《Shadow and Dust》


 Prologue

    He couldn¡¯t remember her name. It was a thing he tried to recall as he watched her sleep, just to see if he could. It started with a ¡®O¡¯, he thought. And as he ran through the list of possible names, he started to play with a strand of her hair delicately, thinking it might jog his memory. Olivia, perhaps?


    Then, with an odd sense of pride in not knowing who was next to him, he pushed himself up and started to gather his belongings. It was too early for what¡¯s-her-name to be stirred. He felt confirmed of that by the sound of her falling breathing, a deep sleeping sound. She¡¯d have to face the hard truth in the late morning, when the pale sunlight would wake her up.


    Collecting some things around the sink, he glanced past an ovular mirror to grab his watch. Though while reaching for it, something intuitively struck him as false, a kind of something he had not yet taken into account when confronted with his own image; and his reach failed to complete its course.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Taking in his own appearance then, he realized that he had not done so for quite some time. And while he was well into the afternoon of life, there was very little to show that that was the case. For his skin was still buoyant and firm, carrying a smoothness that defied the soon arrival of a sag or crease. He also had a full head of hair ¨C thick, black and without a strand of grey. But this wasn¡¯t at all what was on his mind as he looked over himself. His attention was rather on the small corner of his mouth. For it was there that something had clearly changed; and not something that showed him to be older or less distinguished.


    He leaned forward and inspected it from multiple angles. No, he confirmed, it was just something that simply showed him to be cruel.


    Then a flicker of hyper familiarity. It was off in the distance, long away in the future. He stepped back in bemusement at the premonition. He knew what he saw was a vision, a subtle foresight of what¡¯s to come.


    The man stepped forward again, receiving the image of himself as one surrendered to the fates.


    ¡°Then that is my end¡­And my son¡­he is the key that will get me there.¡±

 Chapter 1: New Beginnings

    Fifteen years earlier.


    It was late in the night when Eloise was still laboring for the birth of her son. And even though it was a son, that only erased half the nerves that she had upon finding that she was pregnant. There were still the predictions¡­


    Given her high status as an Aesthete, she received priority admittance to The Greater Chelsea Hospital near Elm Park Gardens. On the outside, it was a preserved structure that was newly renovated with neo-gothic arches and pillars. On the inside however, everything was plainly modern, as if opting to satisfy function over fashion. And that¡¯s what Eloise particularly didn¡¯t like about the place. Never so unfaithfully had she seen a building and the times meet. Though despite this, she thought it best to be among the best doctors in London, and that¡¯s why she chose Greater Chelsea. But even under their care, there was something unfavorable about it: she couldn¡¯t help but feel surrounded by strangers. And where there are times when a stranger can provide a much-needed connection, this certainly was not one of them.


    She was alone.


    One of the nurses was finishing a few things before turning to Eloise, ¡°Alright, Mrs. Hue, it¡¯s time to get started.¡±


    ¡°Oh, is it now?¡± Eloise shot back with humored disbelief.


    Given enough time, all nurses become accustomed to every sort of sass and so develop a learned ear for ignoring such, but when she heard Eloise, she turned immediately and searched her face for meaning.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll let you know when it¡¯s time to get started.¡± Eloise said sharply.


    ¡°Yes, mam.¡¯¡± The nurse lightly bowing as she said this, thoroughly abashed.


    Eloise was about to say more but took a deep breathe instead, remembering that she was only an Innocent. They were like crowds, she thought ¨C they can feel but they can¡¯t think.


    After a while her complexion was noticeably whiter. The taxation on her body finally began to take its toll, leaving her with trembling hands, frizzy hair and sagging eyes. Her pale face was shimmering with a thin layer of moisture that also began to pervade her extremities; and she frowned at the irritation of her skin sticking to her scrub-like gown. All of which was made even worse at the next thought: All of this and still no baby.


    Over the course of an hour, a difference took form amid the falling of her labored breath, a small announcement she kept repeating to herself:


    ¡°it¡¯s almost over¡­it¡¯s almost over.¡±


    She then recognized the same nurse she scolded give her spotted glances ¨C prompting her to think about how this probably sounded.


    ¡°I¡¯m not as cynical as you might think,¡± she said to the nurse before turning to the doctor, ¡°and if it¡¯s all the same with you, I¡¯d like another nurse that will actually assist in this procedure instead of staring at me dumbly.¡±


    The doctor then looked at the nurse in a way that conveyed his wish to satisfy Eloise¡¯s request, asking her to politely leave. And only after the nurse turned away did he say, ¡°Can you please send in Margaret?¡±


    ¡°She isn¡¯t a do-nothing-nurse too is she?¡± Eloise said.


    ¡°No-no, Margaret is our best. She¡¯s a Lumen.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    After the new nurse entered the room, Eloise felt a little more at ease but still struggled to relax her mind. Thoughts of him kept surfacing; and knowing how close he probably was made her worry. Could he already be here in the hospital, she wondered?


    ***


    Outside the birthing room, a young man was sitting alone directly across the door from where cries where unmistakably behind. He had a solid build that was noticeable through the tailored fit of his suite. From neck to toe, everything was black.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    With a relaxed close of his book, he looked up and stared at the door in front of him. If it weren¡¯t for the fact that he was the only one there, you would not have put him down as the expecting father. His repose was entirely unfitting, unpossessed by the out-of-ease disposition common to such circumstances. And if you looked at his eyes ¨C looked into them ¨C it would throw you into such questioning that would only heighten, however lightly, a general concern for those on whose behalf made him a visitor. Despite all this, there was an unrelenting truth: this man was going to be a father.


    ***


    A long time had passed before it was finished. Eloise was every bit exhausted but with a fresh content that only a new mother can understand. Having her arms full, she began to rock the baby lightly and call at him,


    ¡°Hi, my little boy...Hi, my son.¡±


    The doctor studied her as he was cleaning up. ¡°What¡¯s his name going to be?¡±


    Looking up at him, Eloise hesitated to smile before responding.


    ¡°His name is, Arran.¡±


    Taking a moment to process, he then looked at her more seriously. ¡°But¡­¡±


    Anticipating this conjunction, Eloise casted a glare that would¡¯ve seized even the most earnest objection. Such that the doctor immediately became disturbed. He had never seen such a contortion sweep through someone¡¯s temperament so rapidly; and witnessing it, he instantly drew his eyes downward, like a dog that¡¯s been caught in its obvious crime.


    ¡°A suitable name.¡± he finally let out.


    He was careful not say more. He knew that this was a premature decision: Arran was a name for an Aesthete, which isn¡¯t supposed to be given until after the first prediction, when you know if the child is destined (more or less) to be an Aesthete or an Innocent. Before then, it¡¯s customary to give a newborn a neutral name, one that will later serve as their middle name after an appropriate first name is earned.


    Eloise looked back down and kissed her sons¡¯ forehead lightly, ¡°You¡¯re going to be great one day.¡±


    ¡°Arran Hue it is then.¡± The doctor said before finalizing the paper work, hoping that Eloise might catch the error and change her mind. But Eloise didn¡¯t offer any correction and the name stood.*


    Being more relaxed, she surveyed her birthing suite and took inventory of what surrounded her, noting its plainness. Of them, the pale drapes, the shabby grey (and empty) partner chair, the tasteless painting of a maple leaf and the laminated wood flooring were the most depressing. It¡¯s all outdated and uncultured. How can a place dedicated to the well-being of its inhabitants make progress, she wondered, when its design is so decidedly dull? Waving it off, she eased into a deep breath. She had wished that her grandfather could¡¯ve been there to see his lineage extend. Memories of them together suddenly flooded her mind: spring walks along the Seine; the smell of pipe tobacco that followed him; museum trips that accompanied history lessons. At the age of ten, it was after her parents had passed away tragically that he practically raised her.


    When Eloise closed her eyes, much of her endearment began to fizzle away; for even with her newborn secure in her hold, her mind found recourse into more troubling things. And almost instantaneously, fear set into her wearied features, pinching the ends of her mouth slightly lower. She knew that the first round of predictions isn¡¯t run until six months after a child¡¯s birth. Of course, these were less certain than the second-round results, which were administered at the age of two; but even still, the first round was significant enough. Thus, she concluded that only then, if the results were what her husband wanted, could she finally bring herself to rest.


    ***


    Sometime later when everyone had left the room, Mr. Hue opened the door to find Eloise holding his new born son. ¡°Hello, my wife.¡± His voice announced a warmth gesturing a pretense only half veiled, a subtle intent that Eloise didn¡¯t fail to notice; but she only followed him with her dark green eyes. ¡°Ah, the silent treatment then.¡± Mr. Hue moved closer despite the lack of invitation. For Eloise, this silence was not a reaction affected by her previous worry, as if freezing her tongue. No, this was the formidable Eloise ¨C a side of her that Mr. Hue was in fact no stranger to ¨C and as he drew closer he noticed how she met his gaze with what could only be a new maternal ardor. He gave a faint smirk as he spoke, ¡°I hope you¡¯re feeling alright¡­I see you have our new son¡­¡±


    Eloise shook her head disgustedly. ¡°Your attempt at courtesy is quite frankly annoying, Alastair.¡± She was suddenly in his mind at this point: He will be an Aesthete.


    Alastair felt this coded impression of energy, a signature of his wife¡¯s thoughts. We¡¯ll let the predictions determine that, he returned.


    He was now by her side as he looked down to see the child. Standing, he made a towering figure. But unlike some men whose height compromised the integrity of their stature, making them rather clumsy, his dimensions seemed almost unnaturally proportioned. Such that his legs carried the agility of an elite wrestler. Although, this wasn¡¯t entirely out of chance: Mr. Hue¡¯s genome was engineered to produce nothing less than perfection. For having belonged to an Aesthete family, he was a part of a population where such modifications are provided ¨C or better yet, paid for.


    And now, Arran too was a product of the same privileged modifications.


    Mr. Hue made a pivot for the door and spoke over his shoulder before disappearing.


    ¡°And for his sake, they better be good.¡±

 Chapter 2: A Sleepless Night

    It was an early spring morning when Eloise awoke in her flat in Midtown. From her bedroom window you could look over the river Thames running southbound, along with what used to be Old Town Chelsea. Ever since the rising demand of the sweeping Aesthetic Movement, pursuits in architecture was one of the first considerations; and with novel tastes for France¡¯s ¡®man conquering nature¡¯ theme, renovations were already underway to embody its architectural counterpart in the New Parisian style, featuring taller windows and jutted out terraces, an extension that nearly made a foot-long platform. These ¡®enlightened renovations¡¯ were carried over into other territories as well, which, being always governed by Aesthetes, were established as a new domain. And its name eventually caught on. It was called, Aesthesia. All in all, it was the revival of a middle age spirit. A kind of neo-renaissance awakening brought to the height of modern fashion.


    Leading some of these architectural projects during the time was Jean Blanchard, Eloise¡¯s grandfather. A thin but strong man with a full head of grey hair, he was one of the chief architects for designing and supervising the layout of Pinnacle, a residential complex in Midtown. Previously, he had won acclaim in Paris for designing his large scale ¡®tree houses.¡¯ Though their praise was more in due to their purpose than their visual appeal. For these towers came with a crisscross pattern that revealed a luscious green up and down the entire structure ¨C thousands of juniper trees. And with large technological fans built within the exterior came the result of what was an ingenious expedition for removing greenhouse gasses from the atmosphere. Needless to say, despite the scattered criticism, they were much more endeared by the public than the initial Eiffel tower was.


    But when the job was done at Pinnacle, the local opinion (which is what mattered most) was complete admiration for the elegance of the new edifice. In fact, one of the primary owners was so impressed that he offered Jean any one of his flats for half off, should he ever consider moving in. He ended the conversation on this note: It would be a shame to my courtesy and an injustice to London should I not entice the creator of this magnanimous complex to live here. I hope you will consider it.


    Jean did consider. And since he was so pleased with the building himself, he couldn¡¯t find it in him to refuse such an offer. Plus, it was hard not to see the practicality of having a residence in London, being as it was a new mecca for his line of work. So, by the end of the year, when Jean had found a pause from his projects in Paris, he and Eloise returned to London and settled themselves into one of the penthouse suites there at Pinnacle. And over time, that two thousand square foot habitation became more than a second home. It became a place that served as their little rendez-vous of cultural surplus: such that their holidays were spent gathering paintings to decorate what they called their peu d¡¯exces.


    But when Jean passed away Eloise decided to move the rest of her belongings to London and take up permanent residence there.


    In the end, Eloise would find it easy to say that her grandfather had given her everything in life. And while the claim had some merit, to say this was to only get at half the truth. Indeed, she had much to thank her parents for ¨C which not least of all was each and every morning she woke up energized.


    Since her parents were both Aesthetes, while Eloise was in the womb she was privileged to all the genetic modifications available at the time. And though the engineers confessed that her DNA was already quite perfect, there was one stark hang-up: her sleep SNPs (single nucleic polymorphisms). According to them, her AANAT, PER2 and 3, CLOCK, COMT and various other SNPs less directly related to the sleep equation, indicated that she was determined to suffer from a delayed sleep phase onset (DSPO), hyposomnia and a hyper REM disorder. Thus, her main alterations were done so as to optimize her sleep.


    Now, due as a result to this intervention, she could sleep for five hours and not have any of the residual cognitive deficits that would otherwise zombify her. She didn¡¯t even have to set an alarm to wake up. For the modifications regulated a circadian rhythm that announced its fulfillment at the crack of dawn. In the final analysis, every primary sleep coding gene was corrected for ¨C leaving hardly anything left of her natural genetic makeup that could potentially interfere with a perfect sleep schedule.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    And this was why Eloise was so perturbed¡­


    For on this particular night, all of that engineering seemed to fail her. The hour was a little after midnight when she came to terms with her restlessness, deciding to finally get out of bed and walk. Placing her foot on the floor, a dim light gently outlined the silhouettes of intrusive objects. So that when her second step determined a decisive path, a giant regency mirror, a high-back chair situated in a corner and, directly above, a miniature chandelier, were the first of these illuminated.


    With every step, new objects were revealed while old ones dulled out behind her. And if one looked from the outside in, they would see these ornate spaces from long faced windows ¨C they would see her too ¨C complimenting their decadence with a grace of her own. She was a slender figure with porcelain skin and chocolatey brown hair. There was age in her eyes, a poise that bespoke a breadth and depth beyond her years. But in contrast, there was energy in her movement and youth in her face; such that her age was utterly riddled by appearance.


    As she moved effortlessly through each room, her silky gown played to her curves. Flashes and glints rolled through the material sensually. From head to toe she was flawless.


    Passing through the kitchen and then the reading room, she shortened her steps as she approached Arran¡¯s door.


    ***


    The sun was now rising, and Eloise could tell by the receding darkness on the walls. She thought that it must be around 06:00. Leaving Arran to sleep, she walked back to her room with the intention of getting changed. But when she reached the threshold, she had to fight the urge to sit on her bed, knowing that that was her body¡¯s way of beckoning her to sleep. Instead, she reached in her little cabinet next to the fireplace and pulled out a bottle of gin. Pouring herself a glass she walked over to her study room, sat in a lounge chair, and started to write in her journal.


    Eloise¡¯s Journal


    Well it¡¯s been some time, Journal. Some things to note:


    I¡¯ve loved caring for Arran. And I¡¯m pleased with how I look now. Most of the baby fat from the pregnancy is gone and I¡¯m starting to see the shape of my abdomen again. Just in time for summer. I plan on taking Arran to Brighton then. That will be his first time seeing the beach.


    Today, I woke up at night (technically morning) a little after zero hundred hours. And to say I woke up is generous; I don¡¯t think I slept at all. Instead, I spent the rest of my sleeping hours feeding Arran and watching him in his crib. He¡¯s truly fascinating. And it may be my bias as a mother, but I really do feel something special about him. When we were at Green Park yesterday, I was exploring his mind to see what he was experiencing. There was nothing particularly notable, just a lot of emotive impressions moved by external stimuli. But then he suddenly turned to me as if he knew that I was there ¨C as if he could sense that I was in his mind. He held my gaze for a while and then got distracted by a squirrel racing by. I don¡¯t know¡­As I said before, I¡¯m a biased mother, and most mothers unfailingly report the same thing, not realizing that, of course, while you obsessively search your child¡¯s mind, you¡¯re going to witness some spontaneous looks from them multiple times a day. I don¡¯t want to be one of those mums. I will admit that I¡¯m optimistic, but I¡¯m not a significance junkie, which isn¡¯t something I could say for the rest of those mothers. But still, optimism could be enough to seed error; so let¡¯s just keep this between us, journal.


    I honestly don¡¯t think that I¡¯m mistaken when I say that Arran really did catch my telepathic signature. Let¡¯s just for a minute assume that that¡¯s true. But then, wow¡­to do that this early, that would really be something. I wasn¡¯t able to do that until I was five ¨C and I¡¯m among the top percentile in fluency (for most other Aesthetes it¡¯s not until they¡¯re nearly ten that they can pick up when someone else is walking in their mind). I think this is also partly why I haven¡¯t gotten any sleep: I¡¯m so anxious about these damn predictions. And if I¡¯m right about his higher affinity for frequency, that would more than likely mean that he¡¯s an Aesthete (on the basis that Innocents are terrible at fluency). Ah! this day needs to be over. I just need to know.


    I¡¯ll end my entry on this note, a new conviction in fact: Everyone needs a flower in their life.


    And Arran is mine.

 Chapter 3: Adieu

    15 years later.


    It was in the Fall of 2092 that Eloise dropped Arran off at the Metropole of Erudition, an hour or so directly south of their home in Chelsea, London. And although they had gone together, it wasn¡¯t like the typical send-off you get from a parent. There was no celebration, no parting gift, no real sense of maternal endearment. Instead, there was only one main agenda that motivated her ¨C and that was to hand her son off as dutifully as a sprinter might hand off a baton.


    Even so, it was Arran¡¯s idea to arrive a week early.


    ¡°Can we leave for the Metropole tomorrow morning, mum? I want to get a general feel for the place so that I¡¯m not overwhelmed when classes start.¡±


    ¡°Sounds reasonable,¡± Eloise said in an even tone, the kind of tone used to intentionally hide a tell. ¡°If that¡¯s what you want let¡¯s pack everything today and be ready to leave early tomorrow morning.¡±


    ¡°Perfect. Are you sure that¡¯s alright with you?¡±


    ¡°Of course not, but I must let you go some day.¡±


    And so it was settled: The next morning they began a quiet road trip in their hovercraft, sharing the streets with hurried people who hovered towards punch clocks and computer desks; and also those loaded vehicles, having no less than two inebriated Innocents, either coming from or going to a rave.


    Looking out the window, it made Arran a little sad that a long time would pass before he would see his home again, his mum too. Up until that point she had been everything to him ¨C caregiver, teacher, counselor, provider ¨C the very person he modeled his life after. Yet, he was ready for a change.


    He looked at Eloise then and observed her Spanish-French features. She had a long neck that extended smoothly but then wrestled against an arc in her jawline; her glimmery brown hair, even this early, was in an immaculate pony tail; and her face was set in an up-tilted pose, polishing her appearance to a noticeable dignity. As to her clothes, she was in her casual form: a cherry red blazer tailored over a white shirt with dark pants to contrast; and medium-level heels, enough to force a defining calf.


    Watching her then, even in the simple task of monitoring their hovercraft, Arran was convinced that she looked every inch a business woman, an Aesthete of the first order. Eloise felt her son¡¯s attention and looked over at him, allowing a smile to cross her face. Arran returned it with one of his own. He then looked back out the window, feeling slightly unusual as he flipped through their past.


    He was recalling their lessons together, and how in some cases Eloise would get upset with him¡­when I took too long to comprehend something, or when I forgot a date or a definition that we covered a week before¡­and her demands were often petty, extreme and exhausting.


    Of course, Arran came to understand her concern: there¡¯s a certain standard to uphold when you¡¯re an Aesthete¡¯s child. By the time you¡¯ve turned eleven years old, it was normal, almost expected, to know three languages, three instruments and three three-course meals ¨C all proficiently. Aesthete mums would always publicly herald their children whenever they¡¯d reached this distinction. They were called three-bees.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    But for the majority of Arran¡¯s life, the term¡¯s point of use was never in reference to himself. Which for him meant that it was always an annoying occurrence. It went something like this: Oh, Eloise, by the way, we have a new little three-bee on our hands. Both mum and dad were both equally eager to make this pronouncement. And Eloise would try to be as excited for them as she could, but at the same time it was just an obtrusive reminder that Arran was running out of time to become her own little three-bee.


