You ever wake up and think, Man… why am I even here? What's the point?
I used to have simple answers: God made me. My family cares. That's enough.
But lately… those answers don't land the way they used to.
One day I was on a flight from Nashville to New York when World War III broke out. China sent missiles that mimicked commercial jet signatures… and the U.S. defenses did what defenses do. My plane never made it.
Then I woke up here.
Where is "here"? I don't know. I'm in the middle of some massive forest with nothing but a multitool, a faded blue rain jacket, and — fortunately — underwear. So that's something.
I discovered something else too:
I can clone myself.
I don't know how the system works — just that when I focused and pushed and strained like I was trying to force a thought into existence, a figure appeared in front of me.
My clone.
He looks like me, but… uglier. Which is rough, because I already wasn't winning any beauty contests. The clone looks down at himself, shrugs, and says nothing. At least he also spawned with underwear.
"So… what now?" I ask.
He stares blankly, then grins. "I dunno, man. You're the original. You tell me."
That's comforting and horrifying at the same time.
I look around at the towering trees — huge oaks or maybe birch? I used to know bark patterns, but I guess that part of my brain's been collecting dust. If you haven't noticed, I'm a bit weird. I like botany, forestry… nature stuff. But I never pursued it.
I slap my hands against my face in frustration. My clone bursts out laughing.
"Bro, you should've seen your face! You looked like someone fed you a raw lemon!"
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "Let's just… walk. Downhill is usually good."
We start descending the slope. Leaves crunch thick under our feet, reds and browns scattered like paper confetti. The air smells like cold earth and old rain.
"Looks like fall," I say.
"No kidding," he replies. "Glad I didn't spawn during mosquito season."
We push through the leaves until the forest thins a little. Between the trunks, I catch a glint of silver. Something reflective down below.
Water? Metal? Something else entirely?
My clone bumps my shoulder with his elbow.
"So, fearless leader, what's the plan? Y'know… now that we're apparently in the afterlife or a parallel universe or a broken simulation or whatever."
"I don't know," I say honestly. "First… we find out where we are."
"And after that?"
I stop. The wind slips between the trees, cold enough to sting.
A second chance, huh? Never asked for one. Don't know if I deserve it.
"…Then," I say slowly, "we figure out what the hell we're supposed to do next."
My clone nods like that's good enough.
We push forward. As we get closer, the silver glint resolves clearly.
It's water — a wide, slow-moving creek. But that's not what stops me cold.
There's a bridge. A really old one — half-rotted, covered in saplings, moss, and things I don't even have names for. It looks like if you breathed on it too hard, it'd file a complaint to gravity and collapse on principle.
"I ain't trusting that bridge," I say.
"Me neither," Clone-Me replies. "But we might as well check it out. Maybe there's another way across."
We inch closer, stepping through the underbrush. The creek gurgles softly — too wide to jump, too deep to wade without freezing something important off. I crouch near the start of the bridge and tap one of the planks with my multitool.
It makes a sound I can only describe as old. Not wood-old. "My grandpa smoked for fifty years" old. "This thing survived the Civil War and is tired of everyone's crap" old.
"Yeah," my clone says, leaning over my shoulder, "this bridge is older than both of us combined."
He pauses.
"Probably older than our plane crash too."
"Dude," I say, "too soon."
He raises his hands like I accused him of a felony. "Hey, humor is a coping mechanism!"
The wind pushes through again, colder, sharper — like it wants us to make a decision.
I glance left along the creek. Dense forest. Steep banks. Not promising.
Right side? Same story.
Behind us? Not an option.
"Okay," I say. "We need a plan."
"Plan?" my clone repeats. "Bro, we barely have pants."
"Hey, at least we have underwear."
He nods solemnly. "True. It's the small blessings in life."
I examine the bridge again. The moss hides gaps. Some boards are warped. But… the supports aren't completely gone. Someone built this to last. Maybe long enough for two confused idiots from a possibly destroyed world.
"We test it first," I say. "Slowly. One board at a time."
My clone smirks. "And by 'we,' you mean 'me.'"
"I mean the ugly one of us," I reply.
He gasps dramatically. "Tragic. Betrayed by my own creator."
But he steps forward anyway.
The creek murmurs below as he carefully puts one foot on the first board… then two.
It holds.
A gentle breeze stirs the moss, and somewhere far away, a crow cries — or something like a crow.
He looks back at me.
