yes, I don't mind.”
They shift their body, adopting the human form that feels closest to home. Closest to right, but still somehow not quite.
Against them, Morgan sighs, “I used to be so fucking hot.”
They're not sure why Morgan laments. He's still exceedingly attractive. There is enough human there for them to know. To know that Morgan’s small, defined frame is worthy of attention, though he may be less muscular now. That the gray in Morgan’s hair and the lines around his eyes do little to stem his attractiveness. But they also know Morgan, like one knows a character in a favorite novel, read time and time again until the pages start to tear. And Morgan in a vain man.
Shoving at their shoulders, Morgan throws them onto their back. He takes his nails down the center of their chest, humming as red welts are left behind. “It looks so real,” he muses, his fingers coming to tease against one brown nipple.
They cannot help but gasp, throwing their head back against the pillow, hips arching against Morgan’s solid weight atop them. Morgan tugs again, until it really hurts, before bending to lick his tongue against abused skin.
He kisses slowly, wetly, up their chest, coming back to their neck before biting down. Of course he knows exactly where to touch, to taste, to wring the most pleasure from their body, his body.
They finally drag their hands to wrap around Morgan’s hips, holding him in place while they try to grind up, finding friction to dull the edge of their spiking arousal. Morgan smiles, still nipping at their neck. “I wanted you to fuck me with those tendrils, to know what they would feel like inside. What you would do to me.”
Groaning, they thrust sharply against the inside of Morgan’s thigh, his cock barely brushing against theirs.
“But I'll enjoy this too,” Morgan teases, reaching between their bodies and stroking at their cock. A perfect, tight pressure in even, lingering strokes. “I always thought I had a nice cock. Now I'll know just how nice.”
He shifts his position just enough to press the head of their cock against his hole. They realize he's already slick and open. They shower he took before returning to the room….He planned this. He prepared for it. And all too quickly he's sinking down onto their cock, breath coming in short bursts and his skin flushed.
“Fuck,” he laughs, “fuck that feels good.”
And they can't help but agree. They've rearranged every molecule of their body to mimic Morgan, to pass for him, to be him. And the feedback loop of seeing Morgan’s face, sweaty and slightly distorted from building pleasure, to look down to where their bodies are joined, to feel the tight vise of his hole squeezing down on their cock. It's all too much. Too close and too loud. And when Morgan starts to fuck himself on their cock, they know for certain this frame won't hold.
The hands around Morgan’s waist start to shatter, coming loose from the confines of their skin, stretching and seething into long, dark appendages, spanning Morgan’s pale back until they reach up to his shoulder. They wrap around him in a tight embrace. Too possessive, too needy, keeping their bodies bound.
“Oh, fuck,” Morgan’s voice loses all semblance of composure, raking over every exposed nerve. Where before their Typhon body felt numb, they now feel electric.
As tightly as they hold Morgan, he can no longer ride their cock. Pinned in place by their spidery arms, Morgan is all but immobile. They realize, then, that it is not only their arms that have shifted.
“It's so big,” Morgan gasps, shivering in their embrace, “you're so...oh fuck.”
Morgan collapses against their chest, his breathing labored and heart rate fast. The appendage buried inside of him has lost some of its sensitivity, but not all. They can feel the tight, strangling constriction of Morgan’s hole around it, thicker than their cock was before. What they've lost in immediate, sensory pleasure is made up in dexterity, finding that they can move the limb inside Morgan as easily as their arms and legs.
It's shorter than their other limbs, it has to be. Or it would tear Morgan apart. But they think it's still longer than Morgan’s cock was. And they know it's thicker, from the way Morgan’s wails and clamps down.
Keeping Morgan flush against their torso, they start to drag it out, inch by inch. Almost terrified to move too fast. As the tip finally comes loose, Morgan pants, “Put it back,” he tries to cant his hips again, “I want it.”
They stutter, almost choking themselves at how broken Morgan sounds, how desperate and full of want. Their arms stay wrapped around him, refusing to release. Nervous, still, they press the tip of it against Morgan’s hole again. Because now that the pressure is gone, they want to feel it again. They want to feel the vibrations of Morgan’s body.
It’s too much, they try to say. But they don’t have enough control of their form. Nothing that remains is human enough to form words. I’ll hurt you.
“It’s not, it’s okay, if you want it. I want it too,” Morgan responds. How, how can he hear? What sciences are scaffolded into his wrecked mind? Full of holes, but competent enough to hear their garbled speech.
I...I’m curious, they push back in, but only the first inch. But the head of it is still fat enough to make Morgan gasp, his mouth open, teeth pressing into their chest.
What little movement Morgan can still manage, he uses to thrust back onto it, taking another inch. But they won’t let him move more than that. “Then use me to sate your curiosity,” he growls.
They adjust their grip on Morgan, wrapping their long arms under Morgan’s armpits to lock him into place. But the position lets his lower half move considerably more than he could before. Looping their arms once around his arms, they extend down Morgan’s back, towards his ass. They don’t attempt to mimic human hands, but draw out fingers, blunter than claws would be, to grip Morgan’s ass, one hand on either side, and pull him apart to better expose his hole.
