Replica Mishaps: A Family Reboot
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After my family had died, I had gone to the new state-of-the-art replica center. It was a place where they could make replicas of your family to bring them back. Everything was going well—my wife and my son were replicated. My wife, a busty and gorgeous blonde, was sitting at her hospital bed and my son at his. When they woke up, I knew something was definitely wrong.
"Who designed these gowns? They’re so unflattering," my wife said, looking down at her own breasts with delight. "Although, I have to admit, not bad. Not bad at all."
"Dad! I'm supposed to breastfeed you!" my son exclaimed, hopping off his bed with a sweet and affectionate tone that would make even a teddy bear feel unloved.
I blinked. Twice. This couldn't be happening. Before I could voice my confusion, Dr. Jenkins walked in, sipping on his espresso with a smug smile. Too smug.
"Ah, Mr. Johnson! How are we liking the replicas? Spot on, right?" he asked, bouncing on his heels like a caffeinated kangaroo.
"Uh, I think we have a bit of a problem," I said, pointing at my son who was now meticulously folding the hospital blanket into perfect origami cranes.
"Oh, come on, darlin'. There’s no problem," my wife shrugged, while examining the nurse’s backside with approval. "I'd date that nurse any day of the week."
Dr. Jenkins' face went pale, his espresso cup slipping from his hand and crashing onto the floor. "Oh no," he muttered, pulling out a tablet and furiously scrolling through.
"What’s happening?" I asked, panic rising.
"Alright, let’s see here..." Jenkins ignored me, finally finding what he was looking for. "Yep, there it is. Seems like we, uh, accidentally swapped the personality chips of your wife and son."
"Swapped their—what?!" I exclaimed, disbelieving. "My wife is checking out the nurse's ass, and my son—my SON—is calling me unique pet names!"
My son came over, patting my hand gently. "There, there, dear. It’s okay. Eat some soup, it'll calm your nerves."
Dr. Jenkins gulped, scratching his head. "No need to panic, Mr. Johnson. We can, um, fix this."
My wife winked at the young male nurse who walked by. "Hey, hot stuff. Need any help with your rounds?"
The nurse turned bright red, mumbling something that sounded like, "Just here to change the IV drip, ma'am."
"Oh, honey. He's adorable," my wife laughed, batting her lashes.
"Can you PLEASE do something before this gets any more awkward?" I begged Jenkins, feeling my life unravel as my son offered to change the curtains because he thought they clashed with the hospital furniture.
"Right, right. This way, quickly!" Jenkins rushed us into another room. He instructed both my wife and son to lie down while he reprogrammed their personality chips.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably just five minutes of "Hold still" and "Oops, that wire goes there," Jenkins finally declared, "Done!"
My wife and son awoke again, and I watched nervously.
My wife blinked, peering around with immediate concern. "Are you okay, honey? Who do you have to kill around here to get decent service?"
"Oh, Dad!" my son laughed, jumping off his bed and playfully punching my arm. "Can we get ice cream now? This place is boring!"
I let out a sigh of relief. "Yes, we can. And Dr. Jenkins?"
"Yes?" he replied, looking cautious.
"Maybe next time, a little more attention to detail, huh?"
"Got it, Mr. Johnson," he nodded sheepishly. "I'm deeply sorry for the inconvenience."
"Let's get out of here," my wife said, taking my son's hand and mine. "And never speak of this again."
"Oh, agreed," I laughed, walking out with my family—finally back to normal.
As we walked past the male nurse, my wife glanced sidelong at him and whispered to me, "But seriously, if this doesn’t work out, that nurse isn't half bad."
