“Ugh,” he groaned. “What happened?”
“Take it easy,” she replied, staring intently into his eyes.. “You’ve been dead. High-speed crash.”
“Dead!” His mouth worked, but no words came.
She stroked his forehead. “You’re okay now. A guerilla medic found you in time. One of the last holdouts from the Gene Wars. He rescued your neurochip and grew you a new body. He had all this military-grade medware in the back of his hover. It -- actually, it tool less than fifteen minutes. It was amazing!”
He sat up carefully, exploring his body with his soft, pink hands. “Unbelievable. And he didn’t even stay around so I could thank him?”
“That’s not his style,” she said, and opened her hand, showing him a silver hypodermic needle.
His eyes widened. “You mean that was —”
“Yes,” she said, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “Thank God for the Clone Arranger.”
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(Wrote it years ago as part of a little in-house competition at the VISION writer's group. I just found it, lurking in my notes. It made me laugh, so I thought I'd post it here.)
