Thursday, June 21, 2012


AwakeCyrus could not get used to his right foot. There it was, perfect as a baby’s. Ten years ago in memory-time it had been smashed to a bruised and twisted pulp, later to be molded into the numb wedge of flesh and bone that had hobbled him for many months. He stared at the foot numbly, flexing its five toes, turning the ankle. First left, then right, like a piece of equipment.

A brand new appendage was not the only thing different. The ridged scar on the bridge of his nose was gone. He felt its absence with the back of his thumb, vaguely remembering when he was five years old and running with a plas cup sucked tight to his mouth and nose, tripping on blocks. Now there was nothing there but smooth, bronze skin. But he should be happy: a new body.

Distracted, Cyrus limped out of the washroom and down the corridor, favoring his left leg out of habit. He would have to wake the others. But not yet.

He needed some time to himself; time to soak in this reality. And as newly self-nominated "captain," time to plan for the inevitable mutiny.

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