"Well," he says, "your turn, fearless leader."
We keep going, one careful step at a time, until the bridge finally gives way to solid ground. Dirt. Leaves. Roots. Blessedly not ancient planks threatening to drop us into cold river doom.
The rail splits right where the bridge ends — one line leading back the way we came, the other vanishing deeper into the forest like an iron spine swallowed by trees.
"Look out for railroad spikes," my clone and I say at the exact same time.
We both freeze.
"…We've gotta stop doing that," he mutters.
"Yeah, kinda creepy," I agree.
We walk along the old rail bed, and sure enough, the forest floor is littered with the occasional rusted spike. I pick one up — it's thick, heavy, red with age. Might be useful later. My clone pockets another like we're collecting Pokémon.
Then I hear it.
A sound ahead, faint at first.
Whooooo… whoooo… whoof…
It's like a cross between a distant train horn, a breath, and a cough. My clone tenses beside me.
"You hear that, right?" he whispers.
"I'm not that crazy," I whisper back. "Yeah. I heard it."
The trees shift. Something moves.
Then—
A dog bursts from the underbrush, sprinting right at us. Fast. Too fast. A blur of fur, teeth, and frantic energy.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Uh—DOG!" I shout, pointing the least helpfully possible.
"THANK YOU, I CAN SEE THAT!" my clone yells back.
The dog barrels toward us, paws pounding, ears pinned, eyes locked on us like we're either:
A) rescuers
B) intruders
C) lunch
Hard to tell which.
It closes the distance in seconds.
My clone grabs my arm. "Okay, leader—what's the plan!?"
The forest holds its breath.
The dog charges.
And I—
I hesitate.
Just one second.
One second too long.
The dog lunges past me like I'm nothing and slams into my clone. They hit the ground with a sickening thud, leaves exploding around them.
My clone's scream tears through the forest.
High. Panicked. Human.
I stare, frozen, as the animal's jaws clamp onto his shoulder. It thrashes, ripping into him, snarling with a fury that feels wrong — like it's starving or sick or possessed by something awful.
I can't breathe.
I can't think.
All I can hear is my clone choking out, "Help—HELP—!"
Something snaps inside me.
My legs move before my brain catches up. I rush forward, gripping the railroad spike so tight it cuts into my palm. The world tunnels — no forest, no wind, nothing except the dog tearing into my other self.
I swing.
The spike plunges downward.
A wet, solid impact. The dog yelps, staggers, turns toward me with wild, terrified eyes. Blood mats its fur — mine? My clone's? Its own? I can't tell.
It lunges again.
I stab it a second time.
This one connects deeper — I feel the spike grind against bone. The animal yelps, then collapses sideways, legs twitching, breath ragged and broken.
My clone tries to push himself up but collapses again, blood pouring between his fingers.
"D-dude…" he gasps, voice shaking. "Hurry—I…it hurts—"
I drop to my knees beside him, hands already slick with his blood.
He's pale. Too pale. His eyes flicker like he's losing the thread.
"Stay with me," I say, pressure on the wound, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might break my ribs. "Just—stay with me, okay?!"
He forces a weak laugh that turns into a cough. "I got… tackled… by a freaking dog, man… that's how I go out?"
"You're not going out!" I shout, voice cracking.
But the bleeding is bad.
Way too bad.
"Focus," I whisper — to him, to myself, to whatever part of my brain isn't screaming.
I rip my rain jacket off so fast the zipper snaps. The cold hits my skin but I don't care. I yank the shoelace‑like cord from the jacket collar, fingers shaking, and loop it around his thigh just above the wound.
"Hold still," I say.
"I—I'm trying—" he stammers, jaw clenched in pain.
I pull the cord tight and tie it down, twisting it until it bites deep and the blood flow slows from a gush to a steady pulse. His breath hitches, a strangled gasp.
"Jesus—!" he groans.
"I know, I know, I know—just hang on."
I grab another railroad spike, the rust rough against my palms, and shove it under the cord. Then I twist. Hard. The makeshift tourniquet tightens another notch, and the bleeding finally begins to choke off, slowing to thick, dark drips.
My clone's whole body trembles violently, his nails digging into the dirt.
"Dude… it feels like fire—" he gasps.
"That means it's working," I say, though my voice cracks halfway through the lie.
I press my hand down on the torn flesh, adding pressure, trying not to look directly at the exposed muscle or the shredded fabric of his underwear soaked crimson.
