But I wanted to let some people read it first. I wrote it at work the other day. I'm not TOO attached to it (yet), but I see it has some potential. Let me know what you guys think. Any criticism is helpful.

I've attached the story to this thread as well if any of you need to see it in its original format.

Untitled

                  What’s most disturbing is that they don’t bleed anymore. The stalking of them is the best part, but killing something that won’t bleed when cut takes some of the fun out of it. They just kind of sigh, then turn to dust.

                  They‘re strong, fast, and feral.  More often than not, you won’t even hear them coming, then your brains’ll be dashed on the ground and they’ll be moving on. They aren’t murderers. I burn them when I’m near, because I’m carrying the razor.  Don’t know too many things can stand their brains being burned out, so they go crazy. The earlier ones tried to rationalize the pain before attacking. You can hear the deep-lunged roar of the newer ones when the razor is five hundred feet away. Caution is absolutely necessary.

                  Rate of multiplication has decreased substantially. Disappointing. What could be the greatest work of the greatest mind on the planet is reduced to dust at least three times a week. The razor may be greater, still.

                  They have no human features, so they create maxillofacial holographic distortions. No one can remember what they actually look like. The razor lets me see through their disguises.

                  My Thursday is shot. The razor told me there was one out here that needed eliminating. I’ve been on a patio for four hours, with no sign of it. Any more coffee will trigger my acid reflux, a side effect of all the physical activity. The razor is a marvel, it pinpoints the right spots to cut in order to kill the things. I don’t even have to know how to fight.

                  This is a presidential appointment. I’ll bet you didn’t know that. Congress swore me in, a bunch of suits picked my brain about the cloning. They hadn’t known about the clones. The president did. I hadn’t known about the razor. The president had. They made me swear never to tell anyone else, gave me a side arm and told me to go hunt.  I never use the sidearm. It wouldn’t stop them.

                  I have to call the razor from a pocket dimension. The same limited sentience that allows it to direct my muscles when I kill summons it when I call. I make ninety thousand dollars a year to wield this thing. They say it’s not killing me. The razor reassures me that it’s not as well. I believe the razor.

                  One more coffee and them I’m leaving. Before I can even take a sip, though, the roar (I told you they roared) makes me spill my sugar. It’s tinny and mechanical, while all at once robust and destructive. Like nails on a motherboard. When the crowd hears the roar, they do as people do and start running. I think the suits are trying to separate me and the razor. It takes a few seconds longer to respond to my psionic impulse, a few more seconds before it materializes in my right hand. When they designed it, they went for flash and substance.  It’s an ancient longsword, wide-bladed and steel gray. There is an inscription in gold, D’OCKHAM. I don’t know what that means. I’m sure the suits do.

                  The clone knocks about fifteen people out of its way with one sweep. They’re all the same sickly flesh tone, but this one has vestigial breasts and impossibly perfect hips, covered only modestly by a grey trench with the price tag still attached. Contorting images replace its face, first an Asian woman with pouty pink lips, then a Black woman with golden eyes, a grimacing Native American, piggish European features. I see the clay nothing that is its real face behind the holograms. The razor hums, glows bright blue. It knows when killing is near.

                  The clone knows when the razor is near, too. It breaks out into a wild sprint. Each step the thing takes cracks the concrete. They have adrenaline, like us. It increases their physical abilities, like us. Why didn’t they have blood anymore, then? The suits didn’t know. They were looking into finding more scientists for the project, ones with knowledge of the cloning process. They were also looking for army boys to replace me, most likely. The razor didn’t want that.

                  It gets close, tries to rip off my head. A quick contortion has me beneath the blow, the razor snick removes the offending arm at the shoulder. No blood gushes from the wound. I’ll never really be able to accept that. The second attempt to kill me is a low blow, aimed at my waist. In an instant, I’m ten feet in the air. The clone’s clawed hand whistles through the space where my guts had been. From high up, I can see the suit as he appears from behind a building. Why would they send a suit now? I never get back-up. The razor hums as I land, right into the path of the charging clone. Its arms are spread wide, like a bear. Fluidly, with no real effort of my own, I dash into the meat of the clone’s embrace. Before it can crush me with its slender, too feminine arms I strike, an efficient thrust in the soft space between jawbone and neck. It sputters, mechanical hiccups. The suit draws his gun. I never get backup. The suit sights and fires, a muted pop and a flash of flame. The razor’s high-pitched hum sounds like a scream. The clone is already turning to dust, unraveling in a tan spiral from its feet.

Pain blossoms red and raw in my abdomen, so acute and pointed that my pained yell does it no justice. The razor clatters to the pavement, the clone’s dust swirling around it. Golden D’OCKHAM flashes in my eyes. I’m a fly in honey, unable to move quickly enough to grab the razor before the suit scoops it up. Through all of this it wails, a supersonic ululation.

                  “Why?” is the only thing I can say, and I barely manage it. I wonder if my teeth are red.

                  “Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate. You’re obsolete. We realize this now. All we need, all we’ve ever needed is the razor.”