    But eventually it happened: It was his eleventh birthday that, after he knew Spanish fairly well as a third language and his Beef Wellington was good enough, Eloise could finally claim her beloved three-bee with little reserve. Although Arran wasn¡¯t very confident with the new title, so he tried to change the subject whenever it was broached ¨C lest someone start a clamor for him to show off a Bach improvisation on the cello.


    Eloise and Arran were still in the country when they entered Brighton¡¯s borders (a technically non-Aesthesian region). And to Arran¡¯s surprise, the scenery only went through a few small transformations before arriving at the Metropole of Erudition.


    ¡°What do you think?¡± Eloise asked.


    ¡°I think I like it: you can sense that they¡¯ve made an effort at preserving the old English way of life. A quaint country life.¡±


    Eloise didn¡¯t reply, and Arran went on noticing the landscape ¨C how it remained untamed and unkempt, letting hedges and elm trees dash out in whichever way the fates had designed for them.


    When they rode up the entrance park of the Metropole, Arran noted it structural design:


    ¡°It¡¯s relatively modern, but still with a mid 21<sup>st</sup> century flair for wider windows and a concrete exterior.¡±


    Arran saw his mum nod a passive approval, ¡°It¡¯s extraordinary.¡±


    Yes, extraordinarily ugly, Arran specified to himself. He knew that she didn¡¯t like it, and to which part he wasn¡¯t certain; but right before he had made the point about the building¡¯s design, she had mumbled her little Spanish colloquial ¨C a phrase he knew from her to be as honest and reactionary as blinking. Que feo.


    When Eloise decided it was time for her to go, they both walked side by side out of Arran¡¯s resident hall. Along the path to the parking lot, he noticed the cameras planted on tall poles (the same ones he had seen inside the Metropole). He imagined that they must see everything, kept track of everything.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to miss you, mum,¡± Arran turned to her to say, and gave a tight hug around her shoulders.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to miss you too, sweetheart.¡± He couldn¡¯t recall if she had hugged him back or not; he was too focused on locking his arms around her ¨C trying to transmit, as if he could, an absolute ¡°I love you¡± into her body ¨C that he couldn¡¯t remember to feel (if they were there) the impression of her slender arms against his back.


    ¡°Remember to check-in with me when you can,¡± she said. Here they were loosed from each other and she almost met him eye to eye (an advantage elicited from her heels).


    ¡°I will,¡± he assured her, trying not to look too sad now. She gently held up his face with her fingers, encouraging eye contact, wanting to get one last good look at her son ¨C the product of her singular efforts.


    ¡°Make me proud, Arran,¡± she said ¨C and without hesitation he responded: I will.


    After they said good-bye, Arran watched his mum as she gracefully made for the car, wondering if he ever really could make her proud. (When he heard the word ¡®proud¡¯ from her, it was only used in this context: as something yet to be attained ¨C never actually spoken to express a present feeling ¨C never actually ¡°I¡¯m proud of you.¡±). His surety was dropping.


    Halfway to the car, she turned to wave one last goodbye, and in one fluid motion, after she dropped her hand and took her head around, the gesture successfully transferred to the back of her head; and Arran continued to watch as her pony tail swayed sentimentally (at least he liked to think it did).


    ¡°I will make her proud.¡±

 Chapter 4: Disappointment

    Back at Midtown, Eloise had invited her best friend over to discuss her misfortune.


    ¡°I am considerably disappointed, Audrey,¡± Eloise said solemnly as she twisted the top off of a bottle of gin.


    ¡°Why is that?¡±


    Eloise sat down next to her friend on the upholstered sofa, extending a glass to her. ¡°It¡¯s Arran.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Audrey started with a subtle mock gasp. ¡°What has he managed to do between the time that you dropped him off this morning and now?¡±


    Eloise smiled at her friend¡¯s candor. It was Audrey¡¯s custom to make light of her potential over-dramatizations. But she felt that this was different. For her, there was considerable reason to be disappointed in Arran, or at least in how life was turning out for him (an outcome more self-inflicted by elevated hopes than anything else). She had finally come to terms that whatever signs of brilliance she had seen in him when he was younger were a fluke, if not something dishonest colored by her own imagination¡­But she had already admitted to being a biased mother, so there was less surprise when the idea of blaming herself became an option.


    Just then Audrey saw her friend¡¯s face evolve with emotion, and she quickly changed her tone. ¡°Oh my, what¡¯s wrong, dear?¡±


    Eloise made a hard swallow as she wiped away under her eyelid, ¡°You know, I thought it would go away¡­¡±


    ¡°You thought what would go away?¡±


    Eloise let out a deep sigh to keep her voice from shaking, ¡°Do you remember when I told you to only speak English with Arran.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I do,¡± Audrey lifted her lively brown eyes with the upturn of her head, a movement that caused her red hair to shimmer. ¡°And it wasn¡¯t just English, you made me speak in different accents ¨C switching every month from Scottish to Irish to American to Australian and so on.¡±


    ¡°Do you know why I asked you to do that?¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t tell me¡­but you said it was for cultural enrichment.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­You thought that pretense?¡±


    The corner of Audrey¡¯s mouth flexed upward, a what-do-you-think? smile ¨C which only made Eloise grateful that she had such a loyal friend.


    ¡°So, what was the real reason?¡±


    Eloise gathered her thoughts in the length of an inhaled breath. ¡°When Arran was two, Alastair and I agreed that we would only speak with Arran in our native tongues, him English, me French ¨C that way Arran would be brought up in a bilingual environment.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    ¡°Makes sense.¡±


    ¡°Well as you may know, Alastair wasn¡¯t very preoccupied with being a father during that time, or a husband for that matter.¡±


    ¡°And so,¡± Audrey put the pieces together, ¡°Arran was falling behind with English.¡±


    ¡°Not just falling behind ¨C you remember how he abhorred it, how ugly he thought it was?¡±


    ¡°Ha, how can I forget.¡± Audrey reenacted the abhorrence in a whiny tone: ¡°C''est si moche! C''est si moche! ¨C though, I thought that was just in response to my accents.¡±


    Eloise shook her head. ¡°No, that was a declaration to all things English.¡±


    ¡°But he speaks English so well. How did he learn?¡±


    It was Eloise¡¯s turn for a what-do-you-think? smile.


    ¡°Oh, you poor woman; I understand now.¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    Audrey held up her petite frame as she offered a salute of her glass. ¡°And so began the long and strenuous process of teaching a child how to talk.¡±


    ¡°But only worse because Arran already had a language he insisted upon using.¡± Eloise took a long swig in memory of the endeavor. ¡°I know it seemed cruel. I kept him away from you at first to spare you the hassle and me the embarrassment; but those first few months were the hardest. It was a relentless series of fits and tantrums while he only attempted to speak in French. I told him I¡¯d never speak French to him again until he learned English.¡±


    ¡°But you did explain the situation to him? ¨C that it¡¯s an Aesthetic requirement and a non-negotiable for his education.¡±


    ¡°I did, but there¡¯s only so much a three-year-old can understand.¡±


    Audrey became quiet for a moment and Eloise studied her. Amid her distress, she could still admire Audrey¡¯s beauty, her marvelous red hair. She caught herself looking at it then ¨C sculpted backward to a large bun that peaked over her head, like a little sunrise.


    ¡°But there¡¯s more?¡± It was more of a statement than a question.


    Eloise remembered her angle ¨C why she had made Audrey recall Arran¡¯s struggle with English. ¡°Of course,¡± she looked at her friend searchingly while she set her glass down, ¡°Audrey you have to understand how optimistic I was. It was after jumping this hurdle for two long years, when I was satisfied enough in Arran¡¯s progress with English, that I finally returned to speak in French again. And I thought that that was the end of our struggle ¨C or at least the worst of it.¡±


    ¡°How do you mean?¡±


    Having felt again a new wave of strong emotion, Eloise looked away; and Audrey placed a patient hand on hers.


    Eloise reflected out loud: ¡°All of it was hard; it wasn¡¯t just teaching him English. The calculations, the sciences, synchronicity, music, fluency, history, and even culinary ¨C all of it was hard.¡±


    She later told Audrey that when she had first come to this conclusion (right before Arran was twelve years old), she had unenthusiastically decided to take him to a neurological specialist, a proper follow up to her concern (though not expecting to be affirmed of this concern). But after this visit, she was told to come back again so that a series of tests could be run. And when Eloise asked what for, she was informed of its standard nature, that most patients are requested to undergo this procedure for diagnostic purposes.


    Feeling that this was just another medical scam, she reluctantly agreed to reschedule. But after the course of the next couple weeks, when it was all said and done, she was finally confronted with the reality of the situation, or rather, the reality of her son¡¯s condition.


    ***


    After Audrey had left, Eloise sat on her bed blankly staring at the ground, only half aware that she was officially an empty-nester. Honestly, she would¡¯ve rather been more occupied with that existential crisis. Instead, this whole experience she was currently reeling back on begged the question more than ever before: Was Arran an Innocent after all?

 Chapter 5: Do You Want to Play?

    It was a beautiful Saturday morning. Arran arrived at a caf¨¦ he¡¯d been frequenting called Spinelli¡¯s and saw a burly man through the window arranging some things under the pastry glass. This was the owner ¨C which was a rare wonder to see at all, let alone one in the act of working.


    But this was in fact what Arran found interesting about the little caf¨¦: It was an owner operated business.*


    Arran also liked the owner himself, Mr. Dirby. He was a portly fellow with old eyes and a thick peppered mustache. When Arran last came, Mr. Dirby told him how he had inherited this small caf¨¦ nearly ten years ago when his father passed away, and that it¡¯s been in his family for five generations. He also told him that a pride for traditional measures had become his renown: for it¡¯s the fact that he maintains an owner-customer relationship model that gives his caf¨¦ the charm it has. ¡°Name any other caf¨¦ or restaurant in Brighton that does that!¡± he urges anyone to consider. And Arran concedes, there is none. It was the first he had ever seen of its kind.


    As Arran opened the door, a waft of air broke through and brushed against his face. Immediately, he took in a smell that was centrally coffee, but held out with urban traces ¨C a scent of musky floor board and old tobacco and iron ¨C all of which collaborated and presented an idea of menial labor. Oddly enough, it made him sentimental of his industrial roots (the one¡¯s that he¡¯d read about of course).


    ¡°Good morning Mr. Dirby,¡± Arran said.


    ¡°Oh, good morning Arran,¡± Mr. Dirby sputtered, a little surprised at his punctual arrival. Even though he opens at 07:00 he doesn¡¯t think to expect customers until sometime later. So after seeing Arran, he began to make a preparatory rush with the under-case display.


    ¡°Be a good lad and take a seat over there,¡± Mr. Dirby points a fat finger, ¡°and feel free to grab a little snack from that basket as well.¡±


    Arran looked back at the direction he pointed.


    ¡°Basket?¡±


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s around the corner over there.¡±


    Arran looked Mr. Dirby up and down and at the croissants in hand. He knew he had caught the owner off guard by having seen a part of what¡¯s supposed to be done before anyone walks in. So, this was his way of sparing Arran the indecency of his set-up and apologizing for it at the same time. Arran grabbed a caramel delight and sat down.


    After enjoying the small treat, Arran was ready to get on with the day but was hesitant to return to the front.


    ¡°Is it ready, Mr. Dirby?¡± Arran called out.


    When no response was given, Arran made his way back to where the large man was working furiously. And when Mr. Dirby saw him approach, he quickly positioned his back to him and shut the case, as if he wasn¡¯t allowed to see it.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to make an order, please,¡± Arran said.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Mr. Dirby responded while looking over his shoulder, as if he just realized that someone was there; but then let out, ¡°Ah, of course-of course.¡± And after he stepped away, Arran eyes fell on the translucent shield exposing just as much as before, an obvious amount of untidiness.


    Having moved behind the counter, Mr. Dirby saw Arran eyeing his flaw and made an abruption toward the chalk board.


    ¡°Have you tried any of our seasonal drinks yet?¡± Arran followed his motion with the same eagerness to be polite.


    ¡°Yes, I actually had the Chocolate Daint yesterday. Very good. But today I think I¡¯ll have a regular latte with French toast, medium for the latte please.¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°Absolutely,¡± the burly man said while rapidly grabbing a cup and queuing the shots, ¡°and don¡¯t worry about the pay. It¡¯s no way to start the first day of Michaelmas with expenditure, am I right?¡± he said this in an ol¡¯-buddy-ol¡¯-pal kind of way.


    Well in that case, I¡¯ll take a chocolate croissant too ¨C that¡¯s what Arran wanted to say, just as a joke, but he didn¡¯t. That would¡¯ve brought attention to the undone case of delights, which he could tell was the real reason for his extended generosity.


    ¡°Thanks Mr. Dirby, much appreciated,¡± Arran said. And he let him think today was the beginning of Michaelmas.


    It was only after he walked out of the caf¨¦ that he had an afterthought of guilt: Should I feel bad about taking advantage of Innocents?


    ***


    In the late afternoon Arran had finished taking two rounds through the Metropole of Erudition to become familiar with the grounds. As the name implies, it was a large enough to be a city but small enough to be a civilization. In fact, it was the only place in the UK in which to get a higher education. The building itself stretched long and wide. At the center was the only point of entrance that led into a junction. It divided the building into two divisions: The Aesthete Institute and the Lumen Institute.


    And as not yet an Aesthete, Arran only went through the Lumen Institute.


    Afterwards, he decided to stroll through Queen¡¯s Park. He was wearing his new uniform to get used to formal wear again. In the past he always found something to hate and something to love about uniforms. Today he found something to hate: On top of it being wicked hot outside, he felt his tie wringing tighter and tighter around his neck. And he didn¡¯t know if it was a trick of the heat or just something else, but he thought he should know for sure come October when things cool dow-


    Just then, as he was getting closer to the heart of the Hove, he felt someone fall against his back, knocking him straight to his knees.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m so sorry!¡± came a voice from behind, ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    When Arran got to his feet and turned around he saw a raggedy, golden-brown haired girl that was probably two years his senior. An Innocent.


    He bit his tongue to discharge the sour comment rising up. ¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± he said, slapping out the dust from his pants.


    ¡°Good catch, Millicent!¡± a more masculine voice called out further behind. And Arran turned to see a lanky boy jogging up to them. ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to lead her into running into you like that. I accidently put too much behind it.¡±


    Arran was slightly confused, but then he looked down at the girl¡¯s hand and saw a yellow Frisbee.


    The raggedy girl saw him looking at it and lifted it in his direction. ¡°Do you want to play?¡±


    ¡°Play?¡± Arran repeated slowly. He looked at the Frisbee unusually long before giving an answer: ¡°No thank you.¡±


    When he started to walk away, he heard the boy say quieter, ¡°Did you really think he was going to play with us? Not only is he an Aesthete, but he¡¯s not even dressed right.¡±


    Arran was getting too far to hear a response, so he slipped into the girl¡¯s mind.


    Not really. (This was the verbal response).


    I really wish he would¡¯ve though. (This was the emotional response).


    When Arran got back to his flat, he looked around at the little home he¡¯d made for myself. Entering the door, you were at first faced with the common area (he had one soon-to-be flatmate, whose room was situated in front of his, across this main space). And he thought this nice enough, a standard pre-furnished room.


    His room however¡­He was lucky enough to get a corner flat. And this meant that two out of the four walls were solid window space. He set his work table to the corner of these two windows to take advantage of the light. That was the key feature he thought.


    In the bathroom, he started to unbutton his shirt as he looked closely into the mirror. His olive-white skin was tanner than usual (a contribution of the summer weather), which almost matched the speckled, golden ring around his pupils. But this could only be seen with close inspection. Had he have taken a step back, the gold would¡¯ve surely been swallowed by the deep blues of his eyes.


    When he took his shirt off, he saw some smudges on his sleeves where Millicent helped in picking him up ¨C and it made him remember the recent error given to his identity.


    But to be fair, he was looking particularly aesthetic then. The careful attention given to his sleek black hair, combed back with holding product, was something only Aesthetes did. So that¡¯s in the lanky boy¡¯s defense: You¡¯d might even say he wasn¡¯t stupid for calling him an Aesthete (and Arran would be lying if he didn¡¯t say that he took pride in his mistaking).


    But the girl¡­Arran thought back to their interaction which concluded in her name: Millicent.


    Do you want to play? ¨C he repeated the question to himself while staring at the mirror, trying to understand what it was about it that made him feel so strangely.

 Chapter 6: First Day

    On the first day of school, Arran saw the Metropolis take on a new shape with the arrival of students and staff; it was like putting meat on the bones of a skeleton. With anxious peers buzzing in and through the narrow throat of two glass doors, the entrance, he chose to be the more responsible and not let a careless bump of the shoulders offset anyone¡¯s first day, and so kept his eyes off his micro PC while he walked (a stark contrast the others around him).


    As he worked his way through the entrance, navigation became easier when he took a sharp left to trace the buildings empty parameters; and he watched as the other students mindlessly charged forward. A few spread out while the majority kept a straight file that was almost as tight as the narrow opening, as if they were grains of sand falling through the tiny channel of an hourglass.


    Given the flowing stampede, the inside of the Metropolis was quick to come alive. It was the fullest Arran had seen it. But then a junction ahead was separating the crowd more or less evenly. At the right end of the divide was an archway with a deeply etched marking shaped around the arch: Aesthete Institute. On the left side, the concrete archway was the same, except it bore a different etching: Lumen Institute. He followed the latter path.


    Entering the smaller hallways in the Metropolis, he smiled as he looked around, admiring his new home for the next four years. He passed the library and remembered that that would be the place for him. He thought of making something of a second home out of a small, rounded corner he thought would be nice to study in. What made it special was that the entry point was flanked by staggered book shelves; and these book shelves curved into each other almost in the same way a deck of cards do at the collapse of a shuffle. Meaning, there was no easy access. It was as if the spot was designed to be in hiding.


    Among his Lumen peers, his real peers, he received a few friendly smiles and returned them with added charm (the half-wave being his favorite); and he noticed how much less of the students were occupied with their micro PCs. A consequence, he thought, of no longer being in a crowd full of Aesthetes.


    Crossing through a pathway that opened up to another long hallway, he traced his memory to view his class schedule again:


    Elementology


    Biology 101


    Biology 101 Lab


    Psychoschismatics


    Introduction to Premonitions


    Applied Fluency


    Meditation Methods


    The first three were a part of his general studies but the last four were Aesthete courses. Arran was excited for these, especially Applied Fluency. But because it was an intensive course, it didn¡¯t start until October.


    Turning a corner, he spotted his close friends. They weren¡¯t far but they hadn¡¯t seen him yet. As he watched them walk in his direction, it pleased him to see them in their familiar manner together. Oliver with his hoppy charisma, his hands doing their gesture-speak as he talked; Dominic with his tall, dark and stoic vibe, taking long and slow strides. They were all smiles.


    When they finally saw Arran, Oliver bursted out, ¡°Well, well, well¡­,¡± and skipping ahead of Dominic, ¡°if it isn¡¯t Arran the Aesthete. You know you were supposed to make a right at the junction?¡± he pointed back with his thumb over his shoulder, ¡°This is the Lumen Institute, good sir.¡±


    Arran couldn¡¯t help but smile. Ever since he could remember, Oliver was the only one that could mention the presumption of his name and get away with it in good humor.


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky I don¡¯t knock you out,¡± Arran said still smiling.


    ¡°Lucky! Oh no, luck would need to be on your side for that to happen.¡±


    Dominic stepped between the two indifferently and moved them forward with a hand on each of their shoulders ¡°Glad to finally have you with us, Arran.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s for sure,¡± Oliver reaffirmed. ¡°It¡¯s been a whole year since we¡¯ve all lived in the same city.¡±


    ¡°It has been awhile,¡± Dominic confessed. ¡°But Fate can only keep us apart for so long.¡±


    Arran looked up at Dominic¡¯s warm grin before meeting Oliver¡¯s hazel eyes. It made him recall the note of loyalty they¡¯d often recite when the mood called for it.


    ¡°All for one,¡± Arran said.


    Then, in suitable unison: ¡°And one for all!¡±


    Now with Arran completing the trio, they were all laughs. They laughed and laughed. But in those small breaks of laughter, when a judicious thought can remind you to take account of the unacquainted, Arran noticed that they were gathering looks nearby that expressed unmistakable interest.