The dog lies several feet away, twitching but unmoving. I don't trust it enough to look at it for more than a second. My focus has to stay here.
"Stay awake," I say, leaning over him. "Talk to me."
He swallows hard. "Y‑you really stabbed that thing…"
"You're damn right I did."
"Didn't… know you had it in you."
"Neither did I."
His breathing hitches again. Too shallow. Too fast. Shock creeping in.
I grab his face gently. "Hey—look at me. You're not dying today. Not here. Not like this."
He tries to smile, pain twisting it. "Cool… good… because that was a real ugly dog…"
I breathe out shakily, still applying pressure. My hands are slippery, red, shaking.
He needs more than a tourniquet.
He needs a miracle.
And I don't have miracles.
I reach out with the same desperate push I used before — the same mental strain, the same "please work please work PLEASE—"
BANG.
Another clone appears in front of me, stumbling slightly like he just teleported in from a fever dream.
He looks exactly like Clone #1.
Which means he looks exactly like me.
Which means I am apparently… really that ugly.
"Seriously?" I mutter. "Is that really my nose?"
Clone #2 blinks at me. "Dude, not the time."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. We need you."
I point at the forest. "Go grab some wood. Long pieces. Straight. We're making a stretcher."
"On it," he says, already jogging away.
I turn back to Clone #1 — bleeding, pale, shaking — and grab what's left of my rain jacket. The fabric is torn, dirty, and soaked with dog blood and creek mud, but it's all we've got. I rip it into strips, teeth and fingers working together until I have enough to lash something together.
Clone #2 returns with two long branches and an armful of smaller ones.
"Good," I say, breathless. "Lay them down."
We work fast — instinctive, frantic. I weave the jacket strips around the cross‑pieces, pulling them tight. He ties knots. I double them. He adds more branches for support. My fingers burn. His sweat drips onto the wood.
Together, we slide the makeshift stretcher under Clone #1.
He groans as we lift him, the tourniquet creaking under the twisted spike.
"Sorry," I whisper. "Sorry, sorry… hang on."
And then—
A sound rings through the air.
A crisp, metallic DING.
Words flash across my vision like they're being projected straight into my skull:
Congratulations!
You have slain a Wild Dog!
I freeze.
Clone #2 freezes.
Clone #1, half-conscious, mumbles, "…bro… did you just level up…?"
I stare at the invisible text hanging there like a glitch in reality.
"I… I don't know," I whisper.
Another line flickers into view beneath it:
+1 Survival Skill
+1 Clone Capacity
Loot Available
My heart stops.
"What does that mean?" Clone #2 asks quietly.
"I—" I swallow hard. "I think… the world has rules."
Clone #1 coughs weakly. "Great… can the rules… give me a new leg…?"
I shake myself back into motion. "We'll figure it out later. Right now—move."
Me and Clone #2 lift him, the stretcher creaking, his blood dripping, the forest watching.
We don't know where we're going.
We don't know what else is out here.
But we know one thing:
The world just changed.
We inch down the gravel slope, each footstep sending tiny stones rattling into the underbrush. The stretcher creaks under Clone #2's weight, and I can feel every second like it's stretching into hours.
Finally, the rails flatten out at the forest's edge, opening onto a small, deserted road. The air smells faintly of smoke, wet leaves, and something old — like the town itself has been holding its breath for decades.
Up ahead, a cluster of buildings rises against the fading light. A faded wooden sign creaks on a post:
West Whitels Buro.
We scan frantically. Any house, any light, anything that might mean someone is still here. One of the houses at the corner has a flicker of movement in a window. Curtains twitch. Shadows shift.
Without a second thought, we sprint toward it, the stretcher wobbling dangerously over cracks and weeds. We drop it hard at the steps. My arms scream, but I don't care.
I bang on the door. BANG! BANG! BANG!
The door swings open.
An old man stands there, shotgun in hand. His eyes widen as they take in the three of us — me, Clone #1, and the bloody, unconscious mess of Clone #2.
"Dear God… what are you boys—?!"
Then he freezes. His gaze drops to the stretcher. Blood. Horror. The wound.
"Honey!" he shouts over his shoulder, voice trembling. "Call 911! Now!"
Clone #1 looks at me, pale and shaking. I grip the stretcher tighter.
We don't have time to explain, and we don't have time to think. All I can do is hold onto the stretcher and pray.
