@99964f0f I confirmed my hand had all the fingers. The wrist was fused with clothes because the transporter only scanned my body outside.
"Okay,"
I could speak; and turned on my transponder.
"Hello, this is a copy, original me, can you hear me?"
"...yes..."
The voice was covered by the noise which was made by radioactive nuclear fuels. I was copied inside a nuke shell to stop the meltdown. Of course, I would die here instead of him.
Original said, in noise.
"What...can?"
"Remember me." 

 @99964f0f It was perfect. Each line scored into his skin with light, each curve leading to the next. Miniature petals, palm fitted, exquisite, intricate, his. If he dares now to close his fist, it feels like the glow of it might seep right through his veins and bones until his whole hand becomes a beacon. Will it imprint somehow onto what he touches? Could  it be a lasting, secret, reminder he is capable of dreaming, not just a mindless soldier in this endless fucking war.