    Feeling powerful, Arran gladly welcomed the attention.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    As they merged out of the center of the hall to Oliver¡¯s locker, Arran leaned back against one next to it, casually observing the ripple effect they left behind ¨C a number of curious stares. But then one stood out as being not-so-curious. Almost the opposite of curious. A glare. It came from none other than Douglas Steele.


    Dominic, who was a second-year student, had filled Arran in before concerning the social hierarchy at the Institute. And according to him, Douglas (a second-year student) was at the top of the ladder.


    If you took away his present expression, he actually had something brutally handsome about him. His style was a coolness that weighed decisively against decorum, behaving not poignantly mannered, but with that kind of ¡®bad boy¡¯ attitude that oddly appeals to girls. One could see him becoming an Aesthete.


    Douglas¡¯ girlfriend, Maggie, was already walking away from him and toward their direction. She was a short auburn-haired beauty whose facial structure bore an astonishing symmetry. But Arran had gathered this much from seeing her before through social media. Seeing her then in person was different, more transparent. She had a kind of use-to-be face that faintly traced her original sweetness, being more detailed from too much effort in trying to be something she¡¯s not.


    As she passed the newly reunited trio, you could tell that she poised herself for display. Rocking her hips and shoulders confidently, she kept her gaze ahead ¨C making it clear that she had absolutely nothing to do with them.


    Dominic was watching the same spectacle next to Arran.


    ¡°Dominic, what do you know about Maggie?¡± Arran asked.


    ¡°How do you know that that¡¯s Maggie,¡± Dominic asked as he raised one of his thick eyebrows. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve been doing a fair bit of media snooping?¡±


    Arran rolled his eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t do it.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Dominic started, ¡°from what I¡¯ve heard, she used to be what you might call a world class floater.¡± He went on to explain the consensus: she had an extremely outgoing personality and liked to talk a lot ¨C which naturally led her to be an active member for volunteer groups in many school-oriented events. And this didn¡¯t at all subtract from her ordinary social life.


    But now, all of that energy had vanished. She barely talks to anyone now; it¡¯s as if she were held in a vampire trance, ya know? That was to say that she didn¡¯t understand the boyfriend-friend balance. And when her close friends confronted her about it, she went off in a flair of self-defense ¨C for herself and for Douglas. She¡¯s blind to her blindness¡­she would literally follow him off a cliff¡­she¡¯s utterly loyal to Douglas.


    Looking back at Douglas, Arran saw that he was talking to one of his friends, so he decided to carefully reach into his mind¡­


    It was as he suspected. Douglas wasn¡¯t concerned about Maggie at all; instead, he was checking out one of the new arrivals, a fair-skinned beauty of obscure European origin. Arran looked back down the other direction to see Maggie, who was then at her locker. The poor girl, Arran thought, she had no idea.


    ¡°Did you guys see the way Douglas Steele looked at us?¡± Oliver asked after finishing his book exchange.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Arran said, immediately looking away from Maggie and toward the ground. He had forgotten to break his link with Douglas, and he had probably traced his energy back to Arran¡¯s location.*


    ¡°Arran!¡± Oliver said his name with uncontrollable excitement. ¡°He looked at you like an alpha wolf ready to establish his dominance.¡±


    ¡°How do you mean?¡± Arran implored.


    And peered at Oliver to gather a fuller meaning. But it wasn¡¯t what he thought: Oliver just looked at him in the plainest honesty, his teenage angst shining through in those hazel eyes of his ¨C having the electrifying feel for want of an epic showdown.


    It was at that moment that Arran felt a foreign pressure in his mind. He perked up. ¡°It can¡¯t be that¡­¡±


    Stay out of my mind you fucking Innocent, it was a voice clear in Arran¡¯s head. And as quick as he could, he forced the unfamiliar energy outside of his mental space.


    How long did I leave him roaming in my mind? Arran thought.


    He paused and looked back over his shoulder to discover that Douglas was still watching him. Arran knew this because their eyes firmly locked the instant he saw him; and he held his stare for as long as he was turned to see it ¨C then he spoke with reassured confirmation, ¡°¡­so let the games begin.¡±


    ¡°Why, what happened?¡± Oliver asked.


    Arran looked at both comrades for the length of a serious pause.


    ¡°Douglas was just in my head.¡±


    ¡°Wooaahhhh,¡± Oliver said, ¡°I was kind of joking before. That¡¯s seriously not right.¡±


    Dominic spoke next: ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m confused. That¡¯s so random. I mean, I know he¡¯s bloody mean sometimes, but what would provoke him to do that? And why target you of all people?¡±


    He looked at Arran as if he could supply the answer; and Arran was sure he looked a little guilty at that point.


    ¡°I was in his mind first and forgot to break my link. So yeah, I was asking for it.¡±


    ¡°What would you do that for?¡± Dominic said.


    Arran shrugged his shoulders, ¡°Curious, I guess.¡±


    ¡°Arran you can¡¯t use your fluency on other students ¨C that¡¯s breaking code. You know that.¡±


    ¡°Except during sport,¡± Oliver said.


    ¡°Do you see us in a dueling ring, Oliver?¡± Dominic remarked dryly and hissed to himself. It was a pure reaction of irritation mixed with disbelief.


    ¡°Damn mate. And on the first day too.¡±


    ¡°Do you think Douglas will turn him in for breaking code?¡± Oliver asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Dominic said, ¡°Douglas also broke code. So, if he reports Arran to the thought officers and they scan his memories, they¡¯re sure to find Douglas¡¯ thought signature too ¨C putting him right next to Arran on the list of suspended students.¡±


    Arran looked away from Dominic¡¯s rebuking brown eyes. He didn¡¯t like Dominic upset with him, but he still felt compelled to share what would only do the opposite.


    ¡°I think he knows my psychic profile.¡±


    ¡°What-how?¡± Dominic asked, his irritation shading into anger.


    ¡°He just called me an Innocent.¡±


    ¡°Like, just like that?¡±


    ¡°He called me a fucking Innocent.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± he said looking a little calmer, ¡°I think that¡¯s just him insulting you. He says that to a lot of people he doesn¡¯t like ¨C and you just made the list on your first day.¡±


    Dominic might¡¯ve had a good point, Arran thought, and he wished he could¡¯ve been convinced of it. But Dominic didn¡¯t hear the way that Douglas spoke ¨C the bold-lettered way he made Innocent sound ¨C as if he were hanging a threat on it.


    Dominic picked up on Arran¡¯s silence: ¡°What, you really think he actually went into your memory and saw your marks?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­he was there long enough, I think.¡±


    ¡°Wait, now I¡¯m confused,¡± Oliver laughed, ¡°Your genome¡¯s been engineered, so it¡¯s not even possible for you to be an Innocent¡­I think Dom is right on this one. Douglas just wants to get back at you.¡±


    Arran shook his head. ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re right; I don¡¯t know,¡± he shaped a smile at Oliver. ¡°The whole thing just made me nervous I guess.¡±


    Oliver returned the smile. ¡°Yeah, Douglas in my mind would do that to me too.¡±


    Laughing with Oliver, Arran caught Dominic looking at him with knowing eyes, showing a hint of concern. Other than Eloise, he was the only one that knew his secret.

 Chapter 7: Prediction Test 1

    Fifteen years earlier.


    The predictions were done at a different hospital than Greater Chelsea. This was in fact Eloise¡¯s first time there; it was the newly erected Regent Hospital situated to the north end of Lambeth Palace. She was walking passed the entrance doors that slid open at the detection of Arran, who was twelve inches ahead in a push-less stroller.


    At six months old, his appearance was an ordinary picture of everything you¡¯d expect a baby at his age to look like. But with one exception: his steel blue eyes were noticeably large; and at once they gave you an impression of intense searching, as if the ever-constant stare of Mona Lisa was under a magnifying glass.


    To Eloise¡¯s¡¯ left was a welcome desk with a short attendant sitting behind it; and before the two locked eyes he was already wearing a big smile. Innocents are always smiling, she thought.


    ¡°Where is the lab department?¡± Eloise asked.


    The middle-aged man glanced at the baby, noticing the explorative look, then looked at her. ¡°Your card?¡±


    There was a pause before Eloise spoke. ¡°Is that a question?¡± The tone was clearly peeved. ¡°What do you think? Wait¡­¡± Eloise quickly ran a psychic profile on the man. ¡°My God, how long have you been doing this? Three years!¡±


    Her voice was more accusatory.


    ¡°Seriously, do they not train you to be able to tell between an Aesthete and an Innocent?! As if you really need training to begin with. Honestly, it¡¯s like teaching someone to tell the difference between night and day.¡±


    Within the span of this brief, the attendant¡¯s shoulders descended into a cowering posture. He opened his mouth in hope that something might come out, but just then, beholding his mental invader, an unyielding gulp worked itself into his throat.


    Eloise took a deep sigh and revealed an ID card that bore a crimson ¡®A¡¯. ¡°Yes, I am an Aesthete looking to take her son to his first round of predictions.¡±


    The attendant¡¯s directions came at a machine gun rate, ¡°Straight ahead, take the second left; Follow the signs.¡±


    Eloise left without another word. Overall, she understood that Innocents were human too and certainly had their role in the world. But deep down it felt as if every encounter was an assault to her identity, making her life less efficient, and to her what was even worse, less pretty. That is to say, less aesthetic.


    With baby in hand, she made her way to the lab portion of the hospital where woman stood behind a check-in counter. By the puffy bags under her eyes, Eloise guessed her age to be around forty ¨C another Innocent.*


    ¡°Hi, my name is Eloise Hue. I¡¯m here for a 09:30 prediction appointment for my son, Arran.¡±


    ¡°Alright, Mrs. Hue,¡± the receptionists voice rolled off in an automated tone, ¡°Please fill in all the information and bring it back to us when you¡¯re done.¡± She was referencing the digital pad as she handed it over to Eloise. ¡°We¡¯ll have you checked in soon after.¡±


    When Eloise reached the last section on the pad, the billing statement, she was a little surprised by how much it costed ¨C 25,000 bits. Though she wasn¡¯t surprised for thinking it overpriced (that occasion only came twice in her life when she purchased a Monet painting; the other was when purchasing one of Picasso). No, the surprise came in knowing that Innocents hadn¡¯t the cryptocurrency to afford such a transaction. Well, maybe one did¡­But everyone had to submit their child for a prediction, both of them in fact. She connected the loop: This was yet another show of socialist bullshit ¨C an Aesthete price ¨C no, an Eloise price.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    After having turned in the digital device, it was only moments later that another assistant appeared into the room while looking down at her antiquated clipboard.


    ¡°Arran Hue.¡±


    Eloise indicated their presence and started for the open door, semi-eager to get out of the waiting room.


    To be sure, the space was bleak for its lack of props and motivational mantras that typically garnish a waiting room. In fact, it was nearly the opposite of that, like an asylum; and with what all asylums must do when considering ornamenting themselves, only to give up their hands finally in a why-bother-with- it way. Eloise understood why this was though: any attempt at optimism on account of having a Lumen would seem insensitive. It would be similar to someone finding out they¡¯re a diabetic and then reading on the exit door, ¡°Sugar is bad for you anyways.¡±


    It¡¯s just better not to say anything at all.


    Being so, this was why Eloise was caught in a double take after she spotted a sign on the back end of the receptionists¡¯ monitor that was remotely suggestive: ¡°Take pride in how far you¡¯ve come and have faith in how far you can go.¡± With an eye roll reduced to half its normal distance, she let out a tiny cough that combined to express a deliberate ugh.


    The assistant at the door then made a familiar gesture ¨C the baby reach.


    ¡°I¡¯ll only need Arran for a few moments to prepare him for the predictions. Should I return to let you know when the procedure is underway, in case you¡¯d like to watch?¡±


    Eloise was suddenly unsettled about all of this. If she hadn¡¯t already been arm¡¯s length from the assistant, and in fact handing him over to her at that moment, she would¡¯ve made her way to the nearest exit. But instead she reacted in gripping Arran too tightly that when the assistant reached for him, she had to regroup for an extra tug, which earned Eloise a curious glance after finally submitting her child.


    ¡°I was unaware that I would be separated from Arran¡­¡±


    ¡°Not to worry mam¡¯, I just need to run a quick prescreen to make sure everything checks out.¡±


    ¡°Well may I watch that as well?¡±


    ¡°Ehh...¡± The assistant really tried to broadcast an amiable disapproval.


    ¡°I promise I won¡¯t ask anything; it¡¯ll be as if I¡¯m not even there.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just that only authorized personnel are allowed in the chamber rooms. It¡¯s a rule thing unfortunately: no parents or guardians are allowed in those areas. Even if they are Aesthetes.¡±


    Eloise was now noticeably disgruntled, ¡°Well, yes, please let me know then when the procedure starts.¡±


    The assistant returned a nod as she backtracked through the door and Eloise tried to signal something less disagreeable, remembering who now had her baby.


    Leveraged by distrust, Eloise took a seat further from the receptionist counter this time, in one of the seats lined against the opposite wall.


    After what seemed like the better half of an hour, the assistant returned to retrieve Eloise.


    ¡°Alright, Mrs. Hue, we¡¯re ready for you.¡±


    Eloise saved her words until she was by her side, ¡°Just some advice: if you think that the phrase, ¡®a few moments¡¯ can be used metaphorically to stand in place of a literal forty-five minutes, it should be omitted from your vocabulary completely.¡±


    ¡°Oh, ss-sorry about that.¡± She responded softly, not wanting to cause further tension.


    They walked together through a long corridor that seemed to trace the exterior of the chamber units. From the vantage given to their right side, a thick plexiglass bordered the structure, revealing well-lit spaces that contained what Eloise imagined would be found in an extraterrestrial spacecraft (at least more than what one might expect to be occupied in a hospital). But was she really in a hospital, she thought?


    ¡°Here we are. I¡¯ll return with Arran in this room.¡± With that, she swiftly disappeared through a door separating two chambers.


    Staring awhile into the bright room, everything became an intense stillness, so that, when the assistant finally appeared with Arran, it seemed entirely out of place ¨C the movement ¨C as if it were an antithetical species. Eloise winced at this phenomenon but then focused on viewing her son. Having Arran in hand, the nurse made a few digital inputs on a touch-monitor before she placed him in an oval shaped cocoon. She then stepped back to let the machines do the rest. As soon as he was situated, scanning arms were immediately activated, whipped across Arran¡¯s body from different angles. Another arm emerged from within the cocoon and collected a blood sample, which startled Arran into a fit of tears. Eloise knew about this process and that crying was often a result of nothing more than shock; but even then, seeing her son crying was strangely unnerving.


    Her eye then caught the faint sparkle shone off from the little tube of blood and considered its contents ¨C what they might reveal.

 Chapter 8: Innocent Behavior

    Fifteen years later.


    Arran was seated in one of the Institute¡¯s lounge areas when his micro PC notified him that a quiz grade was uploaded.


    ¡°Thank. You. Mum!¡±


    ¡°Why?-What?¡± Dominic asked, who was sitting at a table across from Arran in a square booth against the wall.


    Arran turned his wrist to flash the grade, wearing a winning smile.


    ¡°A perfect score,¡± Dominic acknowledged without surprise.


    ¡°My first test at the Institute in the books.¡±


    ¡°So you thank your mum for that?¡±


    Arran shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve just been feeling really well prepared for everything so far¡­¡±


    ¡°You should be thanking me.¡±


    ¡°Ookay,¡± Arran said with exaggeration and a complementary eye roll.


    It was true that Arran did have Eloise to thank when it came to his readiness for academics, but Dominic did play a significant role as a study companion and informal tutor during his young friend¡¯s time at primary school. Arran knew this too. And so even though he played off Dominic¡¯s remark mockingly, he did have a deep-seated gratitude for all the ways he was there to help him.


    ¡°What class is that in?¡± Dominic asked.


    ¡°Intro to premonition.¡±


    Dominic lifted an approving eyebrow. ¡°Those Aesthete classes are no joke. You¡¯re in Mrs. Holbein¡¯s psychoschismatics class too, right?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, she¡¯s tough.¡± Dominic¡¯s eyes zone off in the spirit of one reeling through the past. ¡°I had her last year and I swear she made us read twice as many books as any other professor.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I can attest to that.¡± Arran lifted a handful of textbooks that he had sitting on the bench beside him. He plopped them on the table.


    Dominic let a high whistle sail through the air. ¡°Yup, better get used to that, mate.¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡±


    ¡°More or less.¡± Dominic raised a stack of his own onto the table, nearly doubling Arran¡¯s.


    Arran¡¯s eyes bulged. ¡°I would hope more than less.¡±


    ¡°Wait, let me see that one.¡± Dominic was pointing to one of Arran¡¯s books. ¡°The one in the middle of the stack,¡± he tilted his head to read the name on the spine. ¡°Shadow-walk: Approaching the Daemon and Beyond. I don¡¯t think I remember reading that one.¡±


    Arran forgot that he still had that book and was a little flush when Dominic read it out loud. In truth, he was a little embarrassed by how he came across it.


    ***


    It was Thursday and Arran was one of twenty-two students in his class for psychoschismatics. The professor, an eloquent woman in her mid-sixties (chronologically speaking), a Mrs. Holbein, was going over her introductory lesson.


    ¡°As you all know, we live in a technological era ¨C and those words have never been so true ¨C for even the very genes that determine what makes you you, your desires, intentions, thought, feelings ¨C everything ¨C all that has been subject to technological advancement.¡±


    Mrs. Holbein paces back and forth as she talks, making a severe expression with her brows¡­


    ¡°But with these advancements came a new creation ¨C the shadow,¡± she scans the room as she says this, getting a pulse on the classroom¡¯s attention, ¡°and as Lumen, it is our responsibility to interact with it, however safely and appropriately¡­That is what you will learn in this class.¡±


    Arran raised his hand.


    ¡°What¡¯s the shadow?¡± He said this certain that everyone else was asking themselves the same question. But in a terrible second he became the focus of every set of eyes, as if he had shouted out each of their names at the same time.


    Mrs. Holbein saw his blank-faced reaction and remembered her role as a teacher ¨C that an unassuming quality was required of her.


    ¡°As a reminder, the shadow is the collective unconscious of all transhumans ¨C that is, all humans who have technology infused into their DNA.¡± She made a sweeping gesture with her hands as to include all of us.


    But this was all she said on the matter. Arran thought that it apparently was a stupid question, or at least one that should¡¯ve already been known. This was first made obvious by her ¡®As a reminder¡¯ preface, the start of a very brief answer; but then she also asked for Arran to stay after she gave the class dismissal.


    She observed Arran as he approached her desk timidly. ¡°Arran, is it?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Arran¡­do you really have no recollection about the shadow from your prior education?¡±


    ¡°I ¨C uh, I do. I just was wanting to make sure I was on the same page ¨C that you were talking about that shadow.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± She said this as her brows made their severe expression, her thinking face. ¡°Just as a consideration, you might want to brush up on the subject. And I don¡¯t want you to take this the wrong way¡­It¡¯s not uncommon for a first year to need a primer on a subject matter or two. Should you choose to do so, I¡¯d recommend Albert Chapman¡¯s recent work, Shadow-walk: Approaching the Daemon and Beyond.


    ¡°Thank you, Mrs. Holbein.¡±


    Arran walked away in a hurry, only slightly concerned that his professor now thought of him as a special case (and not in the good way). Instead, He was more concerned with the witnesses that had left the classroom, all scurrying away to their friend groups. What were the chances of some of them sharing my blunder?Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    His intuition told him that they were good ¨C which ironically wasn¡¯t good at all.


    ***


    When Arran took the book from the middle of the stack, he looked over the gold and red cover before handing it to Dominic. ¡°Yes, you wouldn¡¯t remember this one. It came as recommended by professor Holbein ¨C it¡¯s not an essential text though.¡±


    Arran felt better when he realized his answer didn¡¯t come at the cost of lying.


    ¡°Interesting.¡± Dominic tossed it over in his hands, measuring the weight-to-time-before-completion ratio.


    ¡°You can borrow it if you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°No thanks, I already have a lot on my plate as it is.¡± He handed the book back in a way that said his measuring process was done ¨C estimated time till completion: ten hours.


    ¡°What do you think about it though?¡± Dominic asked.