Then, as if the world itself is reacting to the chaos, a faint, metallic DING rings in my head.
Congratulations!
You have survived a Wild Dog encounter.
+1 Survival Skill
+1 Clone Capacity
I glance at Clone #1. He swallows hard, eyes wide.
"…Did the world just… level us up?" he whispers.
I don't answer. There's no time. The old man's shouting, his wife running toward the house with a phone in hand, the sirens faint but growing in the distance.
Whatever this place is, whatever rules it follows… I know one thing for sure:
We've just survived.
And survival here… wherever we are… is only the beginning.
Once we're inside the hospital, nurses rush to take Clone #2 into emergency care. Clone #1 and I follow, exhausted and tense, dragging the stretcher behind us.
The sheriff steps closer, arms crossed. "Who are you? What are you doing out in the woods? And what the hell happened?"
I take a deep breath. "I… I don't know who I am. All I know is I was on a plane when World War III started. Then I woke up… here, in the forest. Wherever here is. And…" I swallow, "then these—" I glance at Clone #1 and the empty space where Clone #2 had been, "clones appeared. They're… me."
Clone #1 nods quickly, stepping up. "Yeah, that's true. I mean… we're him. Well, he's us. It's complicated, but that's basically it. We didn't know what else to do."
I notice a flicker of system text behind my eyes:
+1 Attribute for successfully explaining your situation to witnesses.
Even the unconscious Clone #2 seems to… agree somehow, his shallow breaths punctuating the story.
The sheriff raises an eyebrow. "And you," he says, pointing at Clone #1, "are saying the same story?"
"Yep," Clone #1 replies. "Exactly the same. We didn't plan this. We just… exist. That's all."
I nod in agreement. "If anything, we're just trying to survive. That's it."
For a moment, there's silence. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Monitors beep faintly. Outside, the forest stretches dark and quiet.
Then the sheriff sighs, rubbing his temples. "I don't believe you boys," he says finally. "I think you ran away from home or something. That's the only explanation that makes sense."
Clone #1 groans. "Wow. Harsh. Really supportive, thanks."
I clench my jaw, trying not to lose it. "We didn't run away. You have no idea what we went through."
The sheriff shakes his head. "Look, whatever story you're spinning, I don't buy it. You need to stay here. Let the doctors handle your friend. And until then… we'll figure out what the hell is going on."
System text flickers faintly again, almost unnoticed:
+1 Attribute: Survived Skepticism Check.
I glance at Clone #1. He's pale, trembling slightly, but still trying to keep a straight face. I can feel it too — that strange tug of energy, the pull of the world, the knowledge that things are bigger than any of us.
As the night wears on, the sheriff finally seems to give up on interrogating us personally.
"Keep an eye on them," he tells the nurses. "Call me if anything weird happens."
Then he leaves, muttering something about not believing a word we said, but at least giving us space.
The hospital is quieter now, the machines humming softly, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Clone #1 slumps into a chair beside me, pale and exhausted. I glance at him, and at the empty bed where Clone #2 is resting, still hooked up to monitors.
After a while, the door opens again. A local pastor steps in, kindly but cautious. He looks at us, at the bloodied makeshift stretcher, at our torn clothes, and his lips press together.
"I heard what happened," he says softly. "Seems your… ordeal… touched the town."
Before I can respond, he motions toward a stack of boxes and bags someone has brought. "Folks came together. Donated some things for you. Clothes, blankets, basic supplies… something a little better than hospital gowns, at least."
I glance at Clone #1, and we both blink in quiet disbelief. For all the chaos, for all the strangeness of this world, someone out there — wherever we are — cares enough to help.
The nurses guide us to the supply area. They help us wash up, hand us clean clothes that actually fit, and make sure we at least look human again. The fabric is soft, unfamiliar, but comforting. The mundane act of putting on clean socks feels almost miraculous.
Clone #1 sighs as he adjusts his shirt. "Not gonna lie… feels weird to be alive and not bleeding everywhere."
I laugh softly, though it sounds hollow even to me. "Yeah… weird, huh?"
The pastor watches us quietly, offering a small, patient smile. "Take it slow," he says. "You've been through… a lot. Whoever or whatever you are, you need time to get back to yourself."
And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the weight on my chest feels a little lighter.
Wherever we are, at least for now, we're safe.
At some point, exhaustion took me. I passed out, letting the hum of the hospital, the soft buzzing and beeping of monitors, lull me into a restless sleep.
