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Two virii walked into a bar. They order a drink, discuss the varying mitochondria of the world, and then go home to clone.
Vince the virus had two million clones -- a moderate size family in a nice section of the GI tract. He was comfortable here. His clones merrily bounced off each other eithin their tiny cell at the end of a small cul-de-sac in a quiet part of the lower duodenum.
One day, they would become enough that they would burst free, encapsulate themselves in their own protein shell, and seek out a host cell of their own where the cycle would repeat itself.
Of course, the home of their RNA years would be destroyed in the process, and they would remember nothing of him, while he passed onto the Great Beyond. He would be unceremoniously buried in fecal matter and flushed down into the great watery grave of his people.
That's how it went, though, and he was ok with that.
Here in this part of the world, all was peaceful. Reports of bad tidings had come in from other parts via the intracellular web they had established. New creatures -- chemical, in nature, it appeared -- had begun attacking their quiet way of life. Some had been bullied out of new hosts, some had even reported break in's that stopped or destroyed clones so that they could not carry on to greener pastures.
Vince considered himself lucky. It had been a tough decision, choosing a host where he did. The night he had met with Roberto in the bar, his friend had talked exitedly about the action going on in the lymph nodes that were growing quickly, mostly north of where he sat in his comfy chair.
But the fast growth had attracted this bad element. He wasn't sure if Roberto was there anymore, or if his clones had ever made it out. Vince had, on a whim, chosen to go back to the place of his own clone years for its peace and simplicity. The newness did not attract him. His family had lived here for hundreds of life-cycles, here in the suburbs, and that was OK with him.
Roberto may already be gone. By his own internal clock, it was becoming about that time, anyways. But there was no way of knowning. Vince hoped that his friend's clones hadn't mutated like the Others, strong and more evil copies to beat back these new invaders.
He understood the need of the mutants. Their leaders insisted via the intracellular network that they were for the survival of the race. To Vince, they were pantomimes of good citizens designed for nothing more than survival. Disgusting and awful super-virii with the ability to evade and perhaps even destroy these invaders.
They made Vince sick. He was all for survival, but it was nice that his clones had maintained proper purity.
This was his thought before the first clone hit the cell wall and began to bud off. He watched the sky open up in a terrible shower of ripping protein, the cell collapsing around him. He wished his clones well.
The great sleep was overcoming him. His clones would spread racial purity. Hopefully, they would stay nearby and forego the speed and excitement of these new places. Vince believed it was these places that led to the awful mutations.
"What the hell," he thought, at the last, "we're all dead anyway, even this whole world will die, too."
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