    ¡°The book?¡± Arran gave his characteristic shrug, ¡°It¡¯s a fairly concise account of the shadow and how it emerged.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, you know it¡¯s interesting you say that,¡± Dominic said while tapping his chin, ¡°professor¡¯s Holbein doesn¡¯t give out or recommend ¡®fairly concise accounts.¡¯ If anything, it would be a recommendation of some arcane material that spins off the subject she¡¯s teaching ¨C you know, just to widen your gaze.¡±


    Arran smiled at the note of mimicry, ¡°Hey that¡¯s pretty good.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, and you want to know what else is pretty good? ¨C My nose for bullshit.¡±


    Arran knew what he was referring to but made a last-ditch effort at playing stupid.


    ¡°Okay?¡±


    All of Dominic¡¯s facial expression flattened except his smirk. ¡°You know what I¡¯m talking about, Arran.¡± He pointed at the thick book that was now on top of Arran¡¯s stack. ¡°Want to lay off the bullshit and tell me why you have this book.¡±


    At this point, Arran knew he needed to come clean. He sighed a confession. ¡°Well, it was a recommendation from Mrs. Holbein. I wasn¡¯t lying about that¡­¡±


    He then went on to tell Dominic about his ignorance ¨C that he didn¡¯t in fact know what the shadow was. He told him what happened in the classroom, the embarrassment of it, and that he had picked up the book to eliminate his intellectual weak spot.


    ¡°Wow Arran, and you still think you should be thanking your mum?¡±


    ¡°No, believe me, I¡¯m just as bewildered as you are. I mean, I think the shadow is utterly fascinating. It¡¯s been the most consequential emergence of the forth industrial revolution¡­So yeah, in all honesty, I don¡¯t know how my mum didn¡¯t teach me about it before; or how I¡¯ve been completely ignorant of its existence until now. I feel as if this is one of those moments where you realize that you¡¯ve been living under a rock. I have been living under a rock.¡±


    ¡°No, kidding mate.¡± Dominic sized up his friend in light of this new knowledge, ¡°Well, if you ever need help with any of this, I¡¯m here.¡±


    ¡°Thanks Dom.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me yet. You can save it for after you ace your next test.¡± Dominic winked.


    ***


    After spending all afternoon studying, Arran left campus to clear his head. He didn¡¯t have an exact place to go to, but he had a driver take him in route to downtown Brighton. The day was clear skied and he thought the beach would be nice to see. But when passing a familiar park, the Hove Green, something urged him to stop the driver.


    ¡°I¡¯ll get off here.¡±


    Despite the unforeseen command to halt, the driver handled a lane switch with a decrease in speed that didn¡¯t jolt one forward. He then maneuvered the hovercraft where Arran wouldn¡¯t have any trouble getting to the park in ten easy steps.


    ¡°Will this due, sir?¡±


    ¡°Perfectly.¡±


    Shutting the door, he turned to see the park with flat open spaces and scattered oak trees. It was a peaceful view. As if by instinct, he made the same meander that he had before, bringing him to familiar grounds; and he didn¡¯t know if he expected to see what he saw next, but after having seen it, he felt that it was oddly what he had been hoping for. He saw in the distance a group of people moving in game-like fashion, cutting in and out of direction. He also saw the object in which the game was oriented around. A spinning yellow disc in the air ¨C a frisbee.


    Keeping his distance, he found shade under an ancient oak and sat on the ground. As he watched the game go on, he stole into each of the six players¡¯ minds in turn, getting a better context for what was going on. And during this process, he recognized one of the girl¡¯s thought signatures. Aside from the voice, it had a familiar energy, a lively happiness. It was Millicent.


    Arran squinted his eyes to get a better view of the golden-brown haired girl. What he noticed first as she was playing was that she was quick, really quick. The boys knew it too, and he saw in their minds how they strategized against her.


    After a strong toss, Millicent was making her way fast in the direction where the frisbee would make its approximate descent. She broke distance from her defender and there was no one deep down field to stop her from making the catch. Sure enough, she plucked the frisbee out of the air with practiced ease; and being quite happy about, she performed a celebratory back flip in the end zone.


    But when she landed, she landed off balance, causing her to retreat a few steps backward in Arran¡¯s direction. It was then that she spotted him sitting on the grass.


    ¡°Hullo-hulloo! What¡¯s up? What¡¯s new?¡± Millicent shouted as she threw up an arm and waved her hand spastically.


    Dear god, Arran thought.


    She was jogging closer to him as she spoke loudly, ¡°Do you want to play?¡±


    ¡°No thank you,¡± he said, being as emphatic as he could.


    His tone seemed to work ¨C seeing that her jog slowed to a shy walk.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely.¡±


    After he said this, she stopped and looked at him for a long moment.


    ¡°Hurry up, Millicent!¡± a playmate called from behind her. Millicent was slow to respond but her legs eventually started moving back in their direction.


    They continued to play some more but then one of the boys, who to Arran looked like he got his greasy hair cut by one of his teammates, turned on a jumbo speaker ¨C initiating the most unusual intermission Arran had ever seen in his life¡­


    They were playing a song that he didn¡¯t recognize and were dancing to it. The song had a lot of words in it, so the fact that he didn¡¯t recognize it wasn¡¯t surprising to him. What was surprising though was the level of self-abandon with which they were moving to the song.


    How peculiar, he thought.


    But what became even more peculiar was thinking how they could go on like this for as long as they were! ¨C just letting pointless lyrics crowd the surface of their mind. When he first heard of this phenomenon from a friend, he fact-checked it with Eloise as soon as he got home. She confirmed it and explained more:


    ¡°We as Aesthetes can appreciate music. It¡¯s just like any other form of entertainment that enriches experience, shapes sentiment and informs the mind. But unlike Innocents, we know when enough is enough. We know when to walk away from these things because we know where and how a means of utility, like these entertainments, can arch into abuse. But it¡¯s not really their fault. I mean, what do you expect from people who aren¡¯t inclined to think? ¨C they simply can¡¯t help it. You see for them, concentration isn¡¯t intrinsically pleasurable and therefore hardly engage in it (odd, I know); so, because of that they have to be constantly entertained, excited and aroused by an external stimulus.¡±


    She then offered him a principle by which to navigate this arena of external stimuli:


    ¡°At whatever point you feel that music, the tele and entertainment in general is not for informative purposes, that is when you need to back off; otherwise you¡¯ll partake in what is considered Innocent behavior.¡±


    Arran recalled this as he watched Millicent jump up and down to the cadence of the bass dropping in the song. ¡°Innocent behavior,¡± he said out loud, as if to finally pin the phrase to its organic mate in the physical world.


    When the fiasco finally ended, they let the music go on as they gathered their belongings and walked toward the bus stop ¨C leading them to pass by a bemused kid sitting under an oak tree.


    As he watched them come and go, he couldn¡¯t help but note some of their differences. To put it plainly, they had no sense of fashion. The four boys were in plain white t-shirts that were dirt stained and tugged around the neck; while the two girls wore the same v-cut shirt but in different colors (blue and orange), and with the same athletic shorts. It was as if there were only five things to choose from at wherever they did their shopping.


    ¡°Weird, tacky, filthy,¡± he said to himself.


    And when he reached into Millicent¡¯s mind again, it was as he suspected: all lyrics; nothing substantial whatsoever.


    Though, that wasn¡¯t the end of it¡­


    There was something else that needs mentioning. Something new. And while Arran felt vaguely sorry for these Innocents ¨C having to be excited by music rather than ideas ¨C he couldn¡¯t help but smile at the simplicity and pure joy that this girl felt. For the emotive tag that came with the lyrics on the surface of her mind transferred a profound chill throughout his whole body ¨C yes, it was something he hadn¡¯t quite felt before. The hairs on his arms stood straight up.

 Chapter 9: Shots Fired

    In a wooden booth, Arran was having lunch with one of his first-year peers, Jonathan. He was in four out of Arran¡¯s seven classes. So naturally they became study mates by the end of the first week. But then, after learning that they became three-bees for knowing the same three instruments (piano, violin and cello), they both walked away confident that they had become friends.


    But besides Jonathan, a rusty-brown haired native to London, all of the people Arran had gotten to know have been upperclassmen ¨C thanks to Oliver and Dominic. And while he didn¡¯t mind this, it was nice to have at least one friend who could also share in the experiences of going through the Metropole for the first time.


    ¡°And so why do you like this place again?¡± Jonathan asked.


    ¡°Are you kidding? It¡¯s so original!¡± Arran gave an open-handed gesture and looked around at all the landmarks that made Spinelli¡¯s what he¡¯d claimed it to be.


    ¡°Look at all the wood! It has that old charm.¡±


    ¡°Charm?¡± Jonathan pointed up at the wooden chandelier with candles fitted around the circular frame. ¡°Maybe if I were one of King Arthur¡¯s knights at a round table meeting.¡±


    Arran laughed and Jonathan joined in.


    ¡°Anything else I can get for you boys?¡± Mr. Dirby said as he walked up. He was ¡­


    ¡°No, I¡¯m good, Mr. Dirby. You?¡± Arran looked at his friend.


    ¡°Nope. Still working on mine.¡± Jonathan held up his cup of coffee. When he looked at the old man he saw that his eyebrows were beginning to track north on their edges ¨C a sign of age that caused him to grimace.


    ¡°Alright-y then,¡± Mr. Dirby said, ¡°just let me know if you need anything else.¡±


    When the owner walked away Jonathan finished taking another sip and lowered his head in Arran¡¯s direction, as if about to share a secret.


    ¡°And that¡¯s another thing,¡± Jonathan¡¯s voice was lower, ¡°It¡¯s run by an Innocent.¡±


    ¡°Well, he seems to be doing a decent job.¡± Arran spoke as if he were an employer defending a recent hire.


    ¡°No, I know. It¡¯s just¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just what?¡±


    Jonathan rubbed his hands together in contemplation. ¡°It¡¯s just weird I guess. I¡¯ve never been in a caf¨¦ that¡¯s not self-service, let alone run by an Innocent.¡±


    Arran shrugged. ¡°I also like that about this place.¡±


    ¡°The non-self-service part or the Innocent part?¡±


    Arran considered it for a moment. ¡°Both, I suppose.¡±


    Jonathan gave an eye brow quirk that made Arran slightly uncomfortable ¨C realizing his answer was a bit odd.


    ¡°It¡¯s still your go,¡± Arran said while gesturing to the chess board.


    Jonathan snapped his head down and spotted his pieces in the same way a parent would spot their toddler after a lapse of forgetfulness.


    ¡°Ah, I remember,¡± Jonathan said, ¡°bishop to F6.¡± He moved the piece confidently and snatched up a knight. He twirled it between his fingers in a flourish before setting it on the table.


    ¡°Your go.¡±


    Arran barely seemed to notice the transaction. His gaze was fixed on the wooden chandelier, presumably lost in thought.


    ¡°You know, besides Dominic and Oliver, you¡¯re the only other person that I¡¯ve shown this place to.¡±


    ¡°Lucky me.¡±


    ¡°And speaking of Dominic and Oliver,¡± Jonathan continued, ¡°when are they getting here? The Social already started an hour ago¡­¡±


    The Bonfire Social was an event coordinated by the Lumen Institute for all its students. And being that it was located on Brighton¡¯s beach, it was always successful in being one of the most anticipated events all year. Dominic explained why: ¡°Who wouldn¡¯t be curious to see all their schoolmates out of uniform?¡± And adding a sly wink afterwards, he gave the implication that ¡®schoolmates¡¯ was a feminine noun.


    ¡°They¡¯ll be here soon,¡± Arran said, ¡°Oliver messaged me a little bit ago saying they were on the way.¡±


    ¡°Okay, it¡¯s your go,¡± Jonathan said again ¨C in the tone of one who was eager to execute a strategy.


    Just then, the door to the caf¨¦ made a creak that announced its opening.


    ¡°Look, they¡¯re here,¡± Arran said while moving to get up.


    ¡°Wait, our game!¡±


    Arran was halfway out of the booth when he turned to study the board, only slowing his motion to get up. When he got to his feet he looked at his friend with a smirk.


    ¡°What? Let¡¯s finish this game really quick.¡±


    ¡°Are you guys ready to go?¡± called Oliver.


    ¡°We¡¯re almost done with this game, Oliver,¡± Jonathan said, ¡°Arran¡¯s about to lose and he knows it.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Dominic said as two brows went up at Arran.


    Arran looked at Dominic with the same smirk that started with Jonathan; only then it had grown to a teethy smile.


    ¡°Queen takes pawn on G2. Check mate.¡±


    Dominic and Oliver look at the board with Jonathan to calculate the move and verify the call.


    ¡°Well, would you look at that.¡± Dominic moved the said piece to the said square, pushing aside the said pawn.


    At least you were right about one thing, Jonathan,¡± Oliver said, ¡°the game was almost done.¡±


    ¡°You guys coming?¡± Arran was almost to the door when he spoke.


    Dominic and Oliver followed behind while Jonathan slowly got up. Easing out of the booth, he replayed the moves of the end game in the spirit of denial ¨C where each rerun brought him closer to the reality of his defeat. And when it finally sunk in, he turned to face the door to see that the victor was waiting for him there, still wearing that big smile.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Damn it,¡± Jonathan said under his breath.


    ***


    The trio and Jonathan arrived at the beach a little after 15:00. And despite the Social being at a different location from the year prior, it was easy for them to find where it was taking place. They followed a few recognizable students until heavier traffic made it apparent that they were headed in the right direction.


    As they neared a giant orange tent, Dominic and Oliver recognized some people by the snack bar and headed in their direction. Arran and Jonathan followed closely behind them ¨C knowing that they were going to be their ¡®in¡¯ at social events. Hence why they had waited for them at Spinelli¡¯s.


    ¡°Well-well, if it isn¡¯t duelers 6 and 7!¡± Dominic said in the custom of the top 10 duelers.


    ¡°Hey! Look at number 3,¡± A shirtless boy with an Institute issued tank-top yelled back. They exchanged their own unique handshake that concluded in a shoulder-to-shoulder bump.


    After that a dark-skinned boy, who was an inch taller than the first, followed suite in greeting Dominic. They did a similar hand shake but a little different. Arran put this down as athlete behavior; these were boys that obviously belonged to the Metropole¡¯s dueling league for Lumen. But by the way they enumerated themselves in lieu of proper names, he put that down as top 10 behavior.


    And after Oliver joined the group, it stood out that Dominic was still the tallest one. Which was the status quo everywhere they went together. Arran smiled at the spectacle. In truth, Dominic¡¯s height was always something that he¡¯d been jealous of.


    But out of all the times he¡¯d been jealous, this was not like any of them.


    Seeing Dominic stand next to his fellow athletes, it was clear that his height called attention from everywhere. Arran imagined it was like seeing the demigod Achilles among a swarm after a Trojan battle. So no, he wasn¡¯t jealous; at that moment, looking at Dominic then, he was proud.


    Dominic turned back to the lingering first-years in a way that invited them forward.


    ¡°Hey guys, I want you to meet a few of my friends. They¡¯re new students at the Metropole.¡±


    Jonathan was the first to step forward. Excitement was all over his face. ¡°Hi, I¡¯m Jonathan,¡± he said to the boy that Dominic had identified as dueler 4, stretching out his arm.


    ¡°Good to meet you Jonathan. I¡¯m Tyler.¡± The two shook hands.


    ¡°Jackson,¡± the taller boy said before Jonathan could turn to him, keeping his distance.


    ¡°Pleased to meet you, Jackson.¡±


    Oliver was next to speak: ¡°Well, while you guys get acquainted, I¡¯m going to get in line for hot dogs.¡±


    ¡°Get me one too!¡± Dominic said while Oliver turned to leave.


    Dominic then caught on that Arran wasn¡¯t approaching and so transitioned to introduce him. ¡°And this is Arran,¡± he said while gesturing in his direction. The two boys looked at him with a unified curiosity.


    ¡°So you¡¯re the one that invaded Douglas¡¯ mind, eh?¡± asked Tyler.


    Arran saw Dominic exhale in frustration. The next day after the incident with Douglas, Dominic told Arran that he should avoid bringing anything up about it, to act like it never happened ¨C and that Douglas would likely do the same¡­


    ¡°It definitely is.¡± Jackson spoke up as he tilted his waste to get eye level with Arran. ¡°What in the hell would cause you to do something like that?¡±


    Arran¡¯s cheeks bloomed into two red orbs. And it wasn¡¯t that he was embarrassed for getting called out by two upperclassmen; or that he had broken a code that could land him in some trouble with the Institute; it was rather due to the nature of his offense ¨C that that¡¯s what had evidently circulated around the Metropole.


    You see, reading someone¡¯s mind without consent, even outside of the Metropole of Erudition, was a very impolite thing to do. It was like secretly walking into a room to find someone halfway dressed, only to have them catch you in the act. And likewise, to be caught reading someone¡¯s thoughts was an equal embarrassment for both parties. Innocents were the only exception.


    So, you can understand when Arran realized his indecency was being spread from only one side of the story ¨C a side that had more than likely contorted the facts ¨C that he was mortified.


    ¡°Woah, he¡¯s blushing big time!¡± Tyler said.


    Jackson pulled down his sunglasses to the bottom of his nose to make his own examination. He then made a brief smirk as he turned to look at Dominic. ¡°How long do you think your friend¡¯s going to last?¡±


    ¡°How do you mean?¡± Dominic asked defensively.


    ¡°Oh, you know¡­¡± Jackson started casually; but then caught the look that Dominic was giving him. It told him not to answer.


    An awkward silence started to unfold when a blond headed girl showed up out of nowhere, landing abruptly after having taken a bound.


    ¡°Hey guys!¡±


    ¡°Hey Milly!¡± Tyler quickly replied, eager to break the rising tension.


    ¡°What¡¯s with the bummed-out energy over here?¡± Milly fit the question into an easy-going laugh while nudging Dominic in the ribs.


    ¡°Just talking about what Douglas told us,¡± Jackson said flatly, ¡°about a first-year snooping around in his head.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, I heard about that,¡± she said with a deflated tone, ¡°Douglas mentioned some kid badgering him out of nowhere. Said he gave him mercy by not reporting him.¡±


    Arran rolled his eyes and Jackson unfolded one of his crossed arms to point at Arran.


    Milly went wide-eyed. ¡°It was you!?¡±


    Looking at Milly, Arran gave a slightly apologetic frown and shrugged his shoulders. ¡°It was an accident.¡±


    ¡°I mean, of course it wasn¡¯t¡­How do you accidently slip into someone¡¯s mind?¡±


    Arran could see her curious brown eyes searching him ¨C trying to understand the bohemian that he apparently was.


    ¡°No, the accident was that he got caught,¡± Tyler offered, adding a momentary frown in the likes of the unassuming. ¡°Happens to the best of us.¡±


    ¡°Tyler!¡± Milly slapped Tyler¡¯s stomach playfully.


    Arran then heard a voice call after Milly behind him. It was a familiar voice; and he turned out of curiosity. It was Douglas.


    He was smiling before he saw Arran¡¯s face, happy to see a group of his friends. Before Arran had heard about Douglas slandering him, his immediate reaction after seeing him would¡¯ve been positive. He had hoped then that they could still be friends despite their first encounter. But now after knowing what Douglas had done, that positivity was long gone. So Douglas¡¯ face was really only a reflection of Arran¡¯s.


    Arran turned back around to face Milly again. But her eyes were fixed on the person behind him, and she was smiling differently then.


    ¡°Hi, Douglas,¡± Milly said; and at that moment Arran felt a large presence crowd his right shoulder.


    As Douglas casually exchanged greetings with the group, he slipped past Arran with unnecessary friction while pretending not to notice it. He then gave Milly a playful side-hug and took his place next to her and Tyler.


    ¡°Who are the newbies?¡± asked Douglas to no one in particular.


    Jonathan spoke out as Dominic opened his mouth. ¡°I¡¯m Jonathan! What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°My name? didn¡¯t you just hear it as I walked over here?¡±


    Of course Jonathan heard his name. And of course he didn¡¯t have to ¨C he knew who the marble stoned figure was before even arriving at the Metropole. But he tried to fake ignorance in the hope that Douglas might appreciate someone approaching him without being motivated by fandom. Needless to say, he was wrong.


    Jonathan stood dumbfounded with his arm still suspended in Douglas¡¯ direction. ¡°Uh, yeah, Douglas, right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± Douglas said curtly, giving no indication that he would meet the invitation for a formal acquaintanceship.


    And after a long moment, Jonathan finally retracted his hand with such awkwardness that it pained Arran to see. And more than that ¨C it actually enraged him.