Morning comes slow. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the faint smell of antiseptic mixes with old wood polish drifting from the hallway. Clone #2 lies in the hospital bed, pale but breathing more steadily. One of his legs has been replaced with a crude wooden prosthetic, carved from sturdy timber by the nurses and local townsfolk. It's awkward and stiff, but it'll hold.
I take a moment to do an inventory check in my head:
Inventory:
2 pairs of socks each
3 pairs of underwear
3 sets of blue jeans
3 old canvas bookbags
Mechanical watch (ticking, scratched)
2 makeshift railroad spike weapons (rusted, heavy)
Multitool
Torn rain jacket (partially used for first aid)
"Not bad," I mutter. "Could survive a few more… whatever happens."
Clone #1 nudges Clone #2 gently. "You're looking a little less like a corpse today. And hey… that wooden leg actually looks functional."
Clone #2 groans but manages a weak smile. "Yeah… small… tiny… miraculous."
The hospital staff buzz around, taking vitals and writing notes. Then, unexpectedly, a social worker arrives. She's calm, professional, and clearly used to handling unusual situations.
"I understand you've had quite the ordeal," she says, glancing at Clone #2's leg. "We're going to help make sure you're stable and then figure out the next steps for care and placement. You're not alone in this."
The sheriff appears with a clipboard shortly after. "We're sending you boys to Nashville," he says curtly. "Hospital here isn't equipped for… unusual cases like yours. It's for your safety, but also… the authorities want eyes on you."
Clone #1 blinks. "Uh… safe? Or like… kidnapped?"
"Safe-ish," I mutter. "Just roll with it."
The ambulance ride is quiet. Clone #2 rests, adjusting to the awkward weight and balance of his new wooden leg. I sit beside Clone #1, flipping through my thoughts, already running through possible survival strategies.
When we arrive at the Nashville hospital, the social worker meets us in the lobby, paperwork in hand. Beside her waits an Amish man — broad-shouldered, calm, and practical. He looks at Clone #2's wooden leg, then at us, and simply says:
"I'll take care of these boys. They need work, discipline, and a home. You…" he nods at me, "you keep moving."
Clone #2 and #1 exchange glances. "Wait… what?" Clone #1 whispers.
"They're adopting us?" Clone #2 asks, still wincing as he shifts on the bed.
"Yes," the Amish man says. "I'll give them a home, food, skills… and a chance to be useful."
Relief and guilt twist together in my chest. For the first time in days, someone out there — wherever we are — is offering stability.
The social worker smiles softly. "We'll make sure this transition is smooth. You'll be in good hands, but you'll need to stay healthy and cooperate."
It isn't until later, rummaging through a small hospital reading room while trying to recover supplies, that I notice the newspapers on a counter.
Headline:Nashville, 1960: Local Events, Farming News, City Happenings
I freeze. "1960?!"
Clone #1, now sitting beside me, squints. "What… wait, that can't be right."
I flip through more papers, realizing slowly: the timeline is off. The world I woke up in… the forest… the first hospital… even here in Nashville — it's all decades ago.
The system buzzes faintly in my mind. A menu flickers to life before my eyes:
System Menu: Clone Management
Upgrade Base Clone / Self
Adjust Clone Height, Weight, Skin Tone (New Clones Only)
Assign Skills / Attributes
Inventory Check
Active Clones: 2 (Clone #1 with me, Clone #2 adopted)
I hover over Adjust Clone Height, Weight, Skin Tone. A thrill runs through me. I could… tweak them before spawning new clones. Taller, shorter, heavier, lighter, darker, lighter — whatever the situation called for.
"Okay," I whisper to myself. "Time to level up… strategically."
I pull a deep breath. The forest, the dog, the bleeding, the survival — all of it had led here.
Now I can control the future versions of us, shape them for survival, and maybe… finally understand the rules of this messed-up system.
Time bent strangely after we left the hospital. The white van that drove us to the Amish man's farm seemed normal enough, but every mile felt stretched and folded at once, like reality itself was skipping frames.
When we arrived, the man — introducing himself simply as Ezekiel Harter — handed us plain, earth-toned clothes and sturdy canvas bags. He confiscated my mechanical watch with a quiet but firm look. "Time isn't yours here," he said. I had no choice but to nod.
