Mich Me Michael

Part 7: Michael -end-

He woke up in a hospital in another underground shelter. It was precarious but efficient. He couldn't tolerate the dim light without feeling like his head would explode in pain. He was bandaged and on a cot, not knowing who was around him. Many people murmured. He only recognized a young woman with brown hair and very light green eyes.

—You have... beautiful... eyes —he whispered with difficulty. His voice sounded different, wounded.

—I know, Sophie said, gently holding his hand. Everything's fine. It's over. Don't worry about anything, she lied.

He surrendered to Morpheus and the painkillers.

Days passed until he could finally be conscious in a room. The walls, though worn and with peeling paint, were adorned with once valuable paintings, now covered in dust and cobwebs. The floor, despite being dirty and stained, retained traces of shiny old marble. His bed was in the center of the room, with faded silk sheets but soft to the touch, and a thick, somewhat frayed blanket.

Next to the bed, on a long, finely carved wooden nightstand, clearly antique, was a floor lamp with a broken glass shade still trying to emit a warm light, a jug, and a pile of papers he knew well.

In front of the bed, Sophie sat in a velvet armchair that had seen better days. She ran to his side when she saw him wake up and filled a glass of water.

—Good morning, sleepyhead, she said sweetly.

—Sophie... where is he? —She helped him sit up and drink some water.

—From what we saw on the security cameras, after the little -discussion- you had, a spark from a broken screen started a small fire, which led to an explosion. The lab was so poorly maintained that everything burned, Sophie calmly explained. Mrs. Birgit saved you; you were the only thing she could rescue, she concluded without further details.

—Sophie, I'm...

—Michael, she interrupted. Michael Schattreich, one of the twenty scientists who saved humanity from the terrible Feras.

He perfectly understood Sophie's words. It no longer mattered if he was the seventh or ninth clone; all that mattered was that he was Michael, and it was over.

—So there are twenty heroes? he said, changing the subject, without frustration or indignation, feeling nothing more than Sophie's hand.

—Of course, did you think they'd give all the credit to someone so odious? You're perfect and beautiful to me. I don't understand why no one else sees it, Sophie sighed and showed him reports and news.

Other scientists had achieved the final version of the cure, all based on their achievements, of course, but he wouldn't be the only one getting credit. At least his name appeared nineteenth in the article, just above Karl, that glory-stealing, subsidy-hoarding thief. Being nineteenth might not sound glamorous, but it was much better than not appearing at all. His ego could live with that. More importantly, it meant humanity could reclaim the surface.

In fact, that process was already underway. Now immune teams, specialized in advanced biotechnology, explored methods to eradicate those damned plants. New plantations and constructions had begun; the city would soon be rebuilt. They had located and shut down clandestine labs, even finding Feras prisons with forgotten prisoners. Chaos slowly gave way to order. Sophie's mystery still hung in the air, but he didn't have the energy to talk much more about it.

Weeks passed, and he too was now immune. Sophie helped him up, and in a wheelchair, they reached the surface together. He received awards and honors that now meant very little to him. Together they saw their first sunset in three years.

—We did it, Michael, Mich whispered.

- END -