    ¡°Jonathan you forgot,¡± Arran said slightly theatrical, ¡°around here popularity gives you exemption from etiquette.¡± He gave a foreword gesture with head and arm toward Douglas. ¡°So as long as you have status, you can be a pompous ass and no one will bat an eye.¡±


    At the end of that line, everyone, even Milly, withdrew in a tongue-biting way ¨C as when a truth is heard in its boldest of settings. And at that moment, Arran knew he was surrendering any shot he had at friendship with Douglas. He didn¡¯t care anymore.


    Douglas carefully monitored his own reaction. He remained impressively calm.


    He then trained his gaze in a malicious way at Arran. And then Arran heard him in a different way: I know what you really are.


    Arran was shocked that he slipped into his mental space so easily, though he tried not to show it. You have no clue what I am.


    I do. And some day everyone will know too. I promise.


    When Arran pushed him out of his head, Douglas¡¯ manner became very nonchalant; and putting his arm over Milly¡¯s shoulder, he whispered something into her ear. She was smiling in that different way again.


    Douglas then turned to us. ¡°Well lads, we have to be off. I¡¯m getting hungry and Milly¡¯s in desperate need of a tan.¡±


    Milly slapped at his stomach with the back of her hand, the same way she did with Tyler.


    ¡°What?¡± he playfully protested.


    ¡°You¡¯re the worst,¡± was her response ¨C a phrase cryptically handled by every girl for the purpose of signaling interest.


    They start backtracking while Douglas gave something like a salute.


    ¡°I¡¯d say it¡¯s been a pleasure, but apparently I¡¯m exempt from etiquette.¡± Douglas and Milly both started chuckling while becoming disjoined from one another.


    Arran suddenly thought of Maggie and hoped that Milly wouldn¡¯t turn out like her. It was said that Maggie was taking the breakup hard and that no one saw her out of the classroom. Arran looked around in false hope for her.


    ¡°What an ass,¡± Jonathan said.


    ¡°You get used to it,¡± Tyler said.


    ¡°And what if I don¡¯t want to.¡±


    Everyone¡¯s eyes suddenly turned on Arran.


    ¡°Well that¡¯s easy,¡± Jackson said grinning, ¡°you duel.¡±

 Chapter 10: STILE

    Eloise was the one that introduced Arran to the dueling scene. He was five when she first took him to the Alcove, and he was excited to say the least. But being that it was his first time, he didn¡¯t know what to be excited for. He only saw how gleeful Eloise was walking in the December snow; it was an energy that he couldn¡¯t help but mirror in his own way.


    When they arrived at the Alcove, Arran¡¯s body made three-sixty rotations as he took in details big and small. It was as if each rotation was a timed released action with a ten second interval. Eloise smiled at her child¡¯s wonder. And seeing him perform one of these three-sixty turns, she noticed that it was the same information-gathering-maneuver as when they went to see the nutcracker a few weeks prior. So it came as little surprise to her when his perception of the dueler¡¯s stage forced a playful association with London¡¯s Opera house.


    ¡°It reminds me of the ballet!¡± Arran said while watching the duelers enter the stage.


    Eloise laughed. ¡°I thought you might say that; there are certainly some similarities. The attires, the stage lighting, the stage¡­¡±


    ¡°The people too.¡±


    Eloise smiled. ¡°Yes, both events also tend to draw a big crowd.¡± She crouched her knee to the floor to look her son face-to-face. ¡°But I assure you, this will be quite a different kind of dance.¡±


    After the first duel was over, Arran remembered a lot of quick movements from both sides. There was a constant exchange of kicks and punches, dodges and weaves, trips and sprawls. And this went on for approximately twenty minutes.


    Then there was a sudden smack to the face from one to the other. And after this unexpected wallop, it appeared that the game was over ¨C seeing that both fighters regained their composure, standing very still and silent.


    Everyone was still and silent.


    The fighters then returned to the center of the ring where they had initially squared off; they bowed to each other and then turned to the crowd. After which the whole place erupted in applause. Eloise surprised Arran as one of them. She jumped out of her seat while hollering a great deal.


    ¡°This is just one of the preliminary duels,¡± she told him. ¡°It only gets better!¡±


    She was right. Two more duels proceeded with different duelers. The one immediately after was longer and more technical than the first; it lasted for at least thirty minutes. But the last one, the main event, was undoubtedly under the most anticipation. For just when Arran thought it couldn¡¯t get any louder, his ears bore witness to the contrary. The place was downright electric as both duelers walked out. And despite the match being the shortest of the three, lasting only eight minutes, it was definitely the most entertaining. The champion was clearly in a league of her own. She moved with such precision and ease that it seemed otherworldly.


    Later when Arran remarked to Eloise his surprise in the defending champion, that she was in fact a woman and that her opponent was a burly male twice her size, she told him that the size disparity mattered little in respect to their disparity in fluency. And it wasn¡¯t that his was fluency practice was bad, it was actually quite excellent.


    ¡°But hers¡­¡± Eloise zoned off to think of how to best describe it, ¡°Simply magic.¡±


    Being five years old, Arran could appreciate a reference to magic, especially when it meant having witnessed it; but even so, he didn¡¯t fully get what Eloise meant about fluency disparity. And it wouldn¡¯t be until his first day of dueling class (some ten years later) that the concept would only then be illuminated to him ¨C standing across from one of his female peers with a throbbing eye.


    ***


    When Arran arrived at the classroom for Applied fluency, he thought its arrangement peculiar. Mainly because behind the podium was a large expanse of room, and in the middle of which lied a mat ¨C one that resembled the white circular platform of the Alcove. It was no doubt the dueling mat; and looking at it then gave his stomach turns of excitement. Although, they were the ones that weren¡¯t quite distinguishable from nerves.


    Fifteen minutes later, after everyone was seated, a man in roughly his forties walked in apologizing for his tardiness: Forgive me class, I had a brush with one of my colleagues and lost track of time. Arran thought this self-pardoning unnecessary but at least it showed his integrity ¨C a good first impression. The man then introduced himself as professor Buckley. He was tall, had a rigid build and kept a clean appearance ¨C a proper Lumen.


    The professor¡¯s voice was melodious as he proceeded with the introduction to his course. As he rambled on, it became clear that before they began any real dueling, that a brief history lesson was in order.


    In summary: Before Aesthesia became established in 2052, dueling (or then sport fighting) was seen as a brutal and barbaric means of entertainment. Of course, there were small organizations that still promoted fights, and sure, it had its followers. But overall, fighting had lost its appeal around the end of the 2040s. And this was mainly because gore and blood stood outside of aesthetics.


    Then a revival came at the start of the 2060s. It was when Aesthetes began developing an art of dueling that revolutionized the conception of a dueling engagement as sport. They called it the art of space-time lessening (STILE). And instead of the carnage and gore that characterized the fighting sports of the previous centuries, these performances resulted in nothing more than a little drop of blood. But despite having a benign outcome, it wasn¡¯t to say that the execution that led up to it wasn¡¯t insanely aggressive. It was that and more! And the more was in the moments given by anticipation and contrast.


    You see, when you witness one of these Aesthetes make an attempt at striking another person in real time, and when that other person is making an effort to do the same, you expect at any moment that both should succeed, that both, by sheer probability and margin of error, can¡¯t go on without so much as landing a few solid blows, or at least a single punch. But over time, the reality confers the opposite ¨C for by the end of a ten second barrage of speedy combinations, both duelers retract without even a single scratch. And this is the anticipation part ¨C that the question of when it should happen is extended beyond reason. The tension is then intensified by the other ingredient, contrast. And in this context, it¡¯s primarily felt to exist between the absence of a landed punch and the intensity of exchanges in attack and defense. So that the more the intensity rises, the greater the contrast; and the greater the contrast, the greater the anticipation


    But then, voil¨¤, it finally happens: the much-anticipated blow. And it comes with great surprise. Its effect falls on the audience like a magician¡¯s prestige; whereupon, after having taken something ordinary, it is then made into something extraordinary. Thus, it became customary that whoever landed the first blow was deemed the winner.


    The professor took a pause from his monologue to look down at his podium, presumably his notes. ¡°Well, that¡¯s that bit,¡± he said while rubbing his chin.


    He then looked up to survey his class. ¡°How many of you know STILE?¡±


    Arran¡¯s hand went up immediately, and he presumed it was the first because professor Buckley¡¯s eyes navigated in his direction before trailing off behind him.


    ¡°Ah fantastic,¡± he said, ¡°It¡¯s always a help to the class when there¡¯s at least a few who can model the art. Please, you two, step forward onto the mat behind me.¡±


    In that moment, Arran didn¡¯t know why his hand went up so automatically. He definitely didn¡¯t expect that he would have to make a spectacle of himself; he thought it would just earn him a little ego stroke and perhaps a subtle acknowledgment from the professor. In truth, he didn¡¯t really know how to duel. Eloise had explained it to him in some detail, showing a few maneuvers here and there; but nothing that would make him feel confident displaying before an entire class.


    When he looked back to see the other classmate who raised their hand, he was stunned. It was a petite female, blonde and pretty. And immediately he hoped to god that she was bluffing as much as he was.


    ¡°Just step right up to the mat,¡± Buckley urged.


    Arran walked slow to let his opponent pass him; and watched her as she approached the mat¡¯s edge. When she started to take off her shoes this prompted him to do the same.


    ¡°Alright¡­¡± started the professor, ¡°now I think we¡¯ve all seen a real duel before; that¡¯s not what I want today. What I do want is to have some of the fundamental concepts demonstrated. And for this reason, your peers have been so good as to volunteer.¡± He indicated to his volunteers with a wave of his hand.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The professor looked at Arran. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    Here we go, Arran thought to himself before answering, but then responded confidently, ¡°My name is Arran.¡±


    The professor then gave him a familiar look ¨C one that most make when they hear his explicitly Aesthesian name. But then he felt that the professor had saved him from some embarrassment. You see, the worst was when he¡¯d have to repeat his name due to a presumed failure on the hearer¡¯s part: an expression announcing, ¡°Come-again, please.¡± And Arran would have to peevishly repeat something like, ¡°Yes, you heard correctly [jackass], my name is Arran.¡± It was something he¡¯d gotten used to.


    The professor then turned to the petite girl, ¡°And you are?¡±


    Please say Anesthesia, Arran thought to himself ¨C feeling that it would¡¯ve been humorous to have two falsely alleged Aesthetes be the opening act to a shit show.


    ¡°Moira.¡± She said to his disappointment.


    The professor addressed her first, ¡°Moira, can you please show the class what would be your first move of engagement.¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose I would stagger my stance and step forward with a jab.¡± She performed the maneuver as she spoke out.


    ¡°Very good, but your opponent is much taller than you. This would serve as a disadvantage to you. So How could you better engage him?¡±


    Moira sized Arran up indifferently. ¡°A kick?¡±


    The professor turned to address the class. ¡°Note this class: a strategic opening is your first fundamental consideration in every fight.¡±


    The professor looked back at Moira. ¡°Now show me.¡±


    Moira lightly crouched and swung her right leg in the direction of Arran¡¯s left thigh, but stopping just before making contact with it. It was apparent that she knew what she was doing. The pivot on her left foot was angled perfectly to bear down on its target as much weight as her little body could transfer. This was a nuanced detail that Arran remembered Eloise point out to him, saying that you could observe it in the best of all fighters.


    Satisfied, the professor turned to Arran, ¡°And how would you respond, Arran?¡±


    There was a dry edginess when he said his name. Arran noticed it too and it slightly threw him off. But he was thankful to know the answer; and like Moira, he spoke as he moved, ¡°I would elevate my knee so that my shin meets hers and nullifies the kick.¡±


    ¡°Excellent. What else?¡±


    Arran¡¯s mind drew a blank. He didn¡¯t know another option to deflect a low kick. He made a dicey guess: ¡°Dodge it?¡±


    ¡°And how do you do that, Arran?¡± His voice was strangely patronizing now.


    This new tone made Arran feel as if his professor saw him as an arrogant prick. Was he already making an enemy out of his instructor? Fearing as much, he ran a quick self-regulation to sap as much ego as he could before his next response. But to his question, the answer was obvious, though he waited a few seconds to make it seem like he was giving it considerable thought; and then he said it as plainly and unassuming as he could.


    ¡°With a redox.¡±


    ¡°And when would you¡¯ve set a redox?¡± Buckley quickly spat back.


    The answer was obvious again. ¡°At the beginning of the match.¡±


    Professor Buckley took a long step forward in Arran¡¯s direction and peered down at him, abusing a dramatic pause for one second too long.


    ¡°You hear that class?¡± He turned around to address them directly, ¡°know this as the second and most fundamental part of dueling: From the moment the match starts, always, always, set your redox.¡±


    A hand went up and the professor motioned for its purpose. ¡°But why at the beginning?¡±


    ¡°Moira,¡± the professor turned to the petite girl, ¡°can you answer that?¡±


    Moira swallowed before she spoke up. ¡°Well, I guess so that you can know your opponent¡¯s next move as soon as possible.¡±


    ¡°Seems logical doesn¡¯t it?¡± the professor asked rhetorically to the questioner. Which then prompted him to ask if there were any more questions.


    A hand was raised. ¡°Can you tell us more about what a redox is?"


    ¡°Sure. Essentially, a redox is the process of bringing two points of time together. We¡¯ve learned to call them curve 1 and curve 2, a.k.a., the present and immediate future. The moment these two curves overlap, a perceptual phenomenon occurs. The result is something that everyone has at least experienced once in their life - where it seems like you legitimately know what¡¯s about to happen right before it occurs. This uncanny experience is known to most as a d¨¦j¨¤ vu¡­¡±


    Another student raised her hand and the professor gave her the floor: ¡°Can Innocents set a redox?¡±


    ¡°No. At least it hasn¡¯t been proven so yet. But it¡¯s hardly conceivable that they ever would.¡±


    The same student came back with a half-question: ¡°But they can experience d¨¦j¨¤ vus, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but the fact that d¨¦j¨¤ vus occur in Innocents is itself a mystery. The psychological conditions have to be set systematically with such intention that to do it by mere accident is perhaps a testament to the evolutionary progress in the species. In other words, this emerging ability of the human unconscious could after all be a function of deep intuition, giving only glimpses of its existence after it¡¯s endured suppression for so long. And this is by no means a new discovery. Men of ancient history were keen upon this impulse of the unconscious and its connection with d¨¦j¨¤ vu. Writers like Virgil spoke of it in terms of a celestial ardor, as when calling upon the Muse for inspiration. In the other parts of the world these unconscious manifestations were thought to be the cause of a unique spirit. Avicenna and Albertus Magnus were aware of its presence and spoke of it extensively under the subject of magic. In any case, the point here again is to know that the history of human awareness for the peculiarity of d¨¦j¨¤ vu is not by any means young. However, that being said, there is still much we don¡¯t know about d¨¦j¨¤ vus; and much less the ability to enforce them through setting a redox. But I think we are finally getting a handle on its overall potential¡­¡±


    The professor took another long pause, rubbing his chin again; and this gave space for another question to arise. It was a quieter voice from the back: ¡°How do you set a redox?¡±


    ¡°Ah!¡± professor Buckley raised his index finger and shook it vigorously, as if the question answered a riddle he was solving, ¡°For that my lad, you need to count.¡±


    He went on to explain:


    ¡°You have to get the count, or in conventional slang, you have to get a ¡°pulse.¡± Getting a pulse is really a way to get yourself into a moment, making you one with the contents of your consciousness. This state of mind primes your ability to intend a redox. Or, in other words, counting activates your ability to fix two curves, those curves one and two that I mentioned before. But all of this is done through the power of fluency; without fluency, you can¡¯t really be a good dueler. At least, you can¡¯t be an aesthetic dueler.¡±


    The professor looked lost in thought for a moment. ¡°I wonder¡­¡± he said as he shifted himself to look at Arran again, and this time it seemed like it was with a new-found reason for loathing. ¡°What is your fluency type, Arran?¡±


    Here we go again, Arran thought to himself before responding, ¡°Q-.¡±


    The professor hid his sense of awestruck better than his students had. Each of them clamored lightly over Arran¡¯s type, which was something he had expected. He did have the rarest type after all. And besides it being one of stronger types, it was basically what the O+ was for other blood types. That is, his fluency could link up with anyone¡¯s mind due to the nature of its universal compatibility.


    The professor continued nonchalantly, ¡°Very good, and yours Moira?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not a Q-¡­¡± she said jokingly.


    Everyone but the professors chuckled at this; and his countenance became palpably sour before finally working a weak smile. ¡°Then what is it?¡±


    ¡°An R+¡± she confessed.


    ¡°Good.¡± He then carried on as he walked back to his podium.


    ¡°Well class, I didn¡¯t think we would have the personnel to show this today, but since we have two capable practitioners in the art of dueling, why not have a simple demonstration of a count to redox.¡± He turned around and gave a subtle gesture toward his fortunate subjects.


    When Arran heard him say this, he nearly lost it. Redox was something much easier said than done, even if he did have a strong type to channel it. But right as he was about to suggest their dismissal, Moira made herself ready to crack on with it; putting Arran in a terrible bind. For the situation suddenly couldn¡¯t be managed in proposing a dismissal on behalf of both of them: instead, it would only appear that he was stepping down from fighting a girl. And that simply wasn¡¯t an option.


    Arran then turned to Moira, pretending to match her enthusiasm, and tried to bring to memory everything he knew about setting a redox.


    As he was doing so, the professor slowly raised his hand, ¡°At the snap of my fingers you may start counting.¡±


    As he spoke, Arran kept his eyes on Moira, who was slowly changing her level to ready an attack.


    ¡°One¡­two¡­¡±


    At the sound of the snap, Moira swiftly threw a low kick, executing what she had just demonstrated. Except this time, she put everything into cutting her target¡¯s leg in half. Arran anticipated this opening and had a counter ready, elevating his shin up and out to cushion the blow.


    Gathering her leg back to the ground, Moira wasted no time in transitioning to her next set of moves. Leading with her foot, she gave a jab-cross-hook; and Arran was surprised to find that his instincts displayed a proper defense.


    At this point Arran had drawn enough energy to set a redox and saw the effects unfold in the change of his perception. He was getting the impression that what she was doing in real time then was as much an anticipated move as her initial low kick. And he saw her sequence of attacks progress like this, as if it were an old film he had watched a hundred times. This was the power of d¨¦j¨¤ vu!


    After deflecting her rounds with humored ease, Arran pushed toward her more aggressively. His following moves were the appropriate mixture that gave him an edge on the duel; and, because of the d¨¦j¨¤ vu, he saw that his high kick was going to cause her to advance as soon as it passed in front of her face. So instead he swung a spinning backhand that nearly hit her on the chin.


    But right after this near fist-to-face contact, his count stumbled off pace, being slightly jaded by seeing how close (and how hard) he came to hitting her.


    Just so, Arran felt his advantage of deja vu slipping away, the intuition of foresight edging out of his perception as easily as it entered. He faltered and stepped back. He inhaled deeply and reassessed ¨C but by that time, all clarity of dejavu had vanished.


    Moments later, Arran lost his balance during a round of exchanges; Moira had clearly set a redox and he was still trying to establish a count. Then when he felt like he could¡¯ve set a redox again, his lack of energy didn¡¯t seem to permit it. He was already out of gas.


    Smelling blood, Moira abruptly teeped Arran with an extending leg, her foot sinking deep into his stomach and knocking him backwards. He would later recall that he had never felt such pain before in his life ¨C it was as if she had somehow cleared through my body and penetrated my soul.


    While Arran was trying to recover from the blow, nearly collapsing to his knees with both arms holding onto his pierced stomach, Moira took advantage of his forward lean and decked him right in the face.


    Arran fell to the ground. And voil¨¤, the game was over.

 Chapter 11: A Wager

    The following day was sunny. Arran and Jonathan met up at Spinelli¡¯s. It was becoming a part of their routine to make the journey for a morning pastry. And since it proved to be a quiet environment as well, they chose to make it habitat for study.


    ¡°How¡¯s the eye feeling?¡± Jonathan asked.


    Arran looked up from his book and tested the edge of the dark circle. ¡°A little better.¡±


    Better than your ego probably,¡± Jonathan joked.


    Arran laughed. ¡°You know that¡¯s a funny thing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, it very much is.¡±


    ¡°Stop. I¡¯m talking about something else.¡± Arran let Jonathan finish laughing.


    ¡°Alright, go on.¡±


    Arran took a moment longer to make sure jokes were aside.