Clone #2, still adjusting to his wooden leg, was spared the hard labor. Ezekiel taught him horseback riding and lighter farm duties, letting him learn balance, patience, and care from a saddle rather than a shovel.
Clone #1 and I were left to the more menial, physical tasks: feeding pigs, cleaning stalls, hauling water, mucking out the barn. Every task grounded me, though a small part of my mind constantly ticked, waiting for the system to flicker, waiting for the rules to bend back into my favor.
The barn itself became our first major project. We reinforced beams, stacked hay bales, repaired broken fences — little victories of order against the chaos we'd survived. Every swing of the hammer, every tossed hay bale, made the forest, the creek, the dog, and the bleeding fade a little farther behind us.
Days bled into each other. Pigs grew fat, chickens multiplied, and the barn became functional. The rhythm of the farm became our new heartbeat. Clone #1 and I learned to work with the sun, the animals, and the unspoken rules of survival that Ezekiel expected but never explained in words.
One morning, there was a knock on the farmhouse door. Standing there was a social worker, her name tag reading Marjorie Latham. She had paperwork in hand, and her eyes were kind but sharp.
"I have some forms for you," she said gently. "They'll explain… your legal status and how things are set up now."
I opened the papers, heart sinking when I saw the dates and details.
According to the forms, we were twelve years old.
"Wait… twelve?" Clone #1 echoed, pale and wide-eyed.
Clone #2 blinked slowly from atop his horse. "I… I guess… that's what they think. Weird."
Marjorie nodded. "I know it's confusing. The timeline, your appearances, your story — it doesn't match the official records. But legally, that's how you're categorized here. The adults around you… they assume you ran away from home. That's why you're getting supervised care."
I felt a cold knot in my chest. Twelve. Too young for war, too young for survival, too young for the knowledge we carried — and yet the world acted as if we were just misbehaving kids.
Ezekiel stepped forward, calm and steady. "Doesn't matter what they say. What matters is that you work, learn, and survive. Everything else will come in time."
I glanced at Clone #1, then at Clone #2 on horseback, and finally out at the farm. Time itself felt elastic — bending, bleeding, compressing decades into this strange bubble where we now existed.
I sat on the edge of the barn's hayloft, Clone #1 fidgeting beside me, while Clone #2 rode lazily in circles around the paddock under Ezekiel's watchful gaze. The smell of earth, straw, and animals grounded me — a strange comfort after the chaos of the forest — but my mind wasn't resting.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus. The system menu pulsed faintly behind my eyelids, waiting like a coiled spring.
System Menu: Base Clone / Self
Level: 2
Attributes:
Strength: 8
Endurance: 9
Agility: 7
Survival: 5
Intelligence: 10
Perception: 8
Clone Capacity: 2
Skills:
Basic Cloning
Survival Instinct
I frowned. Not terrible… but not enough to survive the real world unprepared. My gut told me there had to be more.
I reached out, mentally, and the menu flickered, responding to my focus. A new option appeared:
+ Identify Skill – Ability to scan objects, creatures, and even people to assess stats, weaknesses, and potential utility.
I activated it cautiously. My vision sharpened. The world snapped into layers I'd never noticed before:
The barn's beams glimmered faintly — worn but strong, 12/20 durability. The pigs and chickens — each had stats too. Hunger, health, aggression. The soil even seemed… quantifiable.
And then I looked at Ezekiel.
Ezekiel Harter — Strength: 12, Endurance: 14, Intelligence: 13, Perception: 12. Adults. All adults seemed… steady. Balanced. Almost all hovered around 10, with stronger, smarter, or more capable people pushing toward 12–15.
I blinked. "Wait… that's it? All adults are… stats?"
Clone #1 squinted. "Dude… are you… scanning Dad?"
I shook my head. "Not Dad. Everyone. Everyone older than us. Look at them. They're… just… around ten. Ten-ish in everything. The good ones hit 12–15. That's how the system… balances the world. Makes sense why they think we're twelve-year-olds. Our stats were… different. Higher."
Clone #1 whistled. "So that's why you can stab a dog with a spike and survive?"
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it. "Yeah. That's why we can clone ourselves. That's why we adapt. Adults… are basically baseline. We're anomalies."
I leaned back against the hay bales. My fingers brushed over my old, torn rain jacket in the bag. I thought about Clone #2, safely riding, learning balance and steadiness instead of brute strength. I thought about the forest, the dog, the bleeding, the bridge.