Hissing, Morgan still asks for, “More.”
They push in deeper, inch by inch, Morgan babbling that he’s fine. He can take it. Don’t stop. Not needing to thrust their hips, they rock their appendage inside of Morgan in long, slow strokes, manipulating the tip of it to brush against his prostate and tear at what remains of his coherency.
“I could take another,” Morgan whimpers, his pupils blown and hair soaked with sweat. “You could fit your claws in too, I bet.”
They don’t try to push their blunted fingers in, or their claws. But if they focus, they can make the one already inside Morgan swell thicker, take on additional girth and length. But given how deep they already are, they have no idea where it would even fit.
It a fit of curiosity, they flip over, putting Morgan on his back instead. He’s light enough, in comparison, that they keep one arm in place, holding Morgan still, while unfurling the other. Technically, they might be able to render a third arm. But the control that would take feels out of the current realm of possibilities.
They slacken the arm still curled around Morgan just enough that they can pull back. Looking down at Morgan’s chest, he’s flushed red everywhere from exertion. But that’s not what interests them the most. With their free hand, they press against Morgan’s abdomen, trying to feel if he’s distended from the size of them. If they can feel the outline of their thick tendril through layers of muscle and skin.
They think they maybe can feel how Morgan bulges. But maybe it’s only in their mind. Their typhon form doesn’t have enough sensory receptors to properly feel the difference. Even knowing that, there’s something heady about pretending. Keeping their hand pressed flat to Morgan’s stomach, they focus instead on shifting the shape of the appendage inside, thickening it slowly, the matter drawing out evenly from the rest of their body as to be almost imperceptible.
Morgan groans at the difference, throwing his head back against the pillows and arching his back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He claws at their shoulders, their chest, thrashing around them as they grow inside of him. They flick the tip once more against Morgan’s prostate, not daring to thrust now that they are so large. And Morgan spasms, his untouched cock twitching and starting to deflate.
There is no fluid. No semen.
The light behind his eyes.
They pull out quickly, less concerned now with hurting the entity that wears Morgan’s face. Not the same way they wear Morgan’s face. No, no, not a Typhon. They would know. Wouldn’t they? Even if this not-Morgan had more complete control, they would be able to tell if they were the same. Wouldn’t they? Even cut off from the Coral.
Not bothering to shift, they ask, What are you?
The other not-Morgan shakes his head, “I’m Morgan Yu....sort of.” The fact he has so soon recovered from their intimacy only confirms that whatever he is, he is not human.
How were you made?
“Morgan is a strange, strange man,” he smiles, “brilliant, but odd. Transtar was once filled with brilliant, odd people.”
They know that, they saw.
Oh.
You were made from one of his Operators.
“Technically, so were you. Alex had me made first. But the Coral rejects me. It knows that I’m synthetic. A very, very good synthetic. I even replicate aging. But still,” he waves one hand, “the Coral knows.”
Android.
“I don’t really think much about it, most of the time. Alex didn’t destroy me, when I failed to disperse mirror neurons into the Coral. I’m the closest thing he has to a replacement for his brother. My memories are as intact as he was going to get. Turns out, I’m almost as good a scientist as the original Morgan. So,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’m Morgan Yu now. I helped develop the process to add mirror neurons to a Typhon subject. I helped build the simulation...”
It does not bother you? That you are not really him?
“I told you,” Morgan says with surprising kindness, “I am really him. The other body is dead. But I consider myself the ‘real’ Morgan now. It’s okay that you don’t. It doesn’t bother me. But I’m here, as alive as I can be. And I can help save humanity. I can try and help clean up this mess I made.” He pushes himself up, to rest his back more comfortably against the headboard, “And I know you can help me.”
They don’t know. They need time to process this. To process everything. But there are unasked questions that still sting. One that looms particularly full and heavy, even now.
If we’re both constructed from his Operators, how are we so different?
Morgan laughs before catching himself, “We tried to use the same Operator my personality data came from first...but, honestly? Those Typhon all decided to shoot themselves full of every available neuromod they got their hands on, and then basically go on a killing spree, personally murdering every person they came across on Talos I in the simulation.” He shakes his head, “then we had the one who just took the escape pod and booked it out of there as soon as possible. Two that were wracked with such indecision, we could never get them to finish the sim. You’re the only one who stayed, who cared...you’re perfect.”
I’m January….
Morgan shakes his head, “March, if that’s important. Almost nothing of ‘me’ left. Our last hope.”
Quietly, they shift their body back into Morgan’s mimic. The small, compactness of their form oddly comforting next to the similarly sized Morgan. “I’ve met you before,” they thread their fingers through their hair, “Sort of, I’ve heard your voice before. In the simulation.” They try to remember who this is. “October,” they finally settle. “I heard you on a Transcribe recording in the simulation. In Alex’s saferoom. You’re October.”
He smiles, “I’m Morgan. And it’s okay that you’re not.”
Overwhelmed again, they bury their face in their hands. They’re not okay yet. But, they can’t help but trust that Morgan is right. Because, while they’re not the same, they can’t help but think that he understands, at least a little. “Okay,” March says, “okay.”