    ¡°On average, girls have a higher winning rate than boys do at dueling, right?


    ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°We get our asses kicked by them all the time.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°And 3 out of the 5 top duelers are women.¡±


    ¡°Brilliant.¡±


    ¡°But still¡­¡±


    ¡°But still¡­¡± (Jonathan echoed on as a headmaster might encourage a student¡¯s series of questions, knowing what answers they might lead to.)


    Arran tried to hold back a smile. It was in the way that makes one frown. An inverted smile.


    ¡°But still¡­There¡¯s something about it that¡¯s demoralizing.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you¡¯re a misogynist.¡±


    ¡°Am not!¡± Arran laughed out, ¡°But don¡¯t act like you don¡¯t feel the same way.¡±


    Jonathan shook his head in mock pity. ¡°You know the one thing that misogynists and misery have in common?¡±


    ¡°Oh, let me guess: they both love company.¡±


    ¡°Bravo Arran!¡± ¨C Jonathan clapped his hands together ¨C ¡°You might be an Aesthete after all.¡±


    ¡°Alright, break times over. Back to studying.¡±


    ***


    The next day the sky was low and gray. It started the same way at Spinelli¡¯s. In a far corner, Arran and Jonathan sat in the same wooden booth ¨C a landmark that eventually went by the name, ¡°The Booth.¡±


    Jonathan marked his place with a pen before looking up; and Arran did the same in the knowledge of his friend¡¯s tendency. It was a pattern that preceded a question.


    ¡°How¡¯s the shadow chasing going for you?¡± Jonathan asked.


    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s going. I don¡¯t know where, but it¡¯s going.¡±


    Jonathan chucked as he collected fruit onto a large fork, making a mini shish kabob.


    ¡°Yeah, same here. I¡¯ve meditated a good deal before, but it¡¯s just been that ¨C I haven¡¯t really had much practice with it while performing a shadow hunt, which almost seems like a new thing altogether, ya know?¡±


    Here was another reason for having another first-year close by: Arran got to know where he generally stood to others by comparison to Jonathan, who seemed to be a suitable measure, someone to contend with. But in truth Arran had never meditated before arriving at the Metropole. Not once. And he wasn¡¯t ready to confess that just yet. So, when Jonathan had brought it up, he nodded his head as if he¡¯d shared the same experience.


    ¡°Yeah, I know what you mean. It¡¯s like I don¡¯t know where the first stops and the other begins.¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± Jonathan signals with an index finger that he has more to say after he finishes chewing a mouthful. ¡°Although I feel like I¡¯ve heard it call before. You get that voice in the distance thing.¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯ve heard it once or twice,¡± Arran lied easily.


    ¡°You have?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    Jonathan gave a curious look with half squinting eyes. It made Arran realize that Jonathan could be using him for the same purpose that he was using Jonathan. As a litmus test of sorts ¨C wanting to see where he stood among fair competition.


    ¡°You don¡¯t believe me?¡± Arran asked.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m sure you have.¡± Jonathan seemed to be considering more as he bit into another strawberry.


    ¡°How about this,¡± Jonathan said before a hard swallow, ¡°I bet you 500 bits that I¡¯ll shadowshift before you do.¡±


    Arran looked gamely into the hazel eyes of his competitor. ¡°Make it a thousand.¡±


    ¡°Done.¡±


    After the deal was made and hands were shaken, Arran felt his nerves beginning to rise; so he took the opportunity to check his watch while Jonathan stuffed his fork into his mouth. ¡°We should probably head to class soon.¡±


    Jonathan eyes fell on his own watch and spoke through a mixture of blueberries, strawberries and diced cantaloupe. ¡°We have thirty minutes¡­¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°Yeah, but I want to get there a little earlier to skim over notes. You never know when she might give a pop quiz on the previous lecture.¡±


    Jonathan took the length of his chew and swallow to process his decision. But then he rose from the table while collecting his leftovers onto his plate; and in seeing an apple still on the table, he remembered the additional utility of his mouth. So, instead of adding the apple to his handful of compost, he pierced its flesh with his teeth and walked to the trash bin. It reminded Arran of the last time he roasted a pig ¨C traditionally stuffing its mouth with an apple.


    ¡°Hey piglet, you don¡¯t have to come early with me. You can finish eating.¡±


    When Jonathan turned around, a smile worked around the apple before he pulled off the bite.


    ¡°And let you get a head start on our wager? Ha! You must think me a fool.¡±


    ***


    In class, professor Callaway was going over her lesson on meditation. She preferred walking when delivering her lectures, so it wasn¡¯t unusual to hear her voice anywhere in between the four-cornered room.


    ¡°As I¡¯ve said before, the best approach for leaning into the shadow is through the practice of meditation.¡± Her words were long and drawn out, matching the character of her physical extremities.


    ¡°Noow, let¡¯s close our booooks and begin with our mind-walking technique.¡±


    Jonathan looked over at Arran who was sitting at the table next to him. ¡°So much for the pop-quiz.¡±


    Arran shrugged as they both put their books away, feeling that it was typical of Chance to not challenge the prepared.


    Professor Callaway was walking up and down the center isle as she spoke. ¡°It¡¯s easier to first start with your eyes clooosed than opened; soo, try that first.¡±


    Arran waited to see the other students around him follow her instruction; and then he joined them.


    ¡°Nooow,¡± professor Calaway started again, ¡°begin to notice the sensations of your weight against your seat, the breath at the tip of your nooose, the vague darkness in your visual field, the odd flickers of light therein¡­¡± She went on like this for a few minutes, guiding the class through the first stage of mind-walking.


    Then, for the second stage, she transitioned into a different instruction.


    ¡°Nooow, ever so carefully, turn to your shadow; but remember, be careful.¡±


    This was always the ubiquitous urge of the Academy. Arran thought they should¡¯ve had a plaque above every door with the inscription on it: Be careful. Though this was typically repeated when any instruction involved the shadow ¨C where every half hour or so, a statement could be anticipated about how entering a ¡®shadowshift¡¯ (that¡¯s what they often called the act of transitioning into the shadow state) could also make a person psychotic.


    ¡°No stop!¡± A student cried out. ¡°Stop!¡±


    At that moment every person¡¯s eyes flung open.


    ¡°Stop please!¡± he said again. When Arran first heard the voice, he was alarmed at how close it was. And when he heard this second plead there was no mistaking who it came from. It was Jonathan.


    Arran put one hand on his shoulder. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s okay. You¡¯re safe.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t touch me!¡± Jonathan whipped his shoulder away from Arran, a movement so forced that it made him fall out of his chair. A round of chuckles followed from around the room.


    ¡°Jonathan!¡± Professor Callaway said as she rushed to his aid.


    But Arran was by his side first. ¡°No, don¡¯t touch him,¡± the professor commanded.


    At this point, low murmurs began to hum in the air.


    Professor Callaway adjusted Jonathan so that he was sitting up with his back against the desk behind him.


    ¡°No! Make it stop! It¡¯s hurting me!¡± Jonathan yelled as he thrashed his head back and forth.


    ¡°Jonathan, look at me,¡± the professor said, ¡°Follow my voice. You have to try to be still.¡± Arran noticed a shift in her tone. It was calm and carried a note of deep care, as if she were a mother speaking to a son.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s what it wants me to do! It wants me to keep following. I don¡¯t want to follow anyone!¡± Jonathan was still shaking his head violently back and forth, up and down. ¡°Stop telling me what to do!¡±


    To Arran, it was difficult to tell who Jonathan was speaking to ¨C whether his shouts were directed at professor Callaway or the shadow. And he wasn¡¯t sure if Callaway knew either. But regardless, the professor kept to her training and tried to sooth Jonathan, calling his attention to her: ¡°¡­That¡¯s it, look at me. It¡¯s going to be okay, Jonathan.¡±


    Jonathan¡¯s dark brown eyes were erratic. They darted in every direction as if it was a pain to see anything for more than a second. Then, in the span of a few moments, he came out of it. And this time, it wasn¡¯t at all difficult to tell who his shout was directed at ¨C because both eyes landed firmly on Callaway: ¡°Help! Help me please!¡±


    In earnest, professor Callaway lightly put her hand on his face, pulling it towards her own. ¡°I¡¯m here. Don¡¯t look away, Jonathan.¡±


    ¡°I¡­Can¡¯t.¡± Jonathan¡¯s face winced as tears streamed down his cheeks. He pressed professor Callaway¡¯s hand against his face with his own. ¡°Please get me out.¡±


    ¡°I will. Just stay with me; keep your eyes on me.¡±


    Arran wasn¡¯t sure what professor Callaway was doing, but he didn¡¯t have to read her mind to know that she was working some mental manipulation on his friend. Her eyes become steady and her forehead crumpled down in concentration. She had also joined her free hand with the other in holding Jonathan¡¯s face steady ¨C limiting the disadvantage of a moving target.


    Finally, after several more minutes of intervention, Arran was relieved to see some positive responses from Jonathan. His eyes seemed more consistent, tracing back to professor Callaway¡¯s face more frequently and for longer durations. His head-shaking also reduced itself to a bobbing motion.


    ¡°Will he be alright?¡± Arran asked.


    No sooner did Arran say this than a response was given. It was the most blood curdling shriek that he had ever heard. And while Jonathan sustained this pitch, he fell to the ground convulsing.


    ¡°Martha,¡± Professor Callaway said urgently, turning to a girl that was already out of her seat, ¡°go to the medical ministry and tell them to call an ambulance.¡±


    The girl, wide eyed with fear, gave faintly more than a nod before disappearing in a flash.


    ***


    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding me,¡± Dominic said after Arran had told him what happened earlier that morning. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard a case that severe from a first year. He must¡¯ve really been pushing it.¡±


    ¡°I think he was. He told me before class how he was feeling more confident in his meditation practice ¨C said he thought he would shadowshift soon.¡±


    ¡°No. What an idiot.¡± Dominic pressed his palms to his forehead.


    Arran looked at him sensitively, feeling that it was too early for criticism.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m sorry. But you can¡¯t just approach the shadow flippantly like that, no matter how confident you think you are.¡±


    ¡°Well professor Callaway was the one encouraging us to do it in the first place.¡±


    ¡°Arran,¡± Dominic said reproachfully, ¡°there¡¯s a difference between turning to the shadow and following the shadow. And if he was truly in the state that you just described him being in, he was following.¡±


    Arran didn¡¯t say anything, he knew Dominic was right and that he was speaking out of passion. He realized where it was coming from too. It was a growing guilt for the deal he had cut with Jonathan before class ¨C knowing that had he not have been so vain, had he not have provoked him, his friend would probably have been sitting next to him instead of lying in a hospital bed.


    ¡°Do you think he¡¯ll be back?¡±


    Dominic inhaled a consideration. ¡°It¡¯s tough to tell¡­¡±


    Oliver was sitting next to Arran, the thumb side of his index finger resting over his small mouth, as one deep in thought. ¡°What would provoke him to do that?¡±


    It was rare that Oliver would be quiet for any extended period of time, so when he suddenly spoke, it surprised Dominic and Arran enough to consider the questioner before the question.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been quiet,¡± Dominic said.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Arran said, ¡°I almost forgot you were sitting right next to me.¡±


    ¡°Well yeah, I¡¯ve been thinking about what you¡¯ve been saying about Jonathan, and it doesn¡¯t make sense. What first year chases after the shadow like that?¡±


    ¡°An overconfident one,¡± Dominic stated. ¡°Just like Arran said, he was becoming more comfortable in his meditation abilities. It¡¯s not a stretch to imagine that he would chance a shadowshift.¡±


    ¡°I disagree. Why would you chance losing your mind?¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Arran said. He was getting upset with Oliver¡¯s speculation ¨C or more so the increasing guilt that came with knowing the answers to it.


    ¡°What¡¯s motivation really have to do with this?¡± Arran continued. ¡°What¡¯s done is done.¡±


    ¡°Motivation¡­¡± Oliver gave Arran a tense look, ¡°has everything to do with this.¡±

 Chapter 12 (Part 1): An Uncertain Fate

    Fifteen years earlier.


    In a matter of minutes all the data detailing Arran¡¯s psychic profile was collected and sent to a diagnostic machine, where the interpreted results were then being printed out ¨C and where the assistant was now making her way to retrieve them. Eloise felt her heart rate climb as she witnessed this. When she saw the assistant glance at the papers she reached into her mind to pick up an impression.


    High in fluency and passion¡­


    A rare combination.


    Low in intelligence.


    Too low¡­


    An Innocent.


    Initially, Eloise didn¡¯t believe the results. It¡¯s not possible. A combination of fluency and passion is not just rare, it¡¯s unheard of¡­With that in mind, she gave a while for the error to be realized. But such a detection fell through; and she watched as the assistant worked her way to a back room, hesitating first, but then taking an unnecessarily longer route ¨C one that was contrary to her previous and obviously habituated course, a passage near the plexiglass window. Eloise knew this was a tactic to sidestep what would have been a deliberate effort at avoiding eye contact.


    All of a sudden, her emotions tilted to anger. She tried the door that the assistant entered through but of course it was locked on the outside. Then, not caring to wait for her return (what else could she be told but to go back to where she started from?) she rushed back to the front desk where the receptionist would still be sitting ¨C all the while wrestling with the idea of her son being an Innocent.


    He can¡¯t be an Innocent¡­All genetically modified humans are either Lumen or Aesthetes.


    what could she do for him?


    What would his father do?


    Her suspicion suddenly turned on him, and her stomach twisted thinking about it. Where was he? If he was at Arran¡¯s birth how much more should she expect to find him here. How could he stand to not be informed of the status of his son the minute it was available?


    Eloise concluded with certainty: He had to be here somewhere.


    When Eloise recognized the scenic inverse of her starting point, her pace accelerated at the familiar door; and without having considered her inertia, it swung open so quickly that it escaped her hand and flung abrasively into a stopper. This made the receptionist forget herself, throwing her body back and muttering a quite audible, shit.


    Despite this minor fault on her part, Eloise let it play to her advantage and gathered a tone that assumed momentum, ¡°Where is my baby?!¡±


    The receptionist was taken even further aback and began stuttering nonsense.


    ¡°Wha¡­th¡­my¡­colleg¨C¡±


    ¡°Has my baby and I want him back now!¡±


    Holding up a desperate finger, she shot out of her chair and disappeared behind a door.


    Ten minutes passed before Eloise let her nerves get the best of her. Still standing, she marched three long strides to the door she had just come through, but found it locked. She shook the handle erratically before letting it go and returning behind the counter.


    A few minutes later, an unfamiliar dark-skinned woman finally appeared through the same back door that the receptionist had used. Tall, sophisticated and pretty, Eloise summed up that this woman was not a receptionist of any kind. In fact, her navy skirt suit suggested a professionalism that didn¡¯t even belong inside a hospital. Eloise tried her mind for information, but nothing was returned. It was just as she suspected: this woman was an Aesthete.


    ¡°Hello Mrs. Hue.¡± Her voice was smooth and confident. ¡°I¡¯m sorry we¡¯ve kept you waiting. I was informed that you were looking to receive your son back.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    The woman¡¯s composure made her mindful to collect her own. ¡°Arran, yes, where is he?¡±


    ¡°There must have been a subtle misunderstanding among the staff members here. But what more can you expect from Innocents from time to time?¡± She offered this as a point of relatability, showing Eloise that they bore the same frustrations. ¡°As to the whereabouts of your son, there had been prior arrangements that his father would receive him after the predictions were complete.¡±


    Eloise lost it again. ¡°Are you fucking kidding me?! No ¨C bring him to me this instant! I did not agree to this!¡±


    The woman was put off by this outburst of passion but didn¡¯t let it affect the manner of her address, ¡°Unfortunately, I cannot. Your son was already delivered to him some fifteen minutes ago.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Eloise¡¯s face was now inches from the glass that divided the receptionist¡¯s space from the waiting area. ¡°Listen to me, you need to go and get him now.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Mrs. Hue,¡± she said without feel, ¡°I¡¯m simply unable to do that.¡±


    ¡°No, not unable ¨C unwilling,¡± Eloise corrected.


    A smirk then spread across the dark woman¡¯s full lips, a mark of agreement.


    Eloise took a step back and examined her situation. ¡°And how does he have my son exactly if he is nowhere to be seen? I¡¯ve been here this whole time, and, according to the assistant that took my baby, only ¡®authorized personnel¡¯ were allowed into the chambers and beyond¡­¡±


    The woman gave Eloise a underhanded look that made her feel foolish, as if she had no idea who she was married too. ¡°But Mr. Hue is authorized personnel.¡±


    Eloise stood there dumbfounded. ¡°How¡­but¡­where did he go?¡±


    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t he your husband?¡±


    Eloise knew what she meant by this. Just call him. He should pick up to his own wife, right? And yes, surely that would be the case if she were married to anyone else. She forgot how simple it could¡¯ve been; that for most wives it was just as easy as picking up your micro PC and calling. But their relationship was different. Something told her that this woman knew that too. So this came off as more of a mock challenge, a go-ahead-and-try-calling dare. And Eloise hated her for it.


    She also conceded to the sad truth that this woman (whoever she was) could probably get a hold of Mr. Hue before his own wife could.


    The woman continued, ¡°Perha¨C¡±


    Eloise suddenly cut her off sharply with her hand and walked off. She knew she had to do something; and standing there was only getting her further from her son.


    She then heard a voice that was extended into her mental space, Oh, how very Innocent of you. This was from her most recent acquaintance, who was still eyeing the back of her with some contempt for her sudden finale of insolence.


    But why would Eloise be offended by this measured statement? Well in short, because it carried the touch of culture. And because the culture forms the accent of languages'' style, just as in the way pronunciation forms the accent of languages'' speech. So here was just a consequence of this in Aesthesia: it was some time over the last twenty years that the culture had given life and weight to this idiom ¨C where it became appropriate in some contexts for an Aesthete to use ¡®Innocent¡¯ adjectivally when describing something pathological, as if it were an adequate synonym.


    And the young lady behind the glass smiled as she felt the desired effect: a cloud of negative emotion evolve in Eloise¡¯s mind ¨C the result of an insult taken critically.


    Out of desperation, Eloise tried what she knew wouldn¡¯t work, her recent dare. With her micro PC in her right hand, she opened her left and commanded a transparent field of data to flash in front of her. Navigating through a few selections with her thumb and pinky before landing on Alastair¡¯s contact. With phone to ear, panic worked its way deeper after each passing ring, so that she quickly hung up at the start of his voicemail ¨C half relieved and half distressed.


    Nearing the exit, Eloise saw the same Innocent at his post. He was sitting on a stand-alone stool while engaging with a visitor. The visitor was a plump middle-aged woman sporting an assortment of Chanel-like-knock-offs; and when Eloise walked past her she reeked of cheap perfume. Altogether, her presence struck Eloise as a vogue-less beauty. If asked to describe it, she would say she was too try-hard to even pass off as conventional (it went without saying that she was an Innocent).


    They seem to be getting along well, she noticed. Good for them. When seeing this interaction, she also couldn¡¯t help but feel a deep intuition being confirmed, that each should stick to their own kind.


    Outside of the hospital, she summoned her vehicle to where she stood. Hovering out of the parking lot, she was overwhelmed by how little she could actually do. She thought about calling Audrey but then thought better of it, not until she really needed her.


    She could call the police, but that seemed useless and utterly ridiculous. What would she tell them? Hi, my child has been kidnapped by my husband. Who is he you ask? Oh, Alastair Hue, arguably the most powerful man in Aesthesia. Please help. She decided to spare herself the embarrassment.


    Without having a decisive plan, she found herself hovering home to Chelsea. She will have a clearer idea of what to do next after she gets there, she hopes.


    But when she pulled up to the east side of her flat, she noticed that parked there was a familiar off-white sport car (one of the few gas machines still given the privilege to exist in Aesthesia). It was a vehicle she knew without a doubt to be one of her husband¡¯s.


    Parking directly behind it, she jumped out of her car and raced through the gate. As the elevator climbed, her emotions had time to catch up to the irritating idea of Alastair being in her flat. A pit a rage grew in her stomach.


    There was a reason why we agreed to live separately, she contemplated.


    I told him to never come here again.

 Chapter 12 (Part 2): An Uncertain Fate

    Ascending to the sixth floor of the Pinnacle, Eloise had recalled all the events that lead to her current circumstances. It was his work, that was the start of it. He didn¡¯t have to merge with that company, he didn¡¯t have to keep it a secret from me ¨C what he plans on doing ¨C or any of it. His whole life is a secret.


