"The Personality Chip Mix-Up: A Replica Disaster"
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After the tragic accident that claimed my family's lives, I hadn’t held much hope for happiness. But technology, ever the marvel, had thrown me a lifeline. I found myself at the cutting-edge Replica Center, a gleaming beacon of hope amid a sea of grief. There, I entrusted the scientists to replicate my beloved wife, Claire, and my mischievous eight-year-old son, Timmy. What could possibly go wrong?
When the procedure was over, anticipation had me on the edge of my seat. Claire lay in one white hospital bed, her golden hair shimmering under the sterile lights. In the other bed lay Timmy, his innocent face peaceful. It was supposed to be a joyous reunion.
Then they woke up.
Claire blinked, her eyes roaming the room.
"Nurse," she called, her voice sounding remarkably high-pitched. It was like Claire, but...not. "Has anyone told you that you have an amazing—"
I interrupted awkwardly, "Claire! Uh, honey? How do you feel?"
She glanced at her chest and then brazenly down at the nurse’s posterior. "I feel... perky. And, wow, look at these!" She gave her own breasts an appraising squeeze.
Timmy yawned and opened his eyes, his demeanor unusually calm. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, his voice dripping with tender concern. He reached out and patted my hand motherly. "You've lost weight! Have you been eating properly?"
My mouth fell open. The nurse hurriedly adjusted her uniform and shot me a look that could blister paint.
"Um, excuse us for a moment," I muttered, grabbing the disoriented professor who had overseen the replication process.
In his office, Professor Gehrig fumbled nervously with his notes. "Ah, Mr. Peterson," he started. "What seems to be the issue?"
"What seems to be the issue?" I repeated, my voice climbing a bit. "My wife is ogling nurses like she's at a singles club, and my son is trying to mother me!"
Gehrig's eyes widened. "Oh dear," he murmured. "That sounds like... a personality chip mix-up."
"A what?" I gaped at him.
He adjusted his glasses. "Sometimes the personality chips can, uh, get switched. Your wife's chip ended up in your son, and your son's in your wife."
"And this happens, how?" I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"There was a bit of a rush, you see, with our new ice cream machine in the break room. I might have dropped the chips."
I stared at him. "Dropped. The chips."
He nodded sheepishly. "We're only human."
Just then, Claire pranced in, planting a kiss on my cheek. "Hey, Dad! Can we have ice cream after this?"
"Claire, honey," I barely managed. "We'll figure it out."
Timmy followed, his face scrunched in concern. "Darling, you seem troubled. Here, let me fix your tie."
Gehrig cleared his throat. "Good news, though. This is fixable. It’s like turning their personalities off and on again. A quick reset.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Let’s get this over with before my wife suggests a game of tag or something."
After an awkward but thankfully uneventful personality swap operation, I stood between Claire and Timmy once more.
"How do you feel now?" I asked cautiously.
Claire batted her eyes lazily, smirking at the nurse. "Nice rear assets you got there," she said. I winced.
Timmy just giggled, thankfully in a Timmy kind of way.
"Well, at least one of them turned out right," I muttered.
"It's a work in progress," Gehrig said. "Maybe you'll get a discount on your next replication!"
With that optimistic (and slightly horrifying) thought, I led my newly balanced family out of the Replica Center, resolving to keep them away from any more mad science adventures. At least until Timmy wanted a pet robot.
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 the tragic accident that claimed my family's lives, I hadn’t held much hope for happiness. But technology, ever the marvel, had thrown me a lifeline. I found myself at the cutting-edge Replica Center, a gleaming beacon of hope amid a sea of grief. There, I entrusted the scientists to replicate my beloved wife, Claire, and my mischievous eight-year-old son, Timmy. What could possibly go wrong? When the procedure was over, anticipation had me on the edge of my seat. Claire lay in one white hospital bed, her golden hair shimmering under the sterile lights. In the other bed lay Timmy, his innocent face peaceful. It was supposed to be a joyous reunion. Then they woke up. Claire blinked, her eyes roaming the room. "Nurse," she called, her voice sounding remarkably high-pitched. It was like Claire, but...not. "Has anyone told you that you have an amazing—" I interrupted awkwardly, "Claire! Uh, honey? How do you feel?" She glanced at her chest and then brazenly down at the nurse’s posterior. "I feel... perky. And, wow, look at these!" She gave her own breasts an appraising squeeze. Timmy yawned and opened his eyes, his demeanor unusually calm. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, his voice dripping with tender concern. He reached out and patted my hand motherly. "You've lost weight! Have you been eating properly?" My mouth fell open. The nurse hurriedly adjusted her uniform and shot me a look that could blister paint. "Um, excuse us for a moment," I muttered, grabbing the disoriented professor who had overseen the replication process. In his office, Professor Gehrig fumbled nervously with his notes. "Ah, Mr. Peterson," he started. "What seems to be the issue?" "What seems to be the issue?" I repeated, my voice climbing a bit. "My wife is ogling nurses like she's at a singles club, and my son is trying to mother me!" Gehrig's eyes widened. "Oh dear," he murmured. "That sounds like... a personality chip mix-up." "A what?" I gaped at him. He adjusted his glasses. "Sometimes the personality chips can, uh, get switched. Your wife's chip ended up in your son, and your son's in your wife." "And this happens, how?" I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose. "There was a bit of a rush, you see, with our new ice cream machine in the break room. I might have dropped the chips." I stared at him. "Dropped. The chips." He nodded sheepishly. "We're only human." Just then, Claire pranced in, planting a kiss on my cheek. "Hey, Dad! Can we have ice cream after this?" "Claire, honey," I barely managed. "We'll figure it out." Timmy followed, his face scrunched in concern. "Darling, you seem troubled. Here, let me fix your tie." Gehrig cleared his throat. "Good news, though. This is fixable. It’s like turning their personalities off and on again. A quick reset.” I breathed a sigh of relief. "Let’s get this over with before my wife suggests a game of tag or something." After an awkward but thankfully uneventful personality swap operation, I stood between Claire and Timmy once more. "How do you feel now?" I asked cautiously. Claire batted her eyes lazily, smirking at the nurse. "Nice rear assets you got there," she said. I winced. Timmy just giggled, thankfully in a Timmy kind of way. "Well, at least one of them turned out right," I muttered. "It's a work in progress," Gehrig said. "Maybe you'll get a discount on your next replication!" With that optimistic (and slightly horrifying) thought, I led my newly balanced family out of the Replica Center, resolving to keep them away from any more mad science adventures. At least until Timmy wanted a pet robot.
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