Sometimes he sees a m̴͔͔̫͓͛̍̑͋̂̈́̕ǎ̵̭̻̬͍̝̭̮̋͌́͆͜n̵̲͉̻̍̂̇̓̏͘͝ who looks like him but is not him.

He asked his doctor about it once while in for a standard check-up — turn your head and cough while I fondle your fat balls through these paper-thin plastic gloves — but overwhelmingly, Vik's found that doctors only tell you what you want to hear when you're the one who created them. His doctor says he's fine, a perfect specimen of a man, you really can't even tell his insides are full of teeth, and privately Vik thinks that's a little weird. Isn't that weird? That's weird. He's super uncomfortable. Surely this is against some kind of doctor-patient-slash-creator protocol.

His doctor says: Vik, you need to sleep more. His doctor says: Vik, if you don't find out where they're hiding soon, you're going to kill everything just like last time.

Vikram doesn't know how to tell him that all he's ever done is sleep and kill and sleep and kill and sleep and kill and S̴̥̺͕̳̟͍͎̹̜̤͔͆̈́̌̋̍̌͘͘͜L̴̢̢͚̼̩̰̰͕̀̓͊̒̚E̶̮̪͖͚̮̍E̵͓̣̗͚̤̥̖͇̓͑͛̍P̷̧̧̠̪̳̯͕̺͙̲̱͓͛̔̀̀̄̋̀͘͘̕, APOLLO OF THE TWELVE, VIKRAM OF EARTH, you're not finished cooking yet.