    She remembered how she tried to stick it out for a while and continued to live with him, but after several months he was barely recognizable as her husband. When she tried to interact with him he would only respond half the time, and yet those times were only managed with some sense of vulgarity.


    And with what impeccable timing, Eloise admitted sarcastically, for this was right before she had found out that she was pregnant.


    As the elevator slowed to a stop, she already had her hand pressed against the inside of the door, as if she could transfer her hurry to the mechanical process.


    Gliding her way to the entrance of room 606, she was now digging for her key; but stopped short when she saw the door. It was open.


    She yelled out when she passed through, ¡°Alastair!? Alastair, are you here?¡±


    She looked around frantically over the immediate spaces, but he was nowhere to be seen.


    In here. Eloise felt that small impression in her mind, giving away her husband¡¯s coordinates.


    With her keys still in hand, Eloise rushed to Arran¡¯s room. There she found Alastair¡¯s tall figure relaxing on the frame of Arran¡¯s crib.


    It was odd to see him then ¨C after all this time. He had practically missed her entire pregnancy, not to mention the first six months of his son¡¯s life. Two years all together basically. But here he was now, popping up in her flat as if nothing had changed. Any woman¡¯s wrath henceforth would therefore be justified in this kind of situation. But on the contrary, Eloise, to her surprise, felt in herself a deep longing for what she was seeing: as if she had somehow been dropped into a world where nothing had in fact changed ¨C a once-upon-a-time land where everything had fallen into place like it should¡¯ve. Walking closer, she shook herself out of that fantasy and into more reasonable questioning: Had her husband changed at all?


    Seeing her, he brought his index finger to his mouth to signal hushed tones.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± her volume only half obeying his caution.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    ¡°Our child is sleeping, Eloise. Please be quiet.¡±


    Remembering Arran, her attention became fixed on the baby in the crib.


    After being confident that it indeed was her child, she tilted her head up to face Alastair.


    ¡°Why did you take him?¡±


    ¡°What ¨C a man can¡¯t see his own son?¡±


    Eloise was taken aback by his manner. She was expecting to see shades of the Alastair she had recently known, the more sinister version; but this wasn¡¯t quite that. Even so, she gave him a look that indicated she was in no mood to humor him.


    She then opened her mouth as if she were about to say more, but her nerves got the best of her. She frowned in embarrassment. To not speak when one has the mind to say something was deemed unaesthetic and she detested it. But at the same time, she couldn¡¯t help but feel a crawling shiver as she looked at the man before her.


    Alastair didn¡¯t say anything more. He had only returned his watch to the child in the crib.


    ¡°You must know he¡¯s an Innocent,¡± Eloise said finally.


    ¡°Ah, such is life, my wife,¡± Alastair remarked as one inescapably subjected to the Fates.


    ¡°Apparently he has a rare combination.¡±


    ¡°Fluency and Passion,¡± Alastair confirmed. ¡°It¡¯s practically an open sesame to insignificance.¡±


    She frowned at this. She had made the remark hoping it might lead to optimism.


    Then Alastair heard from his wife what he had not heard for a very long time: a plead.


    ¡°What can we do for him?¡±


    He looked at his wife then and saw the sincerity in her eyes.


    In that moment, he felt a sting of regret swell in his emotion. Though not to say that he was sorry per se; it was more akin to god¡¯s righteous remorse for having made man. He was sorry for his existence, he was sorry for Eloise; and now, looking into the crib, he was sorry for the life that he had brought into this world.


    He then recalled something a French Algerian philosopher once wrote: ¡°¡­Everything considered, a determined soul will always manage.¡±


    What? Eloise interjected after having extended her energy to catch his thought.


    Looking at his wife he spoke, ¡°We¡¯ll do what we can, Eloise, but you must remember that fortune and doom are hardly controllable outcomes. Sometimes you can make your fate, yes; but at other times,¡± his shoulders shrugged in surrender, ¡°it¡¯s your fate that makes you.¡±


    ¡°Even so, I still like to think it¡¯s us,¡± she moved her searching eyes over Alastair¡¯s face, ¡°that each of us are able to make our own fate.¡±


    Alastair drew closer with a growing smile. ¡°As do I, my wife.¡±


    This was certainly a different Alastair, Eloise thought to herself, and surprisingly it wasn¡¯t bad ¨C dare she say nice?


    She looked over his smile. That gorgeous smile. She often imagined what remnants of his body were purely his. That is, what phenotypic expressions would still show up without him having had the genetic modifications. But she never entertained wonder when she got to his mouth. For being one of a long line of Brits, she could only suppose for him some various form of disfiguration ¨C something that bespoke his Eastern European heritage. Yet, what Alastair bore was in fact a set of perfectly straight teeth.


    Eloise returned a smile of her own. And as she reached to softly place her hand over his, it was then that Alastair heard again something that had long been unspoken.


    She said, thank you.

 Chapter 13: A Building, a Ballet and a Jackass

    Fifteen years later.


    To kick off the start of November, Arran, Dominic and Oliver went to the Brighton Opera house to see Don Quixote. Arran had mentioned to them that he¡¯d been wanting to see it ¨C it not meaning the ballet, but the opera house itself. So, as a way to get Arran¡¯s mind off of Jonathan¡¯s incident, Dominic and Oliver suggested that they all go see it together.


    From the Metropole they had a driver pick them up for the short commute. They couldn¡¯t remember whose turn it was to pay (it had been over a year since they had used a driver together) but Dominic insisted that he be the one to start the cycle again. Half way to their destination, Arran rolled down his window to take in the view of the evening sky. And there, toward the coast line, he saw the hues of the opera house from afar ¨C the glowing from its inwardness that made it look as if it were the perfect place to be.


    At the end of the trip, they followed other people in formal dress toward the giant attraction. And while they did so, Arran noticed that the ground took on a steady ascension ¨C it felt to him as if he and his friends were at the end of a long voyage, finally arriving at whatever glorified mosque or temple the divine spirit had led them to. But in this case, there was nothing traditionally religious in the structure before them. It¡¯s circular shape rather took the form of an amphitheater, having many little square windows behind a copper exterior. And this exterior was broken up into different collections of square units that matched the dimensions of the windows it stood in front of ¨C making Arran wonder if the architect was inspired by a game of tetras.


    After climbing a few stairs, they saw the group they had planned to meet up with, reasonable friends of Dominic and Oliver: These were Tyler, Margaret and Logan. Arran recognized Tyler as the tall shirtless boy from the Social (number 7 as Dominic called him). Together, they were standing next to the ticket booths talking amongst themselves.


    Excited at the sight, Dominic and Oliver doubled down on their pace ¨C exchanging with them that congenial surprise at finding the other there, a happy-to-see-you sentiment.


    And seeing his two friends rush ahead, seeing Tyler there too, it reminded Arran of their appearance at the Social ¨C where he at least had the comfort of another first-year right beside him ¨C and he began to miss Jonathan.


    Arran naturally lagged behind to give time for greetings to unfold. And after that was done, Oliver looked back at the unfamiliar one of the group, turning to grab him by the shoulder.


    ¡°This is Arran,¡± he said with a sincere smile, ¡°He¡¯s a first year at the Institute.¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes we¡¯ve met,¡± Tyler said. He was a Mediterranean looking boy with black, slicked back hair (matching Arrans¡¯). The others followed in introducing themselves.


    When they moved to get in line for tickets, Tyler fell in the back of the group with Arran.


    ¡°Hey, I want to apologize for how I acted at the Social¡­¡± Tyler said.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright. I know it wasn¡¯t your intent for it to turn out like that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I felt a little bad¡­For Jonathan too.¡±


    Arran didn¡¯t know what he was referring to with Jonathan, whether he was sorry for his embarrassment at the Social or if he had heard about his hospitalization. Either way, he was thankful for the apology.


    ¡°Thanks, Tyler.¡±


    As they stood next in line to get their tickets, a group of three student Aesthetes cut in front of them. Now, Arran didn¡¯t typically mind when this happened (they have the right to do so), but they were rather impolite in their privilege ¨C nudging Margaret back when she wasn¡¯t aware of them approaching.


    Arran couldn¡¯t hold his tongue¡­


    ¡°Hey Jonny, is that you?¡± he said as he touched the shoulder of the boy closest to them.


    As the boy turned around you could see that disgust was written into the lines of his face. ¡°Excuse me, I don¡¯t think a Jonny would be carrying one of these.¡± He flashed his Aesthete card, his means of identification. It bore that envied scarlet ¡®A¡¯.


    ¡°Ah, forgive me, there was just something about your appearance that reminded me of an old friend of mine.¡±


    When Arran said this the other two Aesthetes turned around, and he could feel them trying to get into his head. They were strong; and it took all of him to hold the gates to his mind shut.


    When it was obvious that they couldn¡¯t exploit Arran with an easy effort, one of them said, ¡°Don¡¯t waste your time with Lumen, Alexander. You give him some dignity by just giving him your attention; and that¡¯s more than he deserves.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± Alexander said, picking up his chin condescendingly before turning away from Arran. And the three of them walked away to purchase their tickets.


    ¡°Pompous prigs,¡± Margaret said in a low voice.


    As new group made their way into the entrance, Arran noticed something awkward about Logan. He thought it came with the fact that he was unable to fill out his tuxedo. And had he known him better, he would have jauntily suggested to get re-measured before he thought next to order a three-piece suite. Margaret turned to Arran and looked him up and down.


    ¡°So where are you from?¡±


    ¡°London, you?¡± (From her accent Arran had already discerned that she was from Scotland, but specifics still warranted the question.)


    ¡°Glassboro. Have you been?¡±


    ¡°A few times,¡± Arran responded absently. But this wasn¡¯t out of rudeness. It was only because at that moment they had crossed the threshold into the opera house; and Arran was at once stunned by the vastness of the infrastructure ¨C where white marble floors outlined the perimeter that itself reached three stories high.


    And as if a threshold of amazement was reached, Arran made a three-sixty degree turn.


    Margaret, far from taking any offense to this, smiled at his reaction.


    ¡°Amazing isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°It really is,¡± Arran said, still looking over the interior.


    ¡°Oh, you must see the dining hall! I think it might be my favorite part about this place.¡±


    Arran turned back to the others to read their faces.


    ¡°Sure, why not?¡± Tyler said as he adjusted his bowtie.


    ¡°Do you think we have time?¡± asked Logan; and pulling out his micro PC to uncover the time. ¡°We only have 10 minutes before the majority will think to take their seats; and I¡¯d prefer not to brush up against a crowd.¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be such a putz, Logan!¡± Margaret said.


    Logan looked fidgety after that, seeing as everyone else implicitly endorsed Margaret¡¯s remark. That is to say, they were all laughing.


    ¡°Ah, C¡¯mon, Logan,¡± said Oliver as he wrapped his arm over his shoulders, ¡°it will only be a couple of minutes. I really would like to see it.¡±


    ¡°We all would,¡± Dominic added.


    Logan furrowed his brows in a way that made Arran think he was about to defy the majority, but then they relaxed. ¡°Alright, fine. Let¡¯s hurry.¡±


    And just as Logan said, they made a hurried pace behind Margaret, who had already seemed to start off midway through Logan¡¯s consent, her heels giving themselves away against the marble.


    ¡°It¡¯s right over here.¡± she shouted back to the group. ¡°I know a secret entrance.¡±


    She led them up a little stairwell in a corner that fed into a similarly proportioned hallway. The door at the end made all of them come to a stuttered halt when they recognized that it featured a ¡®staff only¡¯ sign ¨C that is, all of them except for Margaret.


    ¡°What is this?¡± Logan said, ¡°We can¡¯t go in there.¡±


    ¡°Oh, on the contraire mon fr¨¨re.¡± She looked back devilishly before revealing a small key.


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember coming here to see the dining hall,¡± Tyler said.


    ¡°I know, I¡¯ve only come upon it recently. This will be a new experience for all of you.¡±


    Everyone was waiting impatiently while Margaret fiddled with lock and key, so that when it finally opened they squeezed themselves through the threshold all at once. In the immediate view was a small table for two, but the focus quickly shifted to the context in which it was placed: showing them to be on one of the many floating terraces surrounding the floor of the dining hall.


    Margaret pranced over to the iron railing, ¡°This one gives the best view, I think.¡±


    The rest followed her to the edge that overlooked the entire dining hall. From above, there was a resonance of collective commotion, a buzzing of activity given by the seating and exiting of persons, the giving and taking of menus and the decisions and talk that preceded it all ¨C an orchestra powered by a network of waiters moving around like little worker ants.


    ¡°How extraordinary,¡± Arran said.


    ¡°A real tour de force, yeah?¡± Margaret replied.


    ¡°Quite.¡± Logan let out abruptly, ¡°Are we ready to go now?¡±


    ¡°Logan, are you alright?¡± Dominic asked with equal abruptness.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Margaret affirmed, ¡°you¡¯ve been pretty testy since we¡¯ve gotten here.¡±


    The questioning made Logan look defensive and more self-aware.


    ¡°I just don¡¯t like fighting a crowd,¡± he said decisively.


    ¡°Alright,¡± Arran said, trying to be as sympathetic as he could. ¡°Let¡¯s go then.¡±


    Margaret led them out of the terrace in the same way that she brought them in, as if the layout was as familiar to her as her childhood home.


    ¡°How did you come about this spot, Margaret?¡± Arran asked.


    ¡°My dad works here. He¡¯s the head chef.¡± A smirk twisted into her mouth that said she had given the full answer.


    ¡°So yeah, I come here a lot.¡±


    ¡°And he¡¯s the one that gave you the key?¡±


    Her almond eyes shrunk into a measure of deviousness. ¡°Gave is a strong word.¡±


    Back at the main lobby, they made their way along the white marble floors in the direction of human traffic ¨C something that Logan frowned at.


    ¡°Sorry we didn¡¯t get to beat the crowd, Logan,¡± Arran said.


    Logan shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±


    The pinched face he made said the contrary.


    ***


    As Arran watched the ballet, he kept thinking back to the ticket booth incident. He couldn¡¯t help but think about what life would be like as one of them, an Aesthete. Was that what he was really striving to be? ¨C in Margaret¡¯s words, a ¡®pompous prig¡¯. He wondered if that was a question they were all asking themselves when the three of them left to get their tickets. And if not at once a question, then at least an intuition.


    Well, to that question (or intuition), there was something in Arran that gave a hard no. He didn¡¯t want to become that ¨C an embodiment of higher civility that looked down on everything else. The image of Alexander¡¯s condescending chin-raise appeared in his mind¡¯s eye. He thought that that decidedly cold gesture would forever by engrained in his head as something of a deterrent ¨C a something he never wanted to become.


    ***


    Arran had taken his seat next to Margaret who had an aisle chair, so when the show was over he followed behind her up the stairs; and he noticed how above her heels two inverted spearheads accentuated with each step. He thought that her claves were just as athletically stunning as those of the ballerinas he had just seen.


    ¡°What did you think of Don Quixote?¡± Margaret said over her shoulder.


    ¡°Me? I thought it was absolutely spectacular.¡±


    Arran heard an ironic hmph from behind him ¨C the kind that was intended to be heard. But from the way things were going that night, Arran didn¡¯t need to turn around to know who it had come from.


    A voice spoke up when this little utterance went ignored.


    ¡°You don¡¯t really think that,¡± Logan said over Arran¡¯s shoulder.


    Arran turned around sharply to challenge Logan, but then Logan used this opportunity to even the score; and when he kept walking past him with just as much brush of the shoulders that would involve bad blood, Arran¡¯s temper flared.


    He then followed behind Logan out to the foyer. ¡°Excuse me.¡± It was in the inverted manner that really meant, excuse you.


    ¡°You may be. But first you need to answer Margaret truthfully. No bullshit.¡±


    ¡°Logan what¡¯s gotten into you?¡± Margaret chastised.


    ¡°The truth, Margaret. All I want is just a little more transparency among friends. I mean, we are friends.¡± His gesture was in a mock inclusivity to Arran. ¡°So why shouldn¡¯t we be honest with one another? Especially with something as simple as your take on a ballet performance.¡±


    ¡°And I gave one,¡± Arran said briskly.


    Logan offered a faint smile. ¡°Ah there¡¯s the passion.¡±


    Dominic, Oliver and Tyler had stayed back a little longer to extend praise until the curtains had fallen; so they were just catching up to the group when they heard this line from Logan.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Oliver said.


    ¡°It¡¯s Logan,¡± Margaret offered in annoyance, ¡°he¡¯s being an ass.¡±


    ¡°At least I¡¯m not habitually lying to my friends and hiding what I really am.¡±


    ¡°What are you getting at?¡± Oliver said.


    ¡°Oh, just that Arran¡¯s a fraud.¡±


    Everyone cycled confused looks from Logan to Arran and then back to Logan.


    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Margaret said.


    ¡°Oh c¡¯mon,¡± Logan said, ¡°look at him fuming over there.¡± He pointed at Arran. ¡°You can practically see the passion leaking out of his ears.¡±


    Dominic suddenly stepped forward in a way that made Logan look three inches shorter. ¡°Be careful with your accusations.¡±


    Logan didn¡¯t appear intimidated. He only looked to be sizing up his peer.


    ¡°I am careful. And I know what I¡¯m saying.¡± He paused for a dramatic length. ¡°It was in his excitement when we walked onto the terrace too ¨C that dumb cheerfulness that you only see in¡­¡± he stopped short of what he was going to say, knowing that to associate Arran¡¯s behavior to that of an Innocent would be the opposite of what Dominic meant by careful.


    ¡°But don¡¯t tell me you don¡¯t see it.¡± Logan¡¯s eyes moved in tandem with his eyebrows as if to point back at Arran.


    Dominic didn¡¯t care to turn around. His black lips only made a grimace that suggested future discretion on Logan¡¯s part.


    ¡°He¡¯s fifteen years old,¡± Dominic said. ¡°I can only imagine how Innocent you looked at his age two years ago.¡±


    At the end of Dominic¡¯s sentence, Logan¡¯s fists immediately tightened and his cheeks burned red.


    ¡°Perhaps we should head back, Logan,¡± Tyler said while playfully slapping the back of his arm.


    Logan exchanged looks with Arran before looking back up at Dominic. And Arran thought that here, if Logan¡¯s lack of discernment for his own inseam was any indication, he had no clue who he was about to pick a fight with.


    ¡°Sure,¡± Logan said before marching toward the grand lobby. And Tyler gave an apologetic smile to the group before following behind.


    On the way back to the Metropolis, Arran couldn¡¯t stop thinking about what had happened with Logan. He was an ass for sure, as Margaret had rightly said. But that itself had nothing to do with the wrongness of rightness of what he said. And this was what Arran was really thinking about: It was the fact that he wasn¡¯t wrong. On the contrary, he was right. Too right. He thought it almost uncanny the way Logan seemed to peer right through him. It reminded him of the first instance that made him feel this way, on the first day of school ¨C and then it clicked.


    Could Douglas Steele somehow be involved? Was this Douglas holding true to his promise? The eerie similarity between the two experiences made it seem so.


    ¡°Dominic?¡±


    Dominic, who was on the other side of Oliver in the back seat of their hovercraft, had to lower his head to look at Arran.


    ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±


    ¡°Logan¡¯s in the dueling league, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, he just moved up to the First VII actually. Why?¡±


    ¡°Do him and Douglas get along?¡±


    ¡°Ehh¡­¡± Dominic said ambivalently.


    Oliver turned to Arran as if having intercepted the question ¨C then turned to Dominic.


    ¡°I actually feel like they¡¯ve gotten closer recently. They¡¯ve been picking each other for teams in dueling class, which makes sense for Logan, but Douglas ¨C he can pick way better people than Logan. Also, I saw them sitting together for lunch yesterday.¡±


    Dominic took a moment to consider. ¡°That¡¯s true. Which is kind of weird. They¡¯ve never really talked before.¡± He bent down again to view Arran. Why do you ask?¡±


    ¡°Just curious. They¡¯re both jackasses so I figured they got along.¡±


    Arran turned to look out his window in a show that made that the end of the discussion; and Dominic and Oliver reclined in their seats as before. But then Arran felt an impression: My bullshit detector is flagging you right now.


    Arran leaned his head back and focused his energy to Dominic: I wonder if Douglas told Logan about me.

 Chapter 14: Out of Category

    13 years earlier.


