Replacements

Welcome to my newest story.  This is going to be something of an experiment for me, as I'm going to write this as it needs to be written every week, and not work it as I would my other projects.  It'll be interesting, if nothing else.

That said, this is always a first draft, and if I missed something in editing, don't beat me up too bad.  Remember:  you get what you pay for.

Replacements

Part Two

How easy is it to take over another person's life?  If you know what to do, and you have the right tools, it's incredibly simple.

I spent weeks getting to know Olivia's routines.  Where she lived, where she shopped, what she did in her spare time.  Some people would call this stalking; I called it research.  You want to know as much about a person if you intend to assume their identity.

But I wasn't going to assume just Olivia's identity . . .

Finally the day came when I was ready to make my move.  I sent an email to Olivia, asking to meet with her--but not at work.  I needed to see her in private.  I almost pleaded with her to meet me at my condo, because . . . well, it was just to painful too discuss at work.

Olivia was a good manager; she did care about the people under her.  I have to remember that . . .

She came over on a Thursday night, and it couldn't have been more perfect, because I knew she was off the next day.  I invited her in, and we sat at the dinning table.

I talked.  I told her I felt as if I were under too much pressure, that the demands in my department were becoming far too great.  I sobbed a little, showing that, yes, I was feeling a bit distressed.

Olivia listened, and as she listened she sipped the ice tea I offered her when we first sat.  And the longer we sat, the sleepier she became.  I knew she would, because I'd placed a common sleep aid in her drink.  By the time she was two-thirds finished with her drink, she was so drowsy it was difficult for her to hold up her head.

Being a nice host I offered to let her lie down on my sofa.  I helped her get out of her clothes, which she likely wouldn't have agreed to if she'd been able to concentrate far better.

Once she was naked I gave her the injection--

I've neglected to mention that I'm one of the top research scientist for our R&D Department.  I'm the person who does all the "What If?" projects, and sees if they're possible, and if so, if there is any practical application.

While working on another project, I stumbled across a process that would allow the reconstruction of DNA through the use of nanotechnology.  In layman's terms, one could take a DNA sample of a person, use it to program extremely small robots, and after injecting them into a person's body, it would "rebuild" the body back to the state where it had been at the time the sample was taken.

With this technology, one could rebuild shattered bodies, maybe regrow limbs--or even restore one's youth.

One could also become another person.

Two minutes after the injection Olivia began to moan.  She writhed on the sofa, in obvious pain.  She didn't scream out, which was good, but still, it was hard to watch her as the nanotech rebuilt her.  She became sick to her stomach and vomited on the floor--I suspected the drugs had more to do with that than the injection.  I held her in place, because I didn't want her rolling onto the floor and hurting herself.

There was a point when she looked at me, stare to stare, and I could see she understood what was happening.  She felt the changes; she was completely aware.

She knew something bad was going to happen.  I smiled, because she wasn't wrong.

The transformation took thirty minutes.  When it was finished, she moaned once and rolled over on her back.  Or should I say, "My back"?  Because, at that point, there were two of me in the living room.  Both identical, with the same appearance, the same fingerprints . . . the same DNA.

When she was finished becoming me, the second part of my plan was initiated.  For this to work, I couldn't risk having Olivia--the real Olivia--around.  Even if she looked like me, eventually she'd convince someone of our switching places.

It was time to give the new me another injection, only this wasn't going to rebuild her body.  No, the insulin injection I gave her was more than enough to place in her a coma from which she would never awaken.  And since I was still me, the DNA on the syringe would match the DNA in her new body.

With the old Olivia slipping into an insulin coma, I manged to get her into one of my nightgowns.  After that, it was time for my own transformation.

It hurt a hell of a lot.  I was transforming into someone larger and taller, and it was necessary to fuel my body.  I ate bread while I sat naked in the shower, trying to get raw material into my body for the nanotech to use.  I'd calculated how much I'd need to consume, and I downed it as quickly as possible.  I never felt hungry, because my own transformation was changing the material into bone and muscle and fat . . .

Forty minutes later, I stood up, very shaky, but still able to stand on two feet.  I looked at my arms, then down my body.  The skin tone appeared perfect.  I showered the stall down, removing any evidence of my new DNA.  I checked myself in the mirror.  I was her; I was Olivia.

I changed into her clothing.  I gathered up "my" things; shoes, purse, jacket.  I checked on "me" on the sofa.  She was out, but it wasn't sleep.  She was . . . gone.  Breathing, yes, but it was slow, shallow.  I wouldn't touch her, because I didn't want my new DNA on my old body.

Instead, I left my old life behind.  I used a spare key I'd had made years before to lock the deadbolt, then threw it in the bag with the bread wrappers I'd collected from the bathroom.  In time this would all disappear; for now, I needed it with me.

I got into "my" Mercedes and drove to "my" house.  I had a bit of adjusting to do; Olivia had come over wearing heels, and I wasn't used to driving in heels.  And I now had longer legs, longer arms . . . I kept wanting to move the seat closer, but knew it wasn't necessary.

I would have to get used to being in a body that wasn't like the one I'd grown up wearing.

In time, I arrived at my new home.  I walked into the condo building, getting through the door with the keys from my purse.  I took the elevator to the 6th Floor, and headed to my unit.

I let myself in, then locked the door behind me.  I slipped off my shoes, then went to the couch and sat.

I looked around.  This was mine; this was all mine.  And I had an extended weekend to take it all in.

I spent the next fifteen minutes getting familiarized with everything.  The living room; the kitchen; the guest bathroom.  I noticed everything, and filed the information away.

Lastly, I entered the bedroom.  I examined everything in the master bath, then went over the master bedroom.  King-sized bed; coral-colored comforter; satin sheets; silk baby doll.  Dressing table; mirror; cosmetics and polish.  I opened the door to the walk-in closet.  Suits; dresses; skirts; pants; tops; shoes.

There were two dressers at the very back, one small, the other much bigger.  I opened the small one:  bras, panties, stockings.  I opened the other--

Corsets, gloves, leather outfits, shoes and boots . . . sex toys:  whips, cuffs, and . . .

I stood there staring.

Apparently I didn't do enough research . . .


Read Part Three Here
Read Part One Again




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