The Dorothy Delusion - part 11

Previously on the Dorothy Delusion: .1. .2. .3. .4. .5. .6. .7. .8. .9. .10.

The year is 2032. This is the City, centre of world politics.

Smith and Jones cradled his head in his hands. He had been Smith alone once, or maybe Jones. Never really alone, never in his whole life, there had always been his brother, his echo. But now his brother was dead.

Some detached part of his mind was aware of Munchkin, Fingers and Eyeballs in the other room, nursing their wounds. Fingers had patched them all up, and shot Smith and Jones full of some kind of painkiller. He had complained, because he was mostly only hurting on the inside.

Fingers was a qualified doctor, human anatomy is like a map of pain, he was fond of saying. He’d had to patch them up before, but never like this. That scrappy fighter had been like a machine, he’d taken them apart and broken them down.

Smith and Jones wasn’t himself anymore. He and his brother had always taken great pains, sometimes literally, to share a life, a body, an existence. What one suffered, so did the other. It was what their mother had always wanted for them. No favourites.

He looked at the table and Fingers’ surgical kit. He had watched his brother clutching at his torn throat, blood frothing through his weakening fingers. And they shared everything. He looked at the knives. No favourites.

Smith and Jones clenched his fists. No. That was not what their mother would have wanted. He was Smith and Jones now, sharing his life with his brother, sharing his head. Tomorrow they would visit their mother’s grave, it had been too long.

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Through the viewing wall Dorothy watched the Siberian, Tiger, Simon. He was pacing back and forth in his cell with restless energy. She couldn’t get things straight in her head. She had seen him die, and yet here he was.

She felt as if she had betrayed him. She knew he had betrayed her.

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The General stared angrily at his cell wall. He scowled his infuriated, frustrated scowl. Tomorrow, his trial would begin.

****

The images in Leon’s vision winked out and he looked up, startled to see he had visitors.

“That doesn’t look like rest to me, Lion.”

“Tin Man,” Leon smiled at him. “I’m too old to spend time resting. Scarecrow, finally out of bed?”

Scarecrow patted his wheelchair.

“Hey, boss. You know me, too much energy to sit still.”

He would make a full recovery. The doctors thought two weeks, knowing Scarecrow, he’d be out and sparring with Dorothy in one. And that would be good for both of them.

The Tin Man’s face turned serious. “You’re too old to be playing hero, Lion. But you saved us all, you know. I was right to bring you in.”

Leon managed not to laugh out loud; it would have hurt too much. Classic Tin Man, handing out a compliment with one hand, taking credit with the other.

“I’d be dead without you, Ian. Thank you.”

The Tin Man’s facade cracked for the briefest of moments.

“Get some rest, Leon. And stop hacking the hospital firewalls.”

END

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Spare Parts (serial experiments) - some thoughts and comments on my experience with writing short serials over the past few months.

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Recommended reading:

Ten Million Robots, One Heart by Tony Noland

Touching, human, and just a little bit sci fi.

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A note on memory implants. They're real. Almost.
One of the core concepts of this story came about when a good friend of mine reacted to this news with a feared, "but what if they put memories of having committed genocide into your head?"
So thanks, Alix, this one's for you. ;)