The last thing I remembered I was just a head, floating in some perservative broth. I reminisced very slowly, occassionally aware that some world of sense existed outside. A flurry of electromagnetism combed the fuzz of my thoughts into strands my mind could cling to. When I awoke, I thought I was in a showroom for inflatable furniture.
The malleables had decided to keep me among the living, preserved with aggressive macrophages, fed by catalysts that cascaded energy into my cells. They provided me with a wonderful new body, approximately human in form. They employed me as an oracle, caressed by enzymes of loving grace, stoned out of my mind for as long as I could be coaxed to respond: at this rate, perhaps three hundred years.
Where did the malleables come from? Probably the Japanese. I had seen some of the early models, their designs reoccured periodically, as there was a sort of fashion-sense to their random forms, like a self-correcting markovian stream of trendy designs. The early ones looked like balloon animals, chubby and full of smiles. That was supposedly my body type according to LaVey's rules of bodily conformation, some generous bubbly hedonism. I didn't intend to examine the psychodynamics of the system. I already had enough narcissism to keep me going until my nervous system fails.
I got up to check the list of attendants. My primary assistant wheeled in, flailing tentacles yet perfectly balanced. It faced me with delicately nuanced control and display panels, chosen this day to please me.
"Prophet," it said, sweeping the floor with its pliant limbs, "You are the nougat center of our steel-belted radius."
"I am that."
"Prophet. I entreat you. Your poetic/revelatory systems are failing. You haven't given audience for 3 days."
"Bring me a blood-filled mosquito," I requested randomly.
"As you wish." And they would find the mosquito, if it was the last on the planet.
Being among the last humans was, and still is, very satisfying. You can have sex with just about anything. All the machines, the malleables, are rubbery in that semi-transparent way. Ever wonder what sound the toaster makes when it's just about to come? It's like having a world of highly functional sextoys are your disposal. It's so free and easy that it's almost boring, but then a cute little street sweeper comes up and then it's whumpwhump in the dustbin. And no danger of electric shock. They are all run by distributed hydrogen power membranes. There's water from their respiro-exhaust cycle everywhere. And moss too. Plenty of moss. I've always loved moss. I recline in it.