Amara Calussa

### Amara Calussa- Human Clone Medic

I sit inside my grease-pot mod shack, a hollowed tunnel hidden in the side of a dirtied concrete ravine, watching the sludge and industrial waste flow by at a slow crawl. I lean against the doorway and stare out for a long time, at the smoking haphazard factories, the people hunched and coughing as they inhale the fumes of the sky, the tall glass buildings at the center of the city. Rali Colony. The largest producer of electronics and mechanics on the Eastern Ocean.

I step back inside and look at myself in the smudged and cracked mirror and wipe the concoction of oil and blood and sweat from my arms, only to smear it further. Model Amara Calussa. There are thousands of us here. All the same. Same combination of genes and chromosomes. Same bulging muscular attachments and joint connections molded within a feminine body. Same mole high on the left cheek. Same short black hair and dark burgundy skin.

Same same same. Always and forever the same. Damn genetics. Truly a curse. They are always surprised when they see me the first time, expecting to see some underground rugrat with tatters of cloth hugging his sides and permanent stains of grease in his pores. Their faces are always the same. *An Amara Calussa?* Confusion, surprise, distrust. I tell them, the clients, workers, and greasers, all of mine are on the inside. Yes, you heard that right. Only for me and my lovers to see, not you you nosy good-for-nothing moneyball. Do you want a mod or not? Yes? Then sit down, pay, shut your mouth, and get ready to be opened up.

Their minds whirl a million rotations a minute like the tip of my joint drill until I put them under, knock ‘em out with the good stuff. They never like to see the pain and passion, only the end result of my efforts. When they wake up I let them twirl and play with their new wire and metal. They’re like a blind man seeing the world for the first time, and before it ends, I send them through the door with a loving pat on the shoulder and a kick to the back. Better that they’re away when the numbing block wears off and the infection kicks in. Let the pickpockets and beggars deal with them. Not my problem. I never promised health and safety.

If they want that, they can go to one of those prim little EXOGEN shops. But they know that. No. They want, *they crave*, what I can give them. Parts they’ll never sell. Parts that make you feel something. Oh! If only those uptight paint-drying supposedly everlasting industry witches could see me now. Rolling in the credits and eating the delicacies of life. What’s for dinner tonight? Glad you asked. One portion of spiced and roasted gutter rat — served over a bed of vegetable paste.

I close up shop and take a look around. Guess it’s goodbye for now and forever. Never been the sentimental type, though I wonder how many aspirations and dreams you’ve harbored in your cracks and crevices only to let them seep through. Nevermind that though. They’re all filled to the brim with dried-up oil now anyways.

I check the memo once more and grab the bag of stained drills, syringes, hammers, and welding guns.

*Report to EXOGEN Rali Headquarters at 0600 hours for immediate compulsory deployment to Proxima-B*

Compulsory? Yea, don’t worry: I’ll be there. You pricks.