Federal Containment Authority
AE-1127 first drew FCA attention after his registered family tree appeared to be expanding at an exponential rate, with dozens of new “sons” suddenly listed as biological kin—many of them traced back to individuals who had recently visited his small bodega on [REDACTED] street in [REDACTED] city. Cross-checks confirmed genetic matches, though no record existed of adoption or marriage.
Despite these anomalies, locals described him as a steady, dependable presence in the neighborhood: a man in his mid-40s, of Middle Eastern descent, with dark hair beginning to gray at the temples and a neatly trimmed beard. His build was solid and practical, reflecting years of physical labor running his corner bodega, carrying himself with quiet authority. He was known as hardworking and firm, yet generous, often offering small discounts or extra change to loyal customers, and had a habit of addressing them warmly as “son” or “my boy.”
When the FCA arrived, AE-1127 offered no resistance. He greeted the team with a steady, measured smile, asking if they were managing alright and offering them a bottle of water from behind the counter. Calm and cooperative, he allowed them to guide him out of the bodega without hesitation, his demeanor polite but quietly assertive.
In containment, AE-1127 remains calm, firm, and cooperative. He often uses paternal phrases—“That’s my boy,” “Proud of you, son,”—though staff are required to keep their distance and wear noise-canceling earmuffs to prevent activation. Testing confirms these phrases trigger rapid genetic and cognitive changes in anyone within close range.
Case File – Subject A-1 (FKA: Adrian Cole):
The first confirmed case tied to AE-1127 involves a twenty-one-year-old male, formerly known as, Adrian Cole. The incident is detailed below.
Adrian slipped into the corner bodega just as the bell above the door gave its tired jingle. The street outside was quiet, every other shop shuttered for the night, and midway through his evening study session, he’d realized he was out of milk—the one thing he needed for his late-night coffee while cramming for finals. The neon beer sign buzzed faintly in the window, casting a dim glow across the empty sidewalk.
Behind the counter stood the owner—middle-aged, mustache neatly trimmed, button-down tucked into slacks, posture easy but alert. He looked up from a notebook, then glanced at the clock on the wall, before dashing a stern but cooperative look towards Adrian.
“You’re just on the dot, my son,” the man said. “We close now.”
Adrian raised a hand apologetically. “Sorry, I’ll be quick. Just need some milk.”
The man nodded once, patient. “Of course. Milk for my son.”
Adrian half smiled and made his way towards the fridges. He tugged open the fridge door, a puff of cold air spilling out. Rows of cartons stared back at him, but none were brands he recognized. The labels were in script he couldn’t read, looping Arabic letters curling across white cardboard. Dates, pistachio, cardamom—nothing like the plain old two-percent he’d come for.
From behind him, he felt the man’s eyes on his back, steady and expectant.
Adrian hesitated, glancing from the unfamiliar cartons to the owner. “Uh… sorry. Is there any… uh… make-up American brand milk?” he asked, hoping to sound casual.
The man’s smile widened, and without warning he stepped around the counter. His fingers, thick and surprisingly strong, settled gently but firmly on Adrian’s shoulders, almost like a hand guiding a child. “Ah… let me show you, son,” he said warmly. “You think you’d know where it is by now, habibi.”
Before Adrian could protest, the man led him toward the fridge, his grip steady, confident. The bright hum of the refrigeration units filled the silence as they reached the correct section. Adrian reached for the carton, and just as he pulled it out, the owner squeezed Adrian’s shoulder, causing the milk to drop from his hand. Cold milk spilled across the floor.
The man’s expression changed instantly, the warmth replaced by a firm, no-nonsense stare. “Ah-ah-ah! Look at this mess, son. What have I told you again and again. You must be careful.”
Adrian froze, the sudden scolding throwing him off balance. He opened his mouth, trying to apologize, but the words felt small, inadequate, somehow wrong. The man’s fingers remained steady on his shoulders, his presence unyielding, and the weight of the reprimand lingered like a tangible force.
“You hear me, son?” He deep rough voice growled in Adrian’s ear. “Get the tissue paper roll and mop. Clean this up, boy.”
Adrian felt a strange knot tighten in his chest. The way the man’s deep, steady voice scolded him—it wasn’t angry, exactly, but firm and insistent—made him feel small, somehow inferior, like a dog caught doing wrong. Guilt pricked at him sharply, and a sudden, inexplicable urge to please the man surged through him.
Adrian scrambled toward the back room, heart hammering, desperate to fix the mess. He yanked the mop from the corner and grabbed a stack of paper towels, muttering apologies under his breath. As he moved, a question nagged at him—how did he know exactly where everything was? He had never been back here before, had never needed the supplies, and yet his hands seemed to move with automatic certainty, almost as if guided.
Passing a metal shelving unit, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface. His skin looked darker, warmer than usual, and his nose seemed broader, more defined. His hair appeared almost black, curling slightly at the ends where it had been straight before. He blinked and shook his head, forcing a rational thought. Metal reflects funny sometimes… it’s just a distortion, he told himself. Nothing’s changed.
Adrian returned to the main floor, mop and paper towels in hand, only to be met by the owner’s expectant gaze. “Quickly, son,” the man urged, glancing at the clock. “We close now.”
