“Do you really have to cut my hair?” 642 looked so disappointed. He reluctantly sat down in the chair.

This was routine. Every clone had their hair buzzed off military-style. With advanced growth and aging, their hair had to be cut regularly.

“What, now?” The barber frowned. He was not a clone; just a regular man who was good with a razor. A sympathizer for the military’s cause. He’d been doing this job for several years.

Never in all those years had a clone questioned him.

“You cut my hair a month ago. And a month before that. And a month before that,” 642 said with a heavy sigh. “I’d like to grow it out.”

The man was too bewildered to respond. Was this boy really a clone? Sure, he looked like all the other hundreds of clones. Same face, same voice. Yet he was different somehow. More human. Was that possible?

“Who are you?” He asked.

642 raised an eyebrow. “Who do I look like?”

The man scowled at him. “Well, you look like all the other boys I gave haircuts to today.”

“Exactly,” 642 sighed. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? I bet not a single one of them talked to you.”

642 was feeling especially defiant today. He never showed his individuality like this, but he was getting sick of hiding it. Today he would let himself talk a bit. He never spoke to anyone, besides L’othaim, but he had decided to ignore the old man for the past year.

“I didn’t know you guys were allowed to talk. Or that you could talk at all,” the man said. The confusion was still plain on his face. He reached for the razor to cut 642’s hair.

“We’re not. And they can’t,” 642 gave a small shrug. “Or, maybe they can and they just don’t know it. I don’t know, they’re weird.”

“So what makes you so special?” The barber began cutting his hair.

642 said nothing. He went silent for a moment, asking himself the same question. He asked himself the question daily, There was still no answer. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

“Huh,” the barber nodded slowly. This kid was weird. Should he report him to an officer? Maybe he should. Still, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Maybe he wouldn’t.

642’s haircut was done within minutes. Afterwards, he was supposed to head straight to the troop’s mess hall for dinner. Even clones need to eat.

But 642 wasn’t feeling hungry. He had questions, and he knew where to get answers. He left the barber’s room and headed down the corridor. This was exceptionally bold; going against the rules while the facility was still awake and busy. Someone would catch him for sure. He didn’t care.

Guards passed him in the hall. They had already passed several young clones on their way to the mess hall, and they assumed 642 was doing the same. Except he wasn’t. He was headed to the control room to access the computer he loved so much.

He rounded a corner, and nearly ran smack into Colonel Hiver.

He stopped just before they collided and stepped back.

“Hey!” Colonel Hiver snarled once he had regained his composure. “What are you doing in this hallway?”

642 straightened. “Uh... Looking for the mess hall, sir.” True terror struck him as he looked at the colonel. This was the big man. The man in charge of the military program. 642 knew his face well. Suddenly he hated himself for disobeying the rules. He was about to get in serious trouble.

“Are you daft? The mess hall is in the opposite direction. You,” he paused abruptly. This was 642, was it not? The special soldier he had been watching. “What is your number, clone?”

“622,” he said quickly. Perhaps that would throw the colonel off.

“Hm,” the Colonel studied him suspiciously. He’d mixed up the clones before. Nearly everyone did. It was to be expected; they all looked exactly the same. Still, he had never seen a clone lose their way like this before. None of them had ever ventured down this hallway.

“Very well, then,” he said finally. “The mess hall is in the opposite direction. Be on your way.”

642 muttered a “thank you, sir,” and quickly hurried away. Too late he thought about the tattoo on the back of his neck. His actual number was tattooed there in bold lettering. He knew about it because he saw it in a mirror once. Hopefully the Colonel wouldn’t notice.

Luckily, he didn’t. 642’s uniform rode up over the tattoo and hid it from the colonel’s sight.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

642 headed straight to the mess hall. That encounter had shaken him. It had been close; too close.

He made it to the mess hall and silently fell into line. He’d been playing a dangerous game, almost trying to get himself caught. His encounter with the colonel reminded him how careful he needed to be.

For several weeks afterwards, he was too afraid to sneak out. He committed to blending in with his troop again.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

L’othaim turned a page in his notebook. He paused on a sentence and scribbled it out, correcting his spelling on a few words. He was reading over his observations about 642. The boy had come such a long way in only two and a half years.

“I wonder how he is,” L’othaim asked himself aloud. He hadn’t spoken to the boy in over a year. They still saw each other regularly, passing here and there, and L’othaim continued to watch the clones train. But no words were exchanged.

