The Born Identity

A smallish spider descended from the ceiling and deposited a sugar cube into the doctor’s mug with a plop. The fact that that happened probably tells you something, although don’t ask me what, I’m just a filing cabinet, I can’t even see. If you’re wondering how I know it was a spider, the stapler told me, obviously he needs to be able to see so he knows what he’s stapling. I need to be able to hear, so that they can shout ‘open drawer 2!’ and I can open drawer 2. That’s when someone walked in, and I began to transcribe and auto-file the following:

Inception

Doctor: So, Miss – Way-slin, is it? Unusual name, are you of Germanic origin? What am I saying? I’m sure someone with such a sloped brow as yourself wouldn’t be familiar with the historical regional tribes of the pre-Pan-Am-Tran continental unification era. Never mind, please take a seat, Miss Wayslin. Tell me, do you know why it is that you’ve been selected for this program, Miss Waysiln?

Miss Wayslin: No not really

Doctor: Good, because I want to tell you. There are two primary factors: You are poor and, judging by the almost illegible scribble on your application form, you are stupid. Poor people are easily coerced with money – stops you deviating from the prescribed rules. Stupidity not only tends to reinforce pliability, but it also serves another purpose: the test subject’s environment acts as the control; the more contrasting the conditions and influences from what we expect the subject to mature into, the more easily we’ll be able to isolate the behaviour and characteristics of the individual. Ergo, the more easily we’ll be able to gather the information we require. You, Miss Wayslin, are the perfect storm of ignorance and poverty for our little experiment. Also you are the only person who actually answered the advertisement, which only serves to corroborate my first two reasons. Tell me, exactly how familiar are you with the proposed procedure?

Miss Wayslin: Err – don’t know much really.

Doctor: No, I expect you don’t. Now, what I’m about to explain won’t make a jot of sense to you, but I’m going to say it anyway, because I feel it reinforces my superiority within the dynamic of our relationship, and that superiority will instil a sense of confidence and ease in you towards the whole experiment. Now where was I? Ah yes! The fact that you’re an idiot – don’t fret about this matter, Miss Wayslin, since you will be acting merely as a vessel, and won’t actually be providing any of the genetic material yourself, this won’t in any way reflect upon the child’s capacity for learning. As I’ve mentioned before, if anything, your almost sub-human lack of intelligence will actually be an asset to the project.

Now, onto the project itself.

Miss Wayslin: So what der yer do, like? Put a brain inside’t baby’s ‘ed?

Doctor: What?! Good god no, woman! Don’t be absurd, what do you take us for? 19th Century barbers? We stopped trying to do that years ago after the Pauline Quirk fiasco: We thought we’d got Margaret Thatcher, instead we ended up with raving lunatic who wouldn’t stop screaming, ‘Tracy, Tracy! We’re birds of a feather, Trace!’ squawking maniacally and flapping her arms about like a hysterical grebe. In hindsight, of course there’s nothing to say it wasn’t actually Thatcher. We put her down before we could really find out.

No, we concluded that the preserved brains from the 20th and 21st centuries have deteriorated to such a degree that it means transplant is quite out of the question. My tireless, pioneering, ground-breaking, brilliant and, dare I say it, quite frankly – genius research has meant our techniques are far more refined nowadays. Tell me, Wayslin, have you ever watched a dog cock its leg and urinate?

Miss Wayslin: Piss?

Doctor: Yes; urinate, micturate, wee-wee, or indeed – piss as you so eloquently put it. A dog does not learn this process through nurture, it knows it through instinct. This is an example of a genetic pre-programming, an action that is hard wired into the beast. Through my assiduous studies I found that the memories of the deceased are genetically programmed into the brain during their lifetime, it’s just that through the natural process of procreation these memories aren’t transferred to the progeny. Because of my relentless and painstaking investigation, I’ve discovered a way to take these memories and imprint them within a cloned foetus; a foetus just like the one you will be carrying, Miss Wayslin. Never in your little life did you imagine that you’d be playing a part in such an illustrious endeavour, under the supervision of such a mighty titan of the scientific community, eh, Miss Wayslin?

The memories themselves won’t fully come to fruition until puberty, say around the age of 14. For this reason, contact between you and I will remain fairly minimal until this age. We’ll schedule a date for you to come in and provide a brief report when the child is around 7 or 8, we’ll expect things like his first words and any unusual or interesting characteristics; a pamphlet describing what we require will be posted to you nearer the time, and no need to fret – it will be illustrated.

Oh yes, our marketing department have asked me to enquire as to where it was that you saw the article?

Miss Wayslin: Solo Conception on a Budget.

Doctor: Ah yes, that makes sense. Excellent, well that should be all, Miss Wayslin. The next time we meet I shall have my hand up your skirts; I look forward to inspecting your uterus, now be a good girl and see yourself out will you?

Conception

Doctor: Right, here I am; what have missed?

Nurse: Everything Doctor, Miss Wayslin has had the procedure and left half an hour ago.

Doctor: Excellent, well, I’ve seen enough here. If you need me Nurse, I’ll be on the holo-fairway, but please don’t disturb me.

Pregnancy

Miss Wayslin: I’m here for my check-up Doctor.

Doctor: So you are! Right, well, I’ve seen enough here; the child is clearly still inside you, so that’s good enough for me. See the nurse on your way out, she will explain the rest.

