C'mon in, take yer shoes off, and set yerself down. Here you will find comics, cartoons, musings, rants, . . . whatever strikes my fancy, or "Spins my Plush", so to speak.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

The Day After . . .

9-Time Passes . . .

Six months. It was six months before 387 was able to sit up on the edge of his bed under his own power. A half-year out of his life. But, as Bonn pointed out, remarkably short considering he had performed brain surgery on himself.

This is not to say that 367 was fully recovered. Six months of bedsores. Six months of not walking. Six months of no solid food. Six months away from any and all tasks that 387 had been performing since before he could even remember.

Fortunately, Bonn, as he learned his benefactor’s name was, had done all he could to restore 387 to health. After only several weeks, the former soldier was able to walk across the room. Several days later he was eating solid food. Unfortunately, Bonn’s culinary skills were not as well developed as his medical skills. “Three,” as Bonn started calling him, however, accepted all of his meals gratefully, and wolfed them as if he had not eaten for months. Which, as chance would have it, he hadn’t.

“I have no sense of taste,” Bonn stated bluntly one evening, obviously noting Three’s attempts to not flinch as the meal first touched his tongue, “They were considered unnecessary in my function.”

“You’re function?” Three was never one for conversation, but this statement intrigued him for some reason.

“Yes, as a consult. I was a first generation genie.”

At least seven feet tall, with a green, almost reptilian skin, and an almost emotionless face, Bonn was clearly not human. But Three had always thought Bonn was . . . well, he hadn’t actually considered it before.

“I have lived here alone for so long that I had almost forgotten,” the big man almost chuckled as he stared past Three into thoughts of the past. “Another lifetime ago. One of several, actually.

“I was designed as an advisor for the President of North America. That must be, . . . so many centuries ago.”

“Centuries?” Two questions in one evening; Three almost felt drained of energy.

Glancing at Three Bonn looked almost amused, which the young soldier hadn’t thought possible, “Yes, about four and a half to be exact. My longevity was part of the reason my genetic pattern was initially altered.”

“What do you mean ‘altered’?” Suddenly Three was a chatterbox.

“Unlike yourself, the first genies were one of two strains—clones of humans with no outstanding characteristics to set them apart from their progenitors, and genetically altered human beings, designed to enhance some natural characteristic. I was the latter . . . somewhat.”

Three had never even considered where the first genies had come from, and, hearing Bonn’s words, that fact suddenly struck him as odd.

“. . .” Three opened his mouth as if to speak, but only then realized that he had no idea what he wanted to say. Bonn glanced at the young soldier and laughed with his eyes.

“Questions are God’s greatest gift—even if our past won’t allow us to take off the wrapping paper.” Bonn smiled a crooked smile as he lifted his towering frame, collecting the meal’s dishes, and ushering them away to be cleaned.

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