I step out of the shower, the steam fogging up the entire room and obscuring the mirror. Water drips down my body, soaking the mat beneath me, and I grab my towel from the rack, wrapping it around myself before I shiver to death. The heat from the lamps in the bathroom can only do so much after you step out of a nice, warm shower, after all. 

Someone once said old habits die hard. That’s probably why I still shower every night, even when I don’t need to anymore. 

I finish drying myself, a few stray droplets of water still clinging to my body, and put the towel back, looking down at my right wrist. The number fifty-five is tattooed there in plain, black ink. That means tonight is number fifty-six. 

Fifty-six clones, and my system has worked flawlessly every single transfer. No gaps in my memories, no loss of motor function or degradation of skills, no muscle atrophy, nothing. Every single time, it’s been a perfect copy of me, fresh and ready to start the next day, just waiting for my consciousness to move in and settle down. 

The scientific community all over the world would kill for this kind of consistency. 

They’d also kill to know that I’ve figured out how to make myself immortal. 

Too bad they’ll never find out. This is my discovery, my secret. I’m the only one who gets to live forever. It’s only fair. 

I step out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, gazing at clone fifty-six floating in the glass tank of formaldehyde next to my bed. Wires spout from its head like multicoloured veins, with some leading to a rather large computer, while others lead to a steel helmet next to it. That’s the only downside of this; my apartment isn’t big enough to put that mess anywhere else. 

I walk over to the computer, not bothering to put any clothes on. This body will be disposed of anyway once the transfer happens; no point in wasting time. I flip a series of switches and type a few passcodes, and the tank whirs to life, the formaldehyde slowly draining and leaving the clone to slump lifeless onto the bottom in a heap. I lift the helmet off the table and put it on, firmly strapping it into place. The terminal before me prompts me “Initiate transfer? [Y/n].” 

I press Y on the keyboard, breathing a small sigh of contentedness. 

The helmet hums against my skull as the transfer commences, vibrations travelling down my spine. The computer screen flashes through lines of code, progress bars filling up one by one. I close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of slipping away, the feeling of my consciousness flowing through the wires like water through pipes. 

The computer beeps, and I frown, opening my eyes. Bright green text is displayed across the monitor.  

“TRANSFER COMPLETE.” 

I blink, staring at the words. Did it… fail? What could have caused it to fail? I haven’t changed any settings, none of the wires have been replaced or removed, everything is exactly how it was yesterday, and all the days before that. 

A wet splat echoes from the tank.  

I freeze up, turning slowly to see clone fifty-six pushing itself up from the bottom of the tank, coughing up formaldehyde. My eyes widen as the realisation strikes me like a hammer. 

My consciousness was never copied. 

My memories were. 

And what always happens to the old me, every time I step out of that tank? 

The helmet sparks. Electricity courses violently through my body, my muscles seizing up and my teeth clenching so hard I taste blood. My knees buckle and as the ground rushes to meet me, I see clone fifty-six stepping out of the tank. 

He’ll take a shower tomorrow night. Old habits die hard.