139 Years to the End of the World

Goes in Threes, Part Two

G told me that for the single day that I knew Agent Matthews, my decision to enter cryo-sleep changed the man's life. In that same day, Matthews also said that I had a sharp wit, which I explained was due to my inherited inability to infer a bad time to make jokes and dish out insults. A part of me was incredibly happy that at least one thing about me had stayed the same, even if it was my worst trait.

"You look like shit, dude," I said to G.

He replied with a scoff, "You're one to talk."

In a scene reminiscence of the first time I met Matthews, I found myself back in a bleach-white hospital room, the dizzying stench of alcohol disinfectant managed to irritate even me. Sitting beside me was the agent, dressed in his classic suit and horn-rimmed glasses which I was sure had gone out of style at least a decade ago. My theory was that he wore them more as a point to prove his job than anything else. The man had gotten exponentially older since I last saw him. His hair was full but slightly greyed, with a set of wrinkles that stretched his skin.

I looked around the otherwise empty room. A vase of flowers with a 'get well soon' card was placed on the bedside table.

Solemnly, I asked, "How many years has it been?"

"Before I tell you, you need to know something happened."

"I know something happened," I snapped back, fiercer than I thought I would. "I want to know what I've missed."

He sighed, taking off his glasses to clean them. "Six months after you went into your last sleep, we had a situation. Parker noticed a drop in some science mumbo jumbo. I don't really remember what he said," he admitted to his lack of knowledge in the medical sciences. "We took a look and...the Mist Poisoning managed to jump a few nerves and spread into your right arm."

Slowly, I slid the blanket away from me. Part of me knew what I would see. A sleek, thin, silver robotic limb had replaced the entirety of what used to be my right arm, ending at a cleanly bandaged shoulder. I held the contraption up to the light, where it glinted and glowed. My new fingers opened and closed easily, likely due to my practice with the legs, but still would not turn into a full fist. But the rest of the prosthetic moved without any visible jerks.

G continued, "We had to amputate. The nerves in your arm was too damaged. The moment you woke up, it caused unbearable pain. It took awhile, since we did not have the medical capabilities to halt the poisonings' growth."

"How many years?" I asked again, deducing where the conversation was going.

"The freezing process was the only thing that slowed down the poisoning—"

"How many years?" I demanded.

The agent stopped his explanation, slowly putting on his glasses again. It was now spotless and shining in the light after the lengthy cleaning. "Fifteen years Milton. It took fifteen years for us to get the medical sciences well enough to stabilize you."

My arm dropped to the side with a loud clang as it hit the rail of the bed. "Fifteen years. One-five." I repeated in disbelief.

"Yeah," G confirmed grimly. "And even then, we didn't really want to bring you out yet."

My gut was spinning. It was the feeling you get when you stared over the edge of a tall building and the body reacts to the idea of plummeting to your death with a somersault in the abdomen. That kind of feeling. Something else about the grimness of the whole situation had thrown me off though. Had it just been a damaged arm, the successful surgery should have been an occasion for celebration. Instead the foreboding mood told me something else was at play.