He was three or four inches taller than me, maybe six foot three and two hundred and twenty pounds with incredible bright cobalt blue eyes, curly blonde hair and perfect cupid bow pretty lips. He was wearing a white wife beater t-shirt so I could easily see that he had a flat stomach, narrow waist, wash-board abs, broad shoulders with huge biceps. He was very vascular and veins were sticking out just below the skin. I’d never seen anyone like that before, it was different. He wore faded Levis and Nikes with no socks. I didn’t know it then, but his name was Bruce and he was a cop. The aura of control that he emanated made me want to kneel before him and await his orders. Ten years later, the image still makes me weak-kneed. I watched him while I drank my beer. I got up to go to the bathroom and as I was walking back to my spot at the bar, he approached me and said, "I think you want to dance with me. Think you can keep up?" "Do you mean on the dance floor?" I asked coyly. I’d. Until then..."Margaret knelt down beside Jeff as the men were talking, and stared at the healer, then, forcing herself, the wound. "Don't you think you need to have a doctor, at least, check this out?" she asked, her eyes indicating his arm."She'll put it back together. If I understand correctly, she synthesized some sort of blood substitute to keep me alive while she did the immediate repairs. Now she is having my body make its own blood at an increased rate, while she is regenerating nerve tissue. She'll get around to the cosmetics when she's done with everything else. My strength should come back as the synthetic is replaced with the real stuff. As to the hospital, I wouldn't be here if Diana hadn't thought to get the healer out. I would never have made it to a hospital. She'll do what the big one on the ship did for me; it will just take longer." But how did you get it to work? Admittedly, we never imagined it had anything to do with healing. But how did you realize that it could.
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