This stopped being scientific a good half-hour ago.
The labcoat is maybe the only bit of the whole procedure that’s still following protocol, really, and Gwen considers knotting her hands in the pockets until something makes her stop.
“This is going to look great in your research paper,” the other Gwen says, and giggles; a giggle that matches Gwen’s exactly, enough to make her touch her lips to check that her mouth definitely isn’t open.
“Like this isn’t going to be a governmental secret until about sixty years after we’re both dead,” Gwen scoffs, uses the opportunity to shake her head a little, maybe clear it.
Her cloned self grins, cocks her head to one side, hair spilling over her shoulders. She doesn’t have bangs, and her teeth are straighter than even Gwen’s expensive dental work achieved. She’s Gwen, but not quite Gwen; she’s got all the nature and none of the nurture, only half of her body language. She’s free of birthmarks and scars, whatever the movies promised, but she’s the same height, the same weight.
It’s kind of a relief to note that one of her boobs is bigger than the other too.
“If it’s a government secret then you should carry on with what we’re both thinking,” other Gwen says, because clone, because herself. “We can call it testing reaction times.”
She pulls Gwen’s hand, the scientific one that isn’t shaking, it isn’t, between her thighs. And Gwen, well, Gwen’s never been one to resist an experiment.