Driven by a morbid fascination, I opened Facepage and Chirper. I didn't even have to search for long. The algorithms, tuned to my new reality, served it right up.
It was a waterfall of happy news. A young man beaming, his arm around his smiling mother, the caption reading:
"So proud to announce mom is carrying my child! Due in the spring! #Blessed #FamilyFirst." A group photo of a man with three women—his sister and two aunts—all visibly pregnant, with hearts and congratulatory messages flooding the comments.
A woman posting a sonogram image: "Big news! Me and my big bro are having a baby! Can't wait to meet our little miracle! #LoveWins #NewAddition."
I scrolled and scrolled, my initial shock giving way to a numb acceptance. This was normal. This was celebrated. This was Tuesday. The sheer, overwhelming volume of it all was the most convincing argument yet. My desires weren't deviant. They were... surprisingly trendy.
I finally leaned back in my chair, the chair groaning under the movement. The full picture was coming into horrifying, fascinating focus. This was a world stripped bare. All the complexities of my old life—the nuanced morals, the international politics, the social contracts—were gone. They were luxuries this world could no longer afford. Everything had been reduced to a simple, brutal equation: More People = Good. Fewer People = Bad.
The glow of the monitor was the only light in the room, painting everything in a pale, blueish hue. I'd fallen down the rabbit hole, and instead of finding a nightmare, I'd found… an operating manual. A fucked-up, hypersexualized, dystopian operating manual, but a manual nonetheless.
The sheer volume of it all—the government mandates, the corporate exploitation, the billionaire harems, the countless happy families built on foundations that would have made my old-world therapists retire on the spot—it was a tidal wave of information. It didn't just normalize what I'd done today; it made my actions feel… conservative. Tame, even.
A phantom itch manifested in my fingers, a deep-seated muscle memory from my previous life. I craved a cigarette. The sharp, acrid taste of smoke, the burn in the lungs, the slow exhale—it had always been my go-to ritual for processing something overwhelming. A habit I'd thought I'd left behind in a gas station parking lot along with my corpse.
I shook my head, a wry, disbelieving smile touching my lips. The craving was a ghost, but the feeling remained. I needed to do something with all this… understanding.
"I am not weird at all," I muttered the words into the quiet room. It wasn't a question. It was a declaration. A final verdict after reviewing all the evidence.
"[Not at all, Sir]". Sunday's voice affirmed, her tone as neutral and factual as if she were reporting the weather.
"[You are operating well within the normative social parameters of this world. In fact, a refusal to engage in procreative activities with the fertile females in your immediate household would be the statistically deviant behavior. It would be classified as socially irresponsible and a cause for concern.]".
I blinked, then a loud, sharp bark of laughter escaped me. It wasn't a happy sound; it was a release of pure, unadulterated incredulity. "Let me get this straight,"
I said, swiveling in my chair to face the monitor as if she could see me. "Not fucking my grandma and my sister would make me the weirdo?"
"[Based on a comprehensive analysis of societal laws, cultural outputs, and social media trends, that is a correct assessment,]" she replied, without a hint of irony.
"[Your predecessor's rejection of his duties was the anomaly. Your current trajectory is a correction toward the meaningful existence as a male human...]"
I just sat there for a moment, letting that absurd, world-altering truth settle over me. The last tiny shard of my old-world conscience, the one that had been screaming in a distant, muffled corner of my mind, finally fell silent. It wasn't just silenced; it was annihilated under the weight of sheer, overwhelming context.
My chuckle faded into a thoughtful hum. Sunday was right. It was time to stop marveling at the game and start playing it. And the first move was dealing with the most immediate threat: Miss Reis and the specter of a million-dollar fine.
I picked up my phone from the desk. The screen lit up, showing the time, a few app notifications, and a wallpaper of some anime character I didn't recognize. I swiped open my contacts list.
It was a mess. A chaotic graveyard of old, cringey usernames and inside jokes. I scrolled, my thumb flicking faster and faster, a frown deepening on my face. Where was she? I knew I had her number; the old Sael would have been forced to save it.
Then I saw it. The contact's name made me roll my eyes so hard I saw my own brain.
