Copy.
When we get resistant, when we fight back, the Council has ways to deal with us. It’s called ‘Copying,’ although, in theory, no one except them are aware of who is a copy and who isn’t. It’s obvious, but we can’t kill Copy’s. The Council frowns on that, and they see everything.
I was sitting on the train when it happened. I was half-listening to a news report - the Council has designed a new way to listen in on a Phones microphone, even when it isn’t on. The only way to get around this is to take the battery out of the device - when the train stopped, despite being nowhere near a station. Most people were calm; this was standard procedure. But one girl, with her hair cut short to hide her identity, was panicking. She reached into her bag as Council Rehabs flooded into the train.
The girl didn’t try to run, like I expected. Instead, she fought. She pulled out a gun, and fired at one of the Rehabs. I had seen blood before, but most people hadn’t, and tried to get away. With a regretful look, I followed them.
My name was Jake Park, and I was a spy in the leading organisation fighting for freedom. Rebels, the council called us. I suppose it’s a word we take in stride. Our name was Insurgent, and we were determined to set things right. I was ‘Copied’ months ago, when I left my family. As far as I know, they don’t even realise I’ve been replaced.
When people get Copied, they generally get moved to a secure Council camp, where they toil for the rest of their lives. I was lucky. I left before they got to my home. I searched for the Insurgent, and I joined their ranks. That was when I was just a boy.
10 years later, and we get to where I am today. I was on a mission, my biggest. I was one in a long line of failed missionaries. I had to blow up Triticum Magnum, the largest factory of the Councils. It was where they manufactured clones.
I was armed with half a dozen explosives, hidden under my jacket. I also had a gun in my waistcoat, made of plastic to avoid setting off a million metal detectors. My jacket was designed to hide the explosives from any X-ray scanners. It was necessary.
“Sir?” A woman approached me. Her grey hair reached her shoulders, and she wore a confused look on her face. “You dropped this.”
She held out my remote detonator.
“Thanks,” I muttered as I took the device. “It’s my Caller,” I lied, watching the suspicion fade from her eyes. A Caller was a device used by the Council to boost Tracker’s signals. Everyone was required by law to have a tracker inserted into their neck. I had mine removed, leaving an ugly scar behind. The Caller, which about a quarter of the population possessed, boosted the signals created by the Tracker.
I reached the factory without another incident. I met with my friend, Jason Lewis, who looked around before handing me a long, thin bladed knife. A misericord, a knife designed to strike between chinks in the armour. I used it to force a window open, before vaulting through it and landing lightly on my feet.
I could see two guards, lounging on a couch, chatting lightly. It surprised me. Could people like that actually act like people? I found it interesting to examine people acting normally.
I entered the factory development room. As I watched, humans - or at least, what looked like humans - were being created. It was like the biological growth of a person; only much faster.
I stiffened and stepped away. They weren’t people; they were changelings, creatures that stole a persons place in the world. They didn’t deserve to live.
I tossed an explosive at the test tubes; it stuck to the wall, the plasmatic pores sticking to the surface of the tubes. I spent several minutes sticking the explosives in optimal positions before returning to the test tubes. I was staring at one clone; a woman with greying hair. It looked like the woman I met before.
I breathed before pressing the detonator once. It started the twenty minute timer, giving me time to escape. Pressing it a second time would instantly cause every bomb to explode.
I turned to leave, but a shadow blocked my path.
It was two people. One was Jason, his eye blackened and his mouth bloody. “Ignore it, Jake,” he spat. “It’s not a person.”
The other was me.
Not me, I realised slowly, but a clone of myself. It was holding a gun, pointing directly at Jason’s head. “Come on Jake,” it said calmly. “I’m faster than you and I don’t feel pain.”
“It’s your spitting image,” Jason grinned, and I noticed that one of his teeth were missing. I felt a pang. It had been knocked out.
“What happened?” I asked, shocked.
“This bastard assaulted me twenty minutes ago,” Jason explained. “I didn’t have an item to defend myself.”
“Drop your gun,” Fake Jake ordered. I had been reaching for it; now I drew it, confused. How did it know?
The clone tightened its’ grip on the gun. “I’ll have time to fire before you hit me.” It said. “Drop it.”
I tossed the gun over to it; it caught it in one hand, holding it lightly. It immediately came over to me, dropping Jason. I lifted the remote over my head. “How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“I know you, Jake.” The clone reached me and lifted its gun. “Give me the remote.”
I hesitated before lowering the remote. As the Clone loosened its grip on the gun, I reached into my jacket and pulled free the Misericord. My jacket flapping free, I leaned forward and sank the blade into the clone’s chest.
“Jake,” It sounded shocked. Instead of bleeding red, a colourless liquid was spreading from the wound.
“Perhaps if you were a person, someone would grieve for you,” said Jason, hefting a gun in both hands. “If you weren’t a ghost.”
“I still feel,” It said calmly, despite the wound. “I’ve never felt this, though. Never felt this… light.”
The door broke and several people stormed in. I recognised the waxy skin of clones. I grabbed the remote and lifted it. Before I pressed the button, I met Jason’s eyes.
He nodded.
I looked at the clone dying on the ground. It was only one of hundreds. When a clone took someone’s place, no one would ever know. Taking the last step wouldn’t stop the Council’s hold. But it was a step in the last direction.
I pressed the detonator.
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Seriously that’s good material
Just needs a logic fix on the clones having colorless blood, since the family would notice it was a clone sooner or later (not touching in the subject of women, blood is not a very rare ocourrence)
I’ll take that as a maybe. Also the clones aren’t perfect humans, which is why they have colourless blood.
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…Or medics everywhere are making a theory on people mysteriously changing blood colours? owo
Medics are members of the council. Police are members of the council. Basically, the only jobs that regular people can get are simple jobs that don’t pay near enough money.
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Nice, you may not need to alter the clone physiology at all since the medics and the press can hammer on some random reason for people’s blood losing colors
Okay. I’ll probably make something like this, but I would need to wait a bit. I’d be willing for someone else to make an fm based on this concept, however they would need to tell me first 
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Plans for the Copy FM will be like this:
3/4 quarters will be Insurgent.
1/4 will be Council. They share a private chat.
The council will be able to kill and copy Insurgents, which is the equivalent of converting, except there’s almost no way to tell.
Okay I’ve finished the fm stuff, but im hosting a game + playing 3. So I’m not posting it now, like it or not.
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