Look at them; they’re all the same with their dead brown eyes and dull brown hair and blotchy skin, and average height and average weight and average everything. What a sight he’d be among them, a blonde and green-eyed angel among the clones. And Freddie - Freddie would be even more magnificent in their midst, but it’d be an insult to fling her in with the rest of them. He sneers at their similarities, their likeness. Everything about them is common; nothing is worth mentioning about these men. He wagers even their laughs will sound exactly alike.
Batch number 327292. Production of the fools was supervised by a kind doctor Cyril interned under many years back. Cyril doesn’t remember his name, but he remembers the brown eyes. Brown. Such a proletariat color. Brown is the color of the weak, of those who needed to have their pairs assigned to them.
Freddie and he, they’re different. They chose each other, and should they be given another chance at the decision, they’d go over it the exact same way they did the last time.
The monotony of the Commons’ struggle is broken by a single redhead slicing a clear path through them. Cyril presses his hand against the one-way mirror, and leans in close, so close, to better see if it’s the man he’s expecting. The glass is cold to his touch, like Freddie, but it blurs when his breath kisses it. Freddie doesn’t do that. Glass is beautiful, yes, but inferior to her.
He ignores the scraping of the door as it opens, but retches at the unfortunate stench it brings with it. Common sweat – pungent, tangy, foul. Unpleasant. “Shut that godforsaken door and get a freshener in here,” Cyril snaps. “You’re bringing a part of them in with you.”
The man waves a small metal can as he shuts the door. He takes a seat and motions for Cyril to take the one opposite him.
The plush velvet sofa yields under Cyril’s weight. It’s smooth and soft, a gentle reminder of her. “Why were you even out there?” Cyril asked. “One needn’t ever come into contact with such –“ Pause, for propriety’s sake –“beasts. You even stink of them.”
Rhode’s smile withers. “It won’t kill you to thank me every once in a while, Cyril. I brought the freshener, didn’t I? I was only out on Mother’s business.”
“Mother’s business? Private business, then? Private business you’d never share with me, on your life and loyalty, heart and soul, mind and body?” He smiles, and it freezes his expression. Smiles don’t suit Cyril. “You brought me here. Here is far, so very far away from home, Rhode. A hundred kilometers and five minutes by porting. You must have a good reason, or Mother will hear of this.” He looks away, back at the Commons, and drums his fingers on the coffee table between them.
“Mother already knows. She knows everything, and Mother willing, she’ll continue to be the way she is for the rest of her reign, may it last forever. You know why you’re here, Cyril. You’re almost thirty now. Please.” Rhode spreads glossy pictures across the table, and Cyril peers at them. All the pictures are of putrid girls, all posing and smiling and waving, and none of them as beautiful as his Frederike. His Freddie, the only one for him.
First is a girl with blonde hair and violet eyes the color of grapes. Freddie always liked grapes, but she’d hate this girl, Cyril could tell. The girl is pig-faced, with a nose so big Cyril mistook it for a growth on her face. Nerissa, said the name under the face. An ugly name for an ugly girl.
One by one he tosses the pictures away from him, away from the table, anywhere into the room, until he chances upon one that makes him pause. Freddie? No, no. It’s not her. This girl is beasatly, nothing like Freddie. Its face was round, not oval, the way Freddie’s was, and it had chalky skin, whereas Freddie’s skin isn’t unlike silk. He awards this one special attention for mocking Freddie and tears it into pieces before flinging the shreds at Rhode.
Rhode flinches. Satisfied, Cyril leans back into his sofa, flicking a strand of hair away from his eyes as he does so.
“Do you think it’s amusing? It’s all a game to you, isn’t it? We’re not Commons, Cy. Mother watches us closely. She knows what you feel about everything.” Rhode grits his teeth and leans close, no doubt in an attempt to intimidate Cyril. “About her. About pairing. She only wants the best for you.”
“She doesn’t know anything. Doesn’t know anything, doesn’t know everything, but she might know nothing.” She doesn’t know about Freddie, and she never will, not as long as Cyril willed it to be so. He’s better than Mother, only she doesn’t know it. Better in every way possible, every field imaginable.
Rhode ignores the bait. “Name anyone you want, Cyril. I’ll pair you with her. Make it happen. We’re friends. I don’t want anything to happen to you because you’re…” Rhode gestures at Cyril.
The doctor studies the redhead’s eyes. “Anyone I want?” Wait, Freddie. This might be their break; they’re so close, and Rhode seems so sincere. “I thought Pairs have to be controlled, to avoid…accidents. Don’t tell me Mother is disregarding everything our forefathers worked for. All that effort, gone to waste. Tsk tsk tsk.”
“Anyone you want. It won’t matter who. We’re all perfect, and hey, what’s the worst that could happen if perfection breeds with perfection? Mutated children?” The pathetic attempt at humor is ignored, disregarded, dismissed.
Cyril stands, and Rhode’s eyes widen in alarm.
“Come with me,” Cyril says. “I’ll show you who I want, then, if you’re so serious about it.”
“What?”
Cyril allows the silence to stew, linger, and stale. The freshener smells of sandalwood and cloves, but fails to completely cover up the whiff of Common sweat in the air. Rhode shifts in his seat and breaks eye contact.
“I’ll – I’ll sign out immediately, Cy. Just give me five minutes to inform Mother of where I’m going and –“
“No, we’re leaving.” Cyril’s waited too long for this; he doesn’t wish to wait any longer. Freddie can’t wait any longer either; they’ve both waited long enough. “Now, or you can spend the next five years trying to schedule an appointment with me again. I’m a very busy man, Rhode, a very busy man. Don’t doubt me; don’t test me.”
Rhode hesitates, but Cyril sees the look in Rhode’s eye. There’s no question about it – Cyril will get what he wants. The doctor turns and strides out the back door in swift movements, glad he doesn’t have to wade through Common filth the way Rhode did. The redhead scrambles after Cyril, picking up his freshener and the photographs scattered across the room.
“Twenty minutes, Cyril. You only get twenty minutes, including travel time,” Rhode calls.
Twenty minutes is enough, more than enough. It doesn’t matter anyway, doesn’t, didn’t, and won’t matter. Once Rhode sees Freddie, he’ll be hooked, and he won’t leave until Cyril and Freddie are a legal Pair.
Cyril lives close to the Medical Center, though, and this worries him. It means five minute, five long minutes in the Porter with Rhode. Agonizing, dreadful, terrible minutes.
Spoiler
So, I accidentally failed at posting part two. >.O Guess it's coming tomorrow. Also! I'm trying something new with my prose here, so I'd like to know if it works or not (personally, I lean towards the mayyybe not side of things.)
