There's that cliched scenario in bad movies where the man or whoever wakes up in someone else's bed, naked and confused with some beautiful woman wrapped around him, unable to recall how he got there. It's never happened to me. I have a perfect memory, even when drugged. They trained me for that.
It's hard to remember the details, but I can hear my voice coming out of my mouth. I can recall what he was after. I can recall the taste of it, his loneliness – or rather what had been loneliness long ago but had curdled into something too cold and indifferent to demand things like love and family. I recall Flemming's dewy eyes, looking up with wonder and that fear that sent me crazy, whoever had it. I recall how his hands felt, and wanting to be entertained for a while. Why should it matter, man or woman, if I can't have children that way anyway? William was creating my daughter deep underground - FAR, far away. So I longed for him. So he longed for him.
I think I remember, somewhere in between all the pleasure, William suggesting that I – he - switch.
And I remember my doppelgänger agreeing, because if that was what he wanted -
And so he switched, and I'm here, in an excited body, and I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't. I don't.
Flemming doesn't either, and he looks at me down in his arms with total confusion.
"Get off me," I snarl. "Hans isn't here."
Flemming's mixed up. He doesn't know if this has turned him on or made him want to snap my neck, and that makes two of us. Three of us. I've lost count.
"Oh, Hans," he sighs, "I didn't mean for you to play soldier."
I look him in the eyes. I can't think of anything – only Hans, and he's pushing up. I know he's not going to look kindly on me for ruining his little game. And I'm -
"Don't stop," I said. Hans said. I don't know.
I think I have to take credit for Hans's bad decisions, if he makes them.