Adrian froze for a moment, the absurdity striking him. Why am I on my hands and knees scrubbing milk off the floor? he thought. I don’t even work here. His rational mind flitted for an answer, trying to pull him out of the strange compliance that had taken hold.
My biceps look so big. And are they… brown? But before he could fully consider it, the owner crouched slightly, voice soft but firm: “Good job, son.”
The words hit Adrian like a jolt. Pleasure, warmth, and a rush of inexplicable pride lit up his brain all at once, bursting through every thought like a Christmas tree of lights flickering in his head. He gasped, momentarily overwhelmed, heart pounding. His big round pecs bouncing with each heart beat.
And then he heard it, almost in passing, yet undeniable: the owner wasn’t calling him son anymore. “Ahmed,” he said. “Good job, Ahmed.”
Adrian’s fat pecs bounced, a strange warmth spreading through him every time he heard the name Ahmed. The pleasure was sharp and insistent, almost intoxicating, but his rational mind rebelled. This isn’t right. That’s not me, he thought, hands trembling slightly as he stood upright, head spinning with conflicting thoughts.
Before he could collect himself, the owner’s large hand landed firmly on his fattening brown cheeks in a quick, corrective smack. “Turn the sign on the door,” he said, voice calm but commanding. “We’re closing up for the night. You are acting like you don’t do this every day, Ahmed?”
Adrian froze again, a rush of heat and confusion flooding him. Every day? The words hit him like a memory he didn’t remember having, tangled with the pleasure coursing through him. The name, the reprimand, the fatherly authority—it all pulled at him irresistibly, leaving him uncertain where he ended and his father began.
His stomach twisted. No. Not father. I’ve never met this man before tonight.
And yet, the word felt… right. He recounted each memory of his childhood, the man was there. It felt utterly impossible. He could see his life growing up, clutching the edges of a kitchen counter, listening to the call to prayer echo faintly through the apartment building. He could feel the heat of summer in a cramped New Jersey neighborhood, the scent of cumin and roasting lamb drifting from the kitchen, the low hum of Arabic being spoken softly around him. He remembered school mornings rushing past graffiti-tagged walls, the way his father had straightened his little tie before walking him to the bus stop, always warning him to be polite, to keep his head down, to work hard, so that maybe one day, he could take over the family business - the bodega.
Ahmed lifted the small sign and flipped it from Open to Closed. In the glass door, he sees his reflection - a tall, tan skinned, hairy man.
He turned back toward his father, confusion written across his face, searching for reassurance, for understanding, for something familiar to hold onto. His father was standing there, waiting for him.
The man stepped forward, arms open, and drew him into a firm, encompassing embrace. His hands rested gently on Ahmed’s back, then moved upward to stroke his hair, slow and deliberate, every motion radiating calm authority.
“You’re my son,” he murmured, voice warm and steady. “You’ve always been my son. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Ahmed’s chest tightened as the words sank in. A peculiar warmth spread through his mind, and then—suddenly—his thoughts seemed to flatten, compressing, rearranging themselves. The memories of Adrian, the confusion, the life he thought he’d lived, all dissolved into nothing. In their place rose a new certainty: he was Ahmed. He had always been Ahmed.
Every fiber of his being aligned with the man holding him. He felt a deep, unshakable loyalty, a sense of purpose so complete it made his head spin. He could not remember Adrian, could not conceive a life without this man. This man was his saviour. His father, and he could not have been prouder to be called his son.
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AE-1127 affects individuals who enter a two-meter proximity and are addressed with familial language, primarily terms like “son,” “my boy,” or “kiddo.”
1. Genetic Rewrite: The target’s DNA is overwritten with AE-1127’s, creating a direct biological link.
2. Physical Change: The subject’s appearance shifts to match AE-1127’s traits, including skin tone, facial features, hair, and body structure.
3. Memory and Identity: Previous memories and self-concept are erased. The subject fully accepts themselves as AE-1127’s child.
4. Behavioral Compliance: Targets feel intense loyalty, obedience, and a desire to please AE-1127.
The effect only occurs through verbal familial cues within range. Physical removal or isolation does not prevent the transformation once triggered.
Subject File – A-1 (Interview Assessment)
Subject was taken in for questioning following his DNA rewrite from AE-1127.
During interviews, the individual displayed complete acceptance of a new identity, referring to AE-1127 consistently as “father” and asserting that he had always been Ahmed.
The subject pleaded for AE-1127’s release, insisting the anomaly was innocent and that separation would be cruel. Attempts to reference his former identity as Adrian Cole were met with confusion; he could not comprehend the name or the person. Behavioral observations confirmed that all memories and loyalty were now aligned with AE-1127.
Due to current limitations in FCA capability to reverse DNA rewriting, the subject was released. There exists no known method to restore pre-exposure genetic characteristics, leaving Adrian permanently altered—biologically, cognitively, and culturally—as a Middle Eastern male.
Since Subject A-1’s exposure five months ago, AE-1127 has generated up to 50 genetically linked offspring. The next subject is scheduled for questioning tomorrow, and containment personnel are advised to maintain full protocol precautions.
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