Colonel Hiver also continued to watch 642 carefully. The boy showed promise. And, perhaps, a wealth of opportunity for the Colonel. The super soldier could get him promoted if he played his cards right.

L’othaim had suspicions about the Colonel’s plans. No way the Colonel would be able to steal his glory. L’othaim would have to take the credit first. But when? When would be the right time?

642’s entire troop had grown to young men now. They were due to finish training next week. Their advanced aging process would be stopped and the troop would be deployed the day afterwards.

He flipped another page in his research book. He skimmed over the page and read a few words aloud to himself, when suddenly a knock sounded on his office door.

It was a frantic knock, hurried.

L’othaim quickly got up and opened the door.

To his shock, it was 642.

The boy had grown. He looked like a young man now, almost twenty in a regular human’s years.

“642,” L’othaim said in shock. “Come in. Are you alright?”

He did not look alright. His furrowed brow and troubled eyes were proof of distress. And was he on the verge of tears? Was that possible? L’othaim couldn’t tell.

642 almost stumbled into the room. “I know---I know everything, L’othaim,” he said in a daze. “I know what the clones are for. I know we’re part of a government project... thing. Okay, I don’t know that part. But I know why. I know why.”

L’othaim slowly closed the office door. He made his way back to his chair, eyes on 642 all the time. He knew the purpose of the clone project. He’d always known. He said nothing.

“We’re soldiers. No, murderers,” he began to pace around the room. “L’othaim, do you know what they want us to do?!”

“Of course,” the old man nodded. “I’ve seen your drills in the simulation. You’ve been taught to kill almost as soon as you were taught to walk. And you thought that was just for fun?”

“No, I thought... I don’t know what I thought.” He shook his head quickly. “I didn’t realize.” His eyes darted to the old man. “You knew about this? You are a good man. Why are you part of this project?” He asked the last question so innocently, so purely confused. He was still just a boy despite how fast he’d been aged to adulthood.

L’othaim frowned. The boy has morals. How? Surely I didn’t give him a moral compass. And am I a good man?

Was he really a good man? He didn’t feel like one after this.

Perhaps 642 was a better man than he was.

“I am not important,” L’othaim countered. “What are you going to do? You’re about to be deployed, you can’t resist now. You’ll surely be executed.”

Now L’othaim knew that he really should’ve wiped the boy’s mind when he was younger. It would be suicide to go up against 642 now that he was fully grown. He was too strong.

“So what then? I follow orders?” 642’s distress turned to anger. He clenched his fists. “For what? For nothing. For myself. I don’t even have myself. Why should I protect it? I don’t know why I even care.”

“You’re not making sense,” L’othaim frowned, unease creeping into his stomach. This young man was out of his head. He could get dangerous. “Oh, what have I done?” He asked himself for the hundredth time.

Too late, he realized he’d said it aloud.

642’s gaze turned to him.

Fear filled L’othaim’s eyes.

Realization dawned on 642’s face. “You... made me like this, didn’t you?”

L’othaim was too afraid to respond.

“Didn’t you!” The young man snapped. “What am I, a puppet? Why did you make me?” He crossed the room towards L’othaim.

“Now, 642, calm down. Let’s talk---”

642 seized L’othaim by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. He was strong. Too strong. “I want answers,” he snarled.

The nightly alarm bell rang.

L’othaim almost sighed with relief. Thank heaven! Perhaps he’ll be smart enough to leave.

He tried to get out of 642’s grasp.

The alarm bell brought 642 somewhat back to his senses. He loosened his grip on L’othaim and let him go.

The old man sank back into his chair. His entire body trembled. He was old, and a scare like this could nearly kill him.

642 watched him. The anger faded from his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice unusually quiet. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

What was that look on his face? Was it shame? It was. He was ashamed of himself. He shouldn’t have treated an old man so harshly.

L’othaim shook his head. It took him several minutes to speak. “I’m not hurt. But you should go.”

The young man said nothing. He walked towards the door.

“642,” L’othaim spoke after him.

The boy paused.

The old man took a deep, shaky breath, “I created you for my benefit. I wanted to make an invincible soldier. Some things I didn’t intend, like the mind you have. You were never supposed to have a mind of your own.”

“So I’m a mistake,” 642 said bitterly. He opened the office door and left without waiting for L’othaim’s reply.