Then the system pulsed again, sharper this time:
+1 Skill Acquired: Identify
Description: Scan objects, creatures, or people to assess stats, weaknesses, and potential utility.
I flexed my hands experimentally. I could feel the world differently now — as numbers, as potential, as something malleable.
Clone #1 leaned over. "So… we're basically… mini superheroes?"
I snorted. "Feels more like a… stats-based survival game. But yeah… something like that."
I pulled up the inventory in my mind — scraps of clothing, canvas bags, the mechanical watch I had lost to Ezekiel, and the few survival tools we'd scavenged. Everything had numbers now: durability, usefulness, weight.
I looked at Clone #1, then back at Clone #2. Both were my responsibility. My anomaly. My… creation.
And with the Identify skill, I finally understood the scale of the game we were in:
Kids? Weak, naive, low stats — but with room to grow.
Adults? Baseline. Balanced. Nothing exceptional unless they pushed themselves.
Us? Anomalies. Unbound by age, unbound by expectation, only limited by what we learned, what we survived, and what we chose to change.
A small thrill ran through me. If the world measured everything… maybe I could bend it. Maybe I could upgrade it.
The first step: fully understand it.
The second step: level up.
Ezekiel rested his hands on the railing, leaning heavily but keeping his gaze on us. His voice was low, rough from years of work and age, but steady.
"I know you boys like… new-fangled things," he said slowly. "Technology, gadgets, the kind of ideas I never understood. I see it in the way you think, the way you handle… yourself."
He shook his head, eyes clouded but sincere. "I see now the error of my ways. Back when I was younger, I pushed kids away. Told 'em to leave, to make their own paths. Thought I was teaching them responsibility… maybe I was just afraid. Afraid of change, afraid of what they could do that I couldn't control."
He looked at Clone #2, resting lightly on his horse. "And I see… some of you, you've touched my heart. You've survived what I couldn't imagine. Maybe I pushed too hard, maybe I judged too quickly. But you… you've shown me there's more to life than rules and boundaries. There's… potential. There's hope."
I felt a lump in my throat. Clone #1 shifted beside me, silent, letting Ezekiel's words hang in the amber light of the barn.
Ezekiel straightened, wincing slightly, then smiled faintly. "I may be old, may not see the world as clearly as I once did… but I trust you boys now. The farm, the land… it's yours. Take it. Make it yours. And maybe… teach me some of that new-fangled thinking before I'm gone."
As he walked away, satisfied, I leaned close to Clone #1 and whispered, low enough that Ezekiel wouldn't hear. "We'll need to decide soon who stays and who goes."
Clone #1 nodded, understanding immediately. "Peg-leg's the obvious choice. He's steady here, can run the farm. The rest of us… bigger missions."
I glanced at Clone #2, adjusting to his wooden leg, looking calm in the saddle. "Yeah. He'll be safe. He can keep the farm running. The younger ones… the new clones we spawn later, they'll stay under his watch. Solid base, training ground. He'll keep the legacy alive."
The system menu flickered faintly behind my eyes, reminding me of all the options still waiting. Adjustments, upgrades, inventory checks… strategies. We had a base now, a home for some of us, and a plan for the rest.
The sun dipped low over the barn, shadows stretching long across the paddocks. Ezekiel's words hung in the air, warm and heavy, but my mind was already moving ahead, plotting, calculating. The farm was safe. The peg-leg clone would hold it. And we… we had the world to conquer.
By 1966, four years had passed since we first arrived at Ezekiel's farm.
Peg-leg, now fully in command, had turned the farm into a well-oiled machine. The barn was reinforced, the fields planted, and the animals thriving under his steady supervision. The new clones — Spawn #4 and #5 — had grown taller, stronger, and more capable under his guidance. I could sense the system quietly monitoring progress:
System Menu: Clone Status
Clone #2 (Peg-leg) — Strength 14, Endurance 13, Survival Skill +3, Animal Handling +4
Clone #4 (Spawn 1) — Strength 9, Endurance 10, Learning Progress 65%
Clone #5 (Spawn 2) — Strength 8, Endurance 9, Learning Progress 50%
Active Clones: 3 (Peg-leg, Spawn 1, Spawn 2 at farm)
Meanwhile, Clone #1 and I had spent months in Vietnam, adapting to jungle survival, combat tactics, and improvised engineering. Every skirmish, every mission, refined our Survival, Endurance, and Combat skills. The system flickered after each major encounter:
+1 Combat Skill
+2 Strategic Awareness
Letters from Peg-leg — rudimentary, careful handwriting, sent via an impossibly circuitous chain of local contacts — updated us on the farm's progress. The new clones were improving faster than expected; Peg-leg had even begun experimenting with the adjustments I'd left available: slight height reductions, modest weight increases for endurance, and skin tone tweaks for camouflage in dense foliage.
