Wednesday, October 27, 2010
“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.”
(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.)