Somewhere, Sunday
In the darkness, the being that would be Hank floated in a nutrient-rich tank. It was pink and unfinished, not yet fully formed, not yet fully human.
Somewhere out in the world there was another Hank, a real one, who was laughing and playing and doing Hank things. Here, in the faint glow of the incubator lamps, this Hank waited, sleeping. It had slept for the entirety of its six long years, ever since a young Dr. Venture had taken cells from his infant sons and coerced them to grow into duplicates -- clones. And here it would sleep for many more years, until it would one day be decanted, matured, and given all of a dead Hank's memories.
Until then, it dreamed of milkshakes.
(NFI)
Somewhere out in the world there was another Hank, a real one, who was laughing and playing and doing Hank things. Here, in the faint glow of the incubator lamps, this Hank waited, sleeping. It had slept for the entirety of its six long years, ever since a young Dr. Venture had taken cells from his infant sons and coerced them to grow into duplicates -- clones. And here it would sleep for many more years, until it would one day be decanted, matured, and given all of a dead Hank's memories.
Until then, it dreamed of milkshakes.
(NFI)