It was strange, seeing our "younger selves" grow in parallel with our own chaotic reality in Vietnam. We knew the farm was a safe zone, a growing stronghold for future survival, while we tested our limits elsewhere.
One humid evening in Saigon, after the day's firefights, I opened the mental interface to check the system quietly:
System Menu: Clone Management (1966 Update)
Clone Capacity: 4 (2 active on battlefield, 2 at farm)
Skills Acquired: Combat, Survival, Observation, Identify, Strategic Planning
Available Upgrades: Height, Weight, Skin Tone (for future clones)
Clone #1 leaned over my shoulder. "So… Peg-leg's basically running a mini army while we get shot at?"
I nodded, grim. "Yeah. He's the anchor. We're the shock troops. The system… it really has us splitting roles for maximum efficiency."
We stayed up late, plotting routes, inventorying supplies, and comparing notes from missions. Each battle was another learning curve, each ambush another way to adapt.
Back on the farm, Peg-leg adjusted the routines: longer barn shifts for physical conditioning, controlled sparring between the younger clones for combat readiness, and skill drills for observation and perception. The farm hummed — alive, disciplined, and quietly evolving under his hands.
The world outside was still chaotic, the war in Vietnam raging, but our little ecosystem — the clones, the farm, the system — was growing stronger. Time had bent, stretched, and folded, but we were beginning to understand the rules.Clone / System Progress (Vietnam)
Clone #1 (Vietnam, with me)
Rank: Sergeant
Level: 7
Attributes: Strength 12, Endurance 14, Agility 10, Combat 12, Survival 13, Intelligence 11
Skills: Basic Cloning, Survival, Combat, Identify, Observation, Tactical Maneuvers
Me (Vietnam)
Rank: Lieutenant
Level: 8
Attributes: Strength 13, Endurance 14, Agility 11, Combat 13, Survival 14, Intelligence 12
Skills: Leadership, Cloning, Survival, Identify, Observation, Tactical Command
Clone #2 ("Peg-leg") (Farm, back home)
Strength: 15
Endurance: 14
Survival Skill: +4
Animal Handling: +5
Oversees new clones on farm
New clones: #4, #5, #6, #7 — all steadily improving; receive pay in cash, food, and tools to simulate a real farm economy.
Inventory / Resources
Vietnam: Ammo, medical kits, rations, water-purification tools, field radios, communication codes.
Farm: Hay, grain, livestock, tools, handmade weapons, cash reserves. Peg-leg has been managing a small ledger — clones on the farm earn "wages" (mostly food, tools, and small cash allowances) that incentivize work and learning.
System Tools: Multitool, salvaged radios, maps, and field manuals; system menu keeps updating automatically with combat gains and clone progress.
Strategic / Tactical Notes
Peg-leg has become indispensable as a farm manager. He's grown capable of handling multiple clones, distributing work, and even training new clones in basic survival and labor skills.
With the new clones earning money, they can trade, buy necessities, and even invest in the farm — it creates a self-sustaining micro-economy.
Vietnam missions continue to be deadly. Every operation, every Tet engagement, has given me a clear sense of leadership.
Current Leadership and Base Situation
Vietnam: Me (Lieutenant) leading Clone #1 (Sergeant) in squad-level tactical operations.
Home Base: Peg-leg (Clone #2) managing the farm with Clones #4–#7. The farm is productive and financially stable. Over time, more clones are spawned to assist with labor, security, and skill specialization.
Economic Flow: Clones earn basic wages (cash, tools, and food). Peg-leg maintains a ledger. The system ensures sustainability: more labor = more yield, more pay, more upgrades.
The balance is delicate. On one side: the chaos and intensity of Vietnam, leadership and combat growth. On the other side: Peg-leg building a legacy at home — clones developing skills, managing resources, and preparing for a future where the farm could become the real strategic hub for us.
The system hums faintly in my mind, tracking levels, stats, and clone efficiency. Every action, whether in the rice paddies of Vietnam or the barn at home, matters.