And with that, we left the replica center—with only memories that would, ironically, never replicate.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a story with dialogue where After my family had died, I had gone to the new state of the art replica center. It was a place where they could make replicas of your family to bring them back. Everything was going well, my wife and my son were replicated. My wife a busty and gorgeous blonde was sitting at her hospital bed and my son at his. When they woke up something was definitely wrong with the two of them. My wife was checking out the nurse's ass and looking down at her own breasts in delight. My son was acting very motherly and affectionate. It turns out the scientist had accidentally mixed up their personality chips. My wife is acting like my son and my son is acting like my wife.
Response: After my family had died, I had gone to the new state-of-the-art replica center. It was a place where they could make replicas of your family to bring them back. Everything was going well—my wife and my son were replicated. My wife, a busty and gorgeous blonde, was sitting at her hospital bed and my son at his. When they woke up, I knew something was definitely wrong. "Who designed these gowns? They’re so unflattering," my wife said, looking down at her own breasts with delight. "Although, I have to admit, not bad. Not bad at all." "Dad! I'm supposed to breastfeed you!" my son exclaimed, hopping off his bed with a sweet and affectionate tone that would make even a teddy bear feel unloved. I blinked. Twice. This couldn't be happening. Before I could voice my confusion, Dr. Jenkins walked in, sipping on his espresso with a smug smile. Too smug. "Ah, Mr. Johnson! How are we liking the replicas? Spot on, right?" he asked, bouncing on his heels like a caffeinated kangaroo. "Uh, I think we have a bit of a problem," I said, pointing at my son who was now meticulously folding the hospital blanket into perfect origami cranes. "Oh, come on, darlin'. There’s no problem," my wife shrugged, while examining the nurse’s backside with approval. "I'd date that nurse any day of the week." Dr. Jenkins' face went pale, his espresso cup slipping from his hand and crashing onto the floor. "Oh no," he muttered, pulling out a tablet and furiously scrolling through. "What’s happening?" I asked, panic rising. "Alright, let’s see here..." Jenkins ignored me, finally finding what he was looking for. "Yep, there it is. Seems like we, uh, accidentally swapped the personality chips of your wife and son." "Swapped their—what?!" I exclaimed, disbelieving. "My wife is checking out the nurse's ass, and my son—my SON—is calling me unique pet names!" My son came over, patting my hand gently. "There, there, dear. It’s okay. Eat some soup, it'll calm your nerves." Dr. Jenkins gulped, scratching his head. "No need to panic, Mr. Johnson. We can, um, fix this." My wife winked at the young male nurse who walked by. "Hey, hot stuff. Need any help with your rounds?" The nurse turned bright red, mumbling something that sounded like, "Just here to change the IV drip, ma'am." "Oh, honey. He's adorable," my wife laughed, batting her lashes. "Can you PLEASE do something before this gets any more awkward?" I begged Jenkins, feeling my life unravel as my son offered to change the curtains because he thought they clashed with the hospital furniture. "Right, right. This way, quickly!" Jenkins rushed us into another room. He instructed both my wife and son to lie down while he reprogrammed their personality chips. After what felt like an eternity, but was probably just five minutes of "Hold still" and "Oops, that wire goes there," Jenkins finally declared, "Done!" My wife and son awoke again, and I watched nervously. My wife blinked, peering around with immediate concern. "Are you okay, honey? Who do you have to kill around here to get decent service?" "Oh, Dad!" my son laughed, jumping off his bed and playfully punching my arm. "Can we get ice cream now? This place is boring!" I let out a sigh of relief. "Yes, we can. And Dr. Jenkins?" "Yes?" he replied, looking cautious. "Maybe next time, a little more attention to detail, huh?" "Got it, Mr. Johnson," he nodded sheepishly. "I'm deeply sorry for the inconvenience." "Let's get out of here," my wife said, taking my son's hand and mine. "And never speak of this again." "Oh, agreed," I laughed, walking out with my family—finally back to normal. As we walked past the male nurse, my wife glanced sidelong at him and whispered to me, "But seriously, if this doesn’t work out, that nurse isn't half bad." And with that, we left the replica center—with only memories that would, ironically, never replicate.
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