In school, the teachers had always said that the switch would happen approximately around twenty-two years. Of course, that didn't stop the occasional news report featuring two very confused sixteen-year-olds, or two desperately happy thirty-year-olds.
Made it a little inconvenient; both Kiku and Ivan had cleared a week around their birthdays to no avail.
…
Ivan opened his eyes to rich. Not the best adjective, but that's what he woke up to. He sat up, feeling like he was wearing someone else's shoes. Except it was his whole body. He flexed a hand, experimenting.
Whoever he was, they lived like a king. Huge, airy apartment overlooking the city, everything white or black, or mirrored. Ivan stood by the window, watching the tiny cars catch the sunlight.
Then, he caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors. He was a male.
"Oh," he said absently, reaching up to touch his throat.
…
Kiku woke up to a phone ringing. His hand shot out from underneath he covers, but instead of his cell, he knocked over a cup of water. Several cups. Kiku cracked an eye open to see—
Oh, no. He sat up in bed, nearly rolling out. Why was his bed so tiny? Why was he already dressed, in frumpy, itchy clothes from the day before? He looked around for the ringing phone, finally finding it on the far table. He scrambled out of bed, forgetting momentarily how to work a landline. He declined the call, then dialed his own number.
"Pick up, pick up," he muttered, watching one of his very large feet tap. "Good morning. I need you to go to my office and administer—"
"Chto?"
Was that… Russian?
Kiku closed his eyes, messaging his temple with his free hand. Russian, Russian… He knew some, didn't he? Some drug that had proved successful with the Alzheimer's patients. Shit—
"Office? Go to office?" Kiku said in Russian, each world like pulling teeth from his brain.
The person on the other end happily agreed, hanging up the phone. Kiku looked down, tapping the phone. He hoped to the Cosmos that he wasn't in Russia. That other idiot—whoever he was—was going to ruin everything if Kiku didn't get there on time. Hopefully, he would have enough—
And then, someone kicked in the front door and tried to shoot him.
…
Ivan examined himself in the mirror. Examined this person he was destined to be together with. Who didn't need to shave in the morning? He poked at his face, ran a hand through his hair, opened his mouth. He got dressed, rubbing the smooth and expensive material between his fingers.
The nametag identified him as Honda Kiku. Huh. And Ivan knew where he worked. Knew it well, actually. He had delivered many people there to be taken away by the scientists. Had actually gone there to guard one of the higher-ups, watching the scientists ghost through the halls in their lab coats.
Well, Ivan thinks, looking around the sterile building, at least it isn't any different than last time. Still very white, still filled with armed men, still the scientists, head down with places to be. Ivan followed the stream of people who were filtering through the doors in the back.
Ivan hadn't even needed to show his card. The guards on either side of the door dipped their hats respectfully, eyes straight ahead. Ivan nodded, continuing on jauntily. This was easier than he would have thought.
Apparently, he had Level 5 clearance, whatever that means.
He wandered through the halls, nodding at anyone who caught his eye. Any spot in the hallway without a doorway had the company's name painted in neat, black letters: Management. Ivan knew little about their practices, other than the fact they signed off his checks. Yes, Management paid well.
Last time, they had ordered Ivan to go find one of the scientists who had worked there. The company claimed it was because she had violated her worker's contract. Ivan had kicked down the front of her door, finding the house in shambles. He found her cowering under her bed, clutching a suitcase. Screamed like the devil when he hauled her out, but went quietly when he had pressed the gun into the small of her back.
Before he had handed her back to Management, she had turned around, tears dripping down her face, and whispered something, desperately.
Too bad he couldn't speak Japanese.
…
It had been muscle memory that had saved Kiku. Not his muscle memory, but this body's memory. As soon as he heard the gunshot, he had dropped to the floor. Honestly, he hadn't even known that was possible.
Now, Kiku was gazing at the gun in his hand and the dead man on the floor. His hand felt hot. Blood pooled around the dead body, leaching into the dark carpet. Had that been muscle memory, too? It had felt natural, so easy, once he saw the gun underneath the bed.
Almost like pushing a syringe needle.
He dropped the gun, stepping over the body, over the doorframe, and shut the apartment door. It was surprising—there was Japanese graffiti spray-painted on his door, and he could hear the faint yelling of Russian through the floor. Whoever he was, they lived in one of the Russian ghettos scattered around Tokyo. This place didn't even have solar panels, leaching off of the grid.
Kiku took a steading breath. In, out.
He didn't get many questioning looks as he walked through the apartment building, nor when he bought a Japanese-Russian dictionary. The store clerk was a little confused when Kiku thanked her in perfect Japanese, but she rang him up all the same.
It took ages navigating out of the ghetto. He had to backtrack, asking in broken Russian and English where the train station was. Finally, he found an old woman who could speak enough Japanese to direct him to the train station; Kiku couldn't help but gaze at the woman in disgust, one of her legs replaced by a rusted metal prosthetic.
Soon enough, he was on a train, forced into one of the back cars because he wasn't part of Management. Kiku did his very best to remain stoic, even when he got nervous looks from the other members of the train. As he composed Russian sentences in his head, Kiku wondered if any of them were healthy enough for a control group. As he looked up the word "forget," he wondered if any of them were ill enough for an experiment.
It took ages to find a payphone. Even longer to convince Alfred that no, he was Kiku, yes, he and his "match" had switched bodies.
…
They found each other in the basement. That's where most people faced moral compasses.
Around them, the experiments could be viewed through the one way mirrors.
"People," Ivan disagreed, two heads too short.
"You forget what you see, please." Kiku, back held straight even though he felt as though his head would brush the ceiling. "Or I will tell police about dead man in apartment."
"Torture." Ivan looked into one of the experiment's cage. "You torture people."
Kiku took a moment to translate. "Ivan," Kiku shows the file Alfred had fetched. "Assassin."
…
They met, occasionally, for coffee. They had decided that living together would not be particularly beneficial for their respective positions. Kiku was too busy, working on his experiments and enticing people off of the street. Ivan moved where Management sent him: America, Norway, Hungary. But they met for coffee.
"So," Kiku left his coffee untouched, eyeing the bandage wrapped around Ivan's head, "How have you been? Are your sisters well? How has work treated you?"
Ivan, who was hung over, sighed. "I had to track down one of your people. They all have a briefcase, did you know?"
Kiku did know. Stolen files, filled with statistics and other such things the public would manipulate and overact to. Had Ivan been better at reading Kiku's facial expressions, had he cared, he would have caught the slight look of annoyance.
"No, sorry. Management thanks you for returning our agents safely."
"Tell me," Ivan leaned forward, stealing Kiku's drink. "What do you do with them?" He stirred the drink with his finger, watching Kiku. "Do you torture them, too?"
"We have discussed this," Kiku said, passing Ivan the sugar, "I don't do anything."
Almost lazily, Ivan caught Kiku's wrist, taking the sugar from him. "Tell me, do you think I've killed more people wringing necks than you've killed signing your name?"