'b i t c h'
Classy. Real classy. The little shit had saved the government agent tasked with his reproductive future under "b i t c h." No wonder his life was a mess. With a sigh of exasperation—directed at the ghost of the idiot who'd previously occupied my body—I tapped edit. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before I typed it out properly:
Miss Reis - GMRD.
Professional. Respectful like she deserved. I took a deep, steadying breath. This wasn't just a call; it was a performance. I needed to be calm, contrite, and decisive. I tapped the call button and put the phone to my ear.
It rang exactly once.
"Mr. Sael Hardcox." Her voice was like a shard of ice, crisp, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth. It wasn't a question. My number would have been flagged on her caller ID for years.
"Miss Reis," I said, my voice carefully modulated. I injected a note of respectful formality I was sure she'd never heard from this number before.
"Thank you for taking my call.". There was a micro-second of silence on the other end. I could almost hear the gears turning in her head, recalibrating. This wasn't the screeching, defensive boy she was used to.
"It is my duty to be available," she replied, her tone cautious, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I dove right in. "I'm calling first and foremost to apologize. Sincerely. For my past behavior, my attitude, and my… my refusal to cooperate... It was immature, it was disrespectful to you, and it was irresponsible to my family." I laid it on thick, but I meant every word.
The silence this time was longer, more profound. I could picture her in her sterile office, straight-backed in her chair, her perfectly composed face showing a rare crack of pure bewilderment.
"Apology… accepted, Mr. Hardcox," she said slowly, the words sounding foreign on her tongue. "This is a… positive development."
"Thank you," I said, letting a sliver of relief color my tone.
"That leads to the reason for my call. I've done a lot of thinking, and I've decided I want to fulfill my duty. I'd like to schedule an appointment to donate sperm to the state bank as soon as possible."
I could hear a soft, almost imperceptible exhale on the other end of the line. It wasn't a sigh of exasperation; it was a sigh of profound, professional relief. I had just made her job significantly easier.
"That is excellent to hear," she said, and I could swear her voice warmed by a fraction of a degree. "I must note, had you completed this process at the mandated age of sixteen, this more… personalized obligation would never have been necessary. Your refusal triggered the mandatory matching process."
I winced. Yeah, that tracked. The little bastard had fucked himself over royally. "I understand that now," I replied, my tone suitably grave. "I'm ready to remediate that mistake."
"By taking this step, you are demonstrating the willingness and effort the program is designed to encourage," she explained, her voice shifting into official briefing mode. "As such, you are entitled to two immediate benefits. First, you will receive a monetary compensation of fifty dollars for each successful donation session. Second, and more significantly, this act of compliance grants you a three-month leniency period regarding your matched impregnation duty. The mandate is not voided, but the deadline is officially extended."
Fifty bucks a pop and a stay of execution? That was better than I'd hoped for. A real win-win. I could already feel the metaphorical shackles loosening.
"I understand completely," I said, my voice firm and agreeable. "That sounds more than fair. Thank you for explaining it so clearly, Miss Reis."
"The department will be in touch with scheduling details. Continue on this path, Mr. Hardcox. It is the correct one." There was a faint note of… not warmth, but approval. Like a drill sergeant acknowledging a recruit finally learning to march in step.
"I will. Goodbye, Miss Reis."
"Goodbye."
The line went dead. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a moment before dropping it onto the desk with a soft thud.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across my face. I'd done it. I'd navigated my first official interaction with the outside world of this insane place and come out on top. I'd bought time. I'd secured an income stream. I'd established a new, respectful dynamic with the government.
Leaning back in my chair again, I laced my fingers behind my head and stared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. The future was still a terrifying, bizarre mess. But for the first time since I'd opened my eyes in this body, it felt like a mess I might actually be able to clean up. And enjoy cleaning it up. Very, very much.
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Book 1 consisted of Full Episode 1-10, is out now, Check it out!!... Had to promote, sorry, BTW character pictures were in the book for sale, on my Ko-fi https://ko-fi.com/jlabel
https://ko-fi.com/s/ce0e6d2a88
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