Birth

Doctor: Right, here I am, what have I missed?

Nurse: The birth, Doctor? He’s already arrived.

Doctor: He? It’s a boy you say? Fantastic! A good job too judging by the head we defrosted, he’d have made a damn ugly girl with that moustache, of course we couldn’t rule out the possibility she might be Mediterranean. Naturally I could have just checked the genes, but I find it ruins the surprise. Right, I’ve seen enough here; see you in seven years, Miss Wayslin. Oh and do try the placenta – it’s delicious.

Seven Years Old

Doctor: Ah Miss Wayslin, do come in! In some respects it’s almost a pleasure to see you. Tell me, how is the boy progressing? It says here you called him Ted. How quaint. How’s Ted progressing?

Miss Wayslin: Progressing?

Doctor: Yes you know, getting along.

Miss Wayslin: Getting along with who?

Doctor: Well, getting along with anyone, getting along with himself, others etc.

Miss Wayslin: Oh he gets along with himsen just fine, he’s very full of himsen, right little bossy so-and-so. Seems to have an opinion about everythin’. He’s not too fond of t’old Mr Cohen, who owns the quantum café. Lawd knows why, he’s lovely old feller.

Doctor: Interesting. A dominant figure, leader material, commanding, potential irrational prejudices. And tell me, do you let him tell you what to do?

Miss Wayslin: Yeah, I s’pose

Doctor: Of course you do, the boy’s seven years old and he’s already smarter than you. Outstanding. That’s one in the eye for the nurture lot. So other than walking all over you, does he have any other particularly notable idiosyncrasies? Ah! Before you ask: I mean does he do anything else you might consider of interest to us?

Miss Wayslin: Erm, I suppose he likes drawing; yeah he’s always drawing.

Doctor: Drawing eh? Curious, and what does he draw?

Miss Wayslin: Erm, well he draws these funny cross things, and animals.

Doctor: Hmm, xenophobic tendencies, funny crosses, animals. This really is most promising. Oh how could I forget? What were Ted’s first words? Sometimes they can be quite revealing.

Miss Wayslin: Erm, I wrote them down.

Doctor: My God I didn’t know you could write, I always assumed someone else filled in the application for you. Did Ted teach you? Actually, I’m not interested, just tell me what his first words were.

Miss Wayslin: “Kurt Russell”

Doctor: Kurt Russell? How well and truly perplexing. Well he can’t be Kurt Russell, because the Yanks plonked his brain into a mechanical exoskeleton years ago. Again this was another experiment that confirmed my theory regarding direct cerebral transplant – the only thing Russell has been fit for is pushing hover trolleys around a Walmart and accusing old Chinese men of being Lo-Pan.

Well, I shall have to ponder this one over, I suppose a thank you is in order, you’ve actually managed to be of some use, Miss Wayslin. Right, that will be all for now; I shall see you in seven years. Oh, before you go Miss Wayslin, I almost forgot, I need you take this trinket.

Miss Wayslin: What is it? A locket? Ooh it’s sort of heart shaped. Very nice, is that for me?

Doctor: Heart shaped? Yes I suppose it rather is. And no, it’s not for you. It’s for Ted, but I can’t stress this enough, Wayslin, he’s only to receive it on his 14th birthday. This is critical! Think of it as a sort of genetic talisman – don’t ask! I saw that feckless expression draw across your face. We’ll call it a key, a key to unlocking his true persona. Please Miss Wayslin, do NOT let him have it before he’s 14. The results could be… catastrophic.

Termination

Miss Wayslin: Oh doctor! I’ve never seen anything like it.

Doctor: Calm down woman! Jupiter, here take one of these pills. Breathe. Tell me what happened, you and Ted weren’t due here for another 4 years.

Miss Wayslin: Oh Doctor, the ‘orror of it, ‘e went mental, absolutely mental.

Doctor: Who? Ted. Oh for Mars’ sake, you gave him the locket!

Miss Wayslin: I din’t give ‘im owt! ‘e found it, snooping about. ‘e went mad, like ‘is ‘ed had brok’. Started screaming about buildin’ a better world. A fantastic world. Said it was a perfect land for only’t right kind o’ folk! Started calling me a comet or summat. I don’t know!

Doctor: Complete psychotic break, Miss Wayslin. Trapped between two simultaneous personalities. I’ve seen it before: One of the Dalai Lamas caught sight of some prayer beads and slaughtered an entire family of geese with nothing but a pair of sandals. I’ve never seen such a tempest of beaks giblets. So, what did you do?

Miss Wayslin: I ‘it him, sir. With me best frying pan. I ‘ad no choice! ‘e came at me with a proper sharp pencil! I killed him.

Doctor. Damn. Damn, damn damn. What a shame. We were so close to finding out who he was! Seemed like a fascinating character too. Well, never mind, can’t be helped. Say, how old are you, Miss Wayslin? 55-60? Fancy another bash? A few of my patented -ahem- vitamin shots and you’ll be good to go. We’ll even give you a 10% allowance increase. Seems fair. Besides, we’re struggling for volunteers, so needs must. What do you say?

Miss Wayslin: What’s 10%?

Doctor: It’s more

Miss Wayslin: Oh go on then.

Transcript ended… filing… Stapler, what’s the weather like?