    Eloise was with Arran through the entire second predictions this time. She conferred with Alastair to ensure of it beforehand: Taking their occasional stroll through Battersea park (when Arran was nearly seventeen months), Eloise, not knowing when she would see Alastair again before the second prediction, turned to ask him, ¡°Do you remember the first predictions?¡±


    ¡°Yes, dear. What about it?¡± His tone was cheery and Eloise didn¡¯t know what to think of it. In fact, he was more frequently off character in this way ¨C and she found it oddly unfortunate that it reminded her more of the man he used to be ¨C the man that she had fallen in love with.


    ¡°Oh, I just want to make sure that that experience isn¡¯t going to be repeated in any way again.¡±


    Alastair was pensive. ¡°I think I know what you mean. Are you referring to the not receiving Arran back part?¡±


    ¡°That, yes. Also, the being separated from him part. The incompetent and untruthful handling of staff part. Your terrifying hidden agenda looming about part¡­¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. I don¡¯t have a terrifying agenda.¡±


    ¡°Okay, only to you! From your perspective it¡¯s also not hidden; but if you were to let everyone in on what your scheming, I¡¯m confident that to most it would be a regime both morally corrupt and terrifying.¡±


    ¡°But you don¡¯t even know what it is.¡±


    ¡°I know enough. And I know you.¡±


    Alastair made an expression with slightly hunched shoulders and wandering eyes, reluctantly granting a valid point. ¡°Quite so¡­And believe me I know...I¡¯m not expecting wide acceptance initially. These things take time.¡±


    Eloise let out a deep sigh, as if pushing out all further objections to the last extent of her breathe. Just let it go, Eloise. Arguing with him on this topic will get us nowhere.


    ¡°Anyways¡­¡± Eloise said.


    Alastair picked up again. ¡°Well, to your point, I can understand how it wouldn¡¯t be ideal for any mother not to receive their child back from the hospital...¡± He looked at Eloise, anticipating that she was on the edge of her tried patience; and judging by the look on her face, he wasn¡¯t wrong. ¡°You have my word that it won¡¯t happen again. I¡¯ll speak with the hospitals management to make the arrangements.¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes that fine woman that informed me that Arran was with you.¡± She looked at Alastair as she managed the next sentence facetiously. ¡°Yes, please let her know and send my regards.¡±


    ¡°Ah, you mean Orphee.¡±


    Eloise kept her gaze and made herself clear, ¡°Listen Alastair, I want access into the chambers. There shouldn¡¯t be a moment that I have to be away from Arran. I would also like for you to be there instead of hiding in the back somewhere. And yes, Orphee¡­I don¡¯t want to see that bitch again.¡±


    ***


    So, as it was arranged, Eloise was in the chambers with Arran as his prediction was administered. She stood right next to the assistant wherever she went. And Eloise took some pleasure in casually abusing her new privilege, standing just a little too close, asking one too many simple questions, handling some of the equipment. The whole thing was an absolute novelty to the elderly assistant; and by the end of it, when she saw that Eloise was walking toward the printed results, she frantically tried to say something that would make her wait.


    ¡°Uh, Mrs-Mrs. Hue, can you¡­¡±


    As she saw that Eloise was not in the least responsive to her name, marching for the printer without regard to anything else, she quickly understood that she was simply going do what she was going to do. So, she thought it pointless to waste her breath in trying to say more. Besides, she told herself, why stir trouble with an Aesthete who clearly knows people in high places? This assumption was based on the fact that she had been an administer for over 30 years and had never once before been in a situation where a visitor had access into the chambers.Stolen story; please report.


    As Eloise looked over the results she wasn¡¯t sure what to think. Not only did the report seem unnecessarily difficult to understand, but Arran¡¯s case was a weird one.


    Slightly frustrated, she turned to the assistant, ¡°what does this mean?¡±


    The assistant gently took the papers with her old hands, ¡°Hmm, well right off the bat I can tell you that his scores reflect an improvement in every category ¨C much higher than what most improve by, I might add.¡±


    Eloise was pleased to hear this, but it didn¡¯t answer the big question: ¡°So is he an Aesthete?¡±


    The assistant turned the page, ¡°Well, technically no.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean technically?¡±


    The assistant went on to explain:


    ¡°The results showed that his Passion rose a few marks, from 62 to 65, which is just a little higher than the common Innocent.


    ¡°Okay, that¡¯s irrelevant,¡± Eloise said impatiently. ¡°What about his fluency?¡±


    The old woman flipped another page. ¡°As to his fluency, his score rose a considerable amount, from 51 to 72.¡± The assistant took a second look as if she thought she¡¯d misread. ¡°I¡¯ve actually never seen such an increase in fluency, that¡¯s quite remarkable.¡±


    ¡°And his intelligence?¡±


    ¡°Ah yes, and as for his intelligence,¡± she turned the page and scrolled down with her finger, ¡°a moderate increase, from 48 to 57.¡±


    ¡°So, what does that mean for his status? He¡¯s at least a Lumen, right?¡±


    ¡°Well, according to the conventional standards within the Greater U.K., these scores mean that Arran is fundamentally an Innocent, and yet clearly not. As I mentioned, his intelligence is nearly double that of an average Innocent; his fluency nearly triples the average. If anything, his profile matches more closely with a Lumen than the other two.¡±


    ¡°How close?¡±


    The old woman looked at the data and did the quick math. ¡°He¡¯s just 3 marks short in intelligence to fit into the Lumen category.¡± She then peered up thoughtfully from the last page as she let the others fall from her hand, collecting themselves evenly under the guidance of a stapled corner. ¡°You know, in all my forty-two years of doing this, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen anything like this¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s clearly absurd! An Aesthete with an Innocent child¡± ¨C Eloise shook her head as if to erase the thought ¨C ¡°So, what are we going to do?¡±


    The assistant looked at Eloise in confusion, being uncertain for how to respond to her question. Clearly, the boy is to be filed as an Innocent since that¡¯s what the benchmark dictates. And she knew she made that clear to Eloise, that Arran was technically an Innocent; because of course, when it comes to dictating social status, it was a technical decision. The rules were clear about that: status was always to be a black and white judgement. (Which was why Innocents, such as herself, could make such a call: the codes for what dictated an individual¡¯s social status was already determined by a board of Aesthetes. In other words, there was nothing for an Innocent in her position to decide. The job was simply matching numbers with names. If by chance there were a silver lining left to parse through, the final ruling for such an assessment would certainly not be left to the jurisdiction of an Innocent).


    So, with the conviction of one who knows her place, she responded, ¡°Mrs. Hue, the only thing that I¡¯m authorized to do is to create a file that represents the data given according to our criteria. Therefore, I have no other option but to record your son as an Innocent.¡±


    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary,¡± a deep voice announced.


    Both heads quickly snapped to the source of the voice. To the left of Eloise, there at the threshold of an entry, stood Alastair gently leaning on the doorframe in their direction.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it from here, Donna.¡± He addressed the assistant while approaching them. ¡°If I may.¡± He gave an outstretched hand that signaled his want for the report.


    After having it in his possession, he addressed her again. ¡°You¡¯re excused.¡±


    The assistant was vexed by this man¡¯s sudden intrusion. But it was the fact that he knew her name, this mysterious gentleman, and that he entered with such authority and style of ownership, that she couldn¡¯t help but surrender to his command.


    Lightly bowing, she took her exit without a word.


    Alastair then looked to Eloise, ¡°I¡¯ll deal with this.¡±


    There were many times that she had doubted Alastair¡¯s words in the past ¨C an instinct trained through many lies and unfulfilled promises ¨C that even though she was blocked from reading his mind, lines of untruth hardly went undetected. But when he spoke then, she was happy to find that there was none of that, nothing which she could pin as false; she was confident that he meant what he had said.


    Thinking about it further: This was the good and terrible thing about Alastair ¨C that whatever he meant to do would surely come to pass. He was that kind of man.


    Thus, at age two, Arran¡¯s second round of predictions proved to be only marginally less unfortunate than the first. But because of the fact that Arran was so close to being within the score range of a potential Aesthete (Lumen), and because of the less-than-reputable but nevertheless powerful connections of Alastair, a new category was created to distinguish Arran. This was simply called, ¡°Out of Category.¡±

 Chapter 15: Bad Faith

    Thirteen years later.


    After the time Jonathan had been submitted to Brighton Hospital for urgent care, his parents had made a few rounds coming to and fro from their residence in London, hoping that their son would be back on his feet soon. But when his release date became more uncertain over time, they had him transferred to the Regent Hospital back in London.


    Arran had found this out a week later when after Jonathan¡¯s seat in professor Callaway¡¯s classroom grew emptier by the day, he finally paid a visit to Brighton hospital. On the drive back to the Metropole, he relived his last memory with Jonathan ¨C from their wager to his collapse ¨C and a wave of passion suddenly brought him to tears. He regretted that he hadn¡¯t taken the time to visit his friend. And now knowing that Jonathan was transferred a week ago and clearly worse than he thought, he wondered if he would ever see him again as before ¨C the lively hazel eyes, apple in mouth, that silly grin.


    Guilt was swelling the more he thought about it.


    It was my fault.


    Before the following weekend, after Arran had told Dominic and Oliver about Jonathan¡¯s transfer, Oliver made the suggestion that they take a spontaneous trip back home. The idea being to visit Jonathan. Arran liked the idea and Dominic did too. So they called a driver Friday night to bring them to Oliver¡¯s parent¡¯s flat, which they chose for it being the closest to the Regent hospital.


    Arriving at the hospital, the trio made their way to the front desk, where a wide chested man was seated there with his head down.


    ¡°Hi,¡± Arran said, ¡°we¡¯re here to see Jonathan Spector.¡±


    ¡°Visitors?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± he said, collecting himself as if it were his first day on the job, ¡°are you family?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± they all said simultaneously.


    The chord of three voices caused the Innocent to look up speculatively, aware of the obvious disparity in phenotype among them.


    ¡°We¡¯re cousins,¡± Arran clarified.


    ¡°uh-huh,¡± the Innocent muttered looking back down at his array of papers.


    Arran, Dominic and Oliver exchanged glances that were an even mix of hope and doubt. They had made the mistake of coming the day before in true form, as concerned friends, and after they were turned away it was decided that a day should pass before returning ¨C hoping that another Innocent would be on shift at the front desk. Seeing that it was, they decided to cross their identities for the sake of the greater good.


    ¡°Write your names on these,¡± the man said while holding out rectangular stickers, a visitor¡¯s badge.


    Oliver snatched them out of his hand and heard two loud voices immediately follow. He avoided eye contact as he handed a badge to each of his comrades, feeling their reprimanding impressions for a lack of inconspicuousness.


    ¡°He¡¯s in room 307.¡±


    The room was well lit and looked less like a hospital room than it did a hotel resort & suite. The shallow carpet was a smokey-grey that raised a contrast to a red-velvet sofa with white trim accenting its outline. Behind the sofa was a large window that stood in place of a wall, which revealed an ideal vantage point for the most discreet of people-watchers.


    When the three entered the room, they followed a small hallway that was decorated with still life paintings ¨C stepping over a few bed pillows along the way. For whatever reason, they were scattered all over the floor.


    Coming into the main room, they saw that across from a floating television screen was the bed that Jonathan laid on; the size of it made him look tiny.


    ¡°Hello, Jonathan,¡± Arran said softly. He noticed his friend was thinner and looked almost savage-like without his long hair sleeked backward.


    ¡°Arran? What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°We came to see how you were doing.¡± Arran looked over his shoulder to confirm his statement.


    Jonathan¡¯s eyes followed his motion. ¡°Dominic and Oliver,¡± he said with a smile, ¡°Hey guys.¡±


    Dominic stepped forward.


    ¡°Hey, how are they taking care of you here, Jon? Can I call you Jon?¡±


    Jonathan nodded an approval to the latter question. ¡°As long as it doesn¡¯t turn into Jonny.¡±


    Arran gave more than what the little joke merited and laughed unusually hard. It was with a kind of unexpected relief for having seen the first clear sign that his friend was okay. Or at least better than he had last seen him.


    ¡°And I suppose I¡¯ve been treated well here. The doctors are good and the faculty runs professionally.¡± Jonathan shrugged. ¡°I guess that¡¯s really all you can ask.¡±


    ¡°And how are you feeling?¡± Oliver asked.


    Jonathan looked at Oliver as if he were Sherlock Holmes under the consideration of a three-pipe-problem.


    ¡°Better,¡± he said finally.


    Arran looked over the rusty-brown haired boy and ran his own diagnostic. Sure, better was a good answer. An accurate answer. But a vague answer nonetheless. So, looking into his mind, he saw the psychological torment that he endured for the past few weeks ¨C the history that ran through Jonathan¡¯s mind before arriving at the answer for how he would define his current state. And for him, this was what constituted as ¡®better¡¯: Arran saw the hours of sleep after the strains of sleepless nights, the moments of rest that came after bouts of manic episodes, the helpless screams that he let out until his throat burned; he also saw the reasons he recounted for why life was worth living, his relentless effort at keeping himself from doing what he felt so strongly needed to be done. What had to be done.


    Jonathan looked at Arran in a disappointed way, showing him that he was caught.


    Arran withdrew his fluency and walked to the bed and sat down. ¡°Jonathan.¡± The sound came out fragmented.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°I know. It¡¯s okay.¡±


    Arran put his hand on Jonathan¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re feeling better.¡±


    ¡°Jonathan, can I ask you something?¡± Oliver asked.


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°What made you do it?¡±


    Arran¡¯s face turned red with anger. ¡°You don¡¯t have to answer that stupid question.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s okay.¡± Jonathan gave reassuring eyes and looked back to Oliver. ¡°I¡¯ve actually thought about that a lot myself¡­¡±


    Arran tensed up as Jonathan trailed off. He wasn¡¯t ready to deal with any accusation (from his friends or from himself) that might pin him as the culprit.


    ¡°You see, I¡¯m a very competitive person; and I didn¡¯t want to lose our bet. So I-


    ¡°Whose bet?¡±


    Jonathan gave Arran a hesitant look, unsure of what was off limits to say.


    ¡°Our bet.¡±


    Oliver traced the eye contact and saw the remorse behind them. ¡°Arran?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not his fault,¡± Jonathan was quick to say, ¡°I should¡¯ve known my limits.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it anymore,¡± Arran urged, ¡°it¡¯s behind us now.¡±


    ***


    Arran, Oliver and Dominic walked outside of the hospital without a word being spoken between them. But Arran knew that it was only a matter of time before it happened. He looked over at Dominic in time to see him open his mouth and draw a slow breath ¨C the classic tell that he was about to say something.


    ¡°Arran, why didn¡¯t you tell us?¡± Dominic said with grim resignation.


    ¡°What?¡± Arran said automatically.


    ¡°You know what! Stop playing the ignorant card. You¡¯re not an Innocent.¡±


    Arran simmered at that remark and opened up his micro PC.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Dominic said.


    ¡°I¡¯m calling our driver.¡±


    Dominic sighed and waited for the transparent blue display to vanish. When it did, Arran turned his gaze to the distance as if he planned to keep it there until the driver arrived.


    ¡°Well,¡± Dominic said after a minute, ¡°Do I have to spell it out for you? You basically started a game of chicken with Jonathan to see who could shadowshift first. And luckily for you, he drowned before you weren¡¯t able to turn back to shore.¡±


    ¡°It was an accident, Dom,¡± Oliver said, putting a comforting hand on Dominic¡¯s shoulder. He¡¯s new to all this.


    After receiving his friend¡¯s impression, Dominic began to calm down ¨C remembering that Arran was practically shadow illiterate before coming to the Metropole.


    ¡°Besides,¡± Oliver continued, ¡°on the bright side of things, this actually confirms that I made a prediction with precision.


    ***


    The first time that Arran had heard that prepositional phrase was in his Premonition class at the beginning of September. Professor Stable, a silver haired man with prominent cheekbones, was laying out the rubric and answering questions about the Foresight log.


    ¡°There is a rule of devotion that an Aesthete lives by. And since you are all in the business of becoming Aesthetes, this should be important for you to live by as well. But let me start by saying that the rule of devotion is more than just a rule per se. It¡¯s more of a philosophy. A mood. An attitude towards life. And the best way for you to learn it is by first getting in the habit of making plans. Which brings us to the Foresight Log.¡±


    The professor opened up a different translucent screen on his micro PC and expanded it, making it large enough for the whole classroom to see.


    ¡°It¡¯s a really simple template. All you have to do is write into each box what you plan to do ¨C including also the time frame in which you plan to do it. That is very important¡­Would anyone like to volunteer their schedule to see how it works with the Foresight Log?¡±


    The professor looked around for a moment. A disobliging room of students.


    ¡°Whoever does will have a head start by having their log filled out for tomorrow.¡±


    With this small encouragement, Arran raised his hand.


    ¡°Good Arran,¡± the professor said while scrolling down a list on his micro PC. ¡°So let¡¯s take Arran for instance,¡± he pulled up the student¡¯s schedule and synchronized it to a Foresight Log, ¡°Of course the log takes into account when Arran will be in class,¡± he pointed at red squares, ¡°so it automatically frames itself to show the hour-by-hour slots that you can plan into. As you can see, these squares are empty and highlighted in green.¡±


    The professor looked back at Arran. ¡°So, what will you do tomorrow before your first class at 10:00?¡±


    Arran fidgeted a little in his seat. He felt uncomfortable with opening up his private life to a room full of strangers.


    ¡°I set an alarm at 07:00, so I guess I¡¯ll have breakfast at 07:15?¡±


    ¡°Okay good,¡± the professor said while typing it in. ¡°What and where will breakfast be?¡±


    ¡°Uhh, I have to write that too?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s important to be as exact as you can. It¡¯s good practice.¡±


    Arran went through what he knew was stocked in his kitchen before giving a flippant response. He would actually need to eat this the next morning; and he didn¡¯t want to make a last-minute trip to the market just to satisfy his log.


    ¡°A buttered croissant with English tea at my flat ¨C sitting Indian-style on my bedroom floor while looking out the window.¡±


    The classroom laughed and Arran smiled along. But the professor didn¡¯t so much as smirk at the obscure detail. He kept typing along as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to add.


    ¡°You laugh, but the more detail the better. This is called intention. Very good, Arran.¡±


    Even though Arran meant to wave it off as a joke, he didn¡¯t have the heart to strike out what he¡¯d been praised for. So he let the detail stand and raised a question.


    ¡°Why is it so important to be detailed ¨C to have intention?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like there aren¡¯t details in your life. And as Aesthetes in training, you don¡¯t want to be ignorant of them. On the contrary, you want to control them. So it can be said that the more accurate you are at intending your day, the more aesthetic the quality of your mind will be.¡±


    ¡°Okay. But if it¡¯s quality you¡¯re after, how do we show progress in this class?¡±


    Well there is quantity involved in how we measure your progress, of course,¡± the professor flipped back to the grading rubric of the syllabus, ¡°According to the Institute¡¯s standards, you must maintain an 80% concordance with your foresight log to pass this class. But I will say this: Realistically, if you really want to improve your chances of getting into the Aesthete Institute, you¡¯ll maintain a 90% concordance or higher. Now, before you let that get you down, know that you also get bonus points if you log a foresight with precision. You¡¯ll have to make this notation¡± ¨C he etched out a WP on the board behind him ¨C ¡°next to the event you claim will occur. And this can¡¯t just be what you¡¯re going to get for lunch. Basically, it has to involve something out of your control where there is a 1 in 1000 chance of it happening. For instance, it can¡¯t be, log: At 15:10, I witness John beat William in a duel (WP). This wouldn¡¯t qualify. But if you did, log: At 15:10, I witness John beat William at a duel with this final sequence of movements ¨C jab-cross-body kick-duck-uppercut-hit (WP). That would qualify.


    ¡°But who can make that kind of prediction without a vision?¡± A student blurted out.


    ¡°What do you think building intention is for? Detailed planning is exactly what primes the mind to register a vision. Visions are the ultimate goal. They are seen as the natural manifestations of one¡¯s mastery over intention. And as such, they get rewarded.¡±


    ¡°Is there any penalty for predicting incorrectly with precision?¡± A student asked.


    ¡°Yes. A 5-point reduction on your overall grade.¡± The class audibly gasps. ¡°But the pay-out, so to speak, is 2 to 1. Meaning, you get a 10-point addition to your overall grade if you predict correctly.¡±


    ***


    Arran broke off his stare and turned to look at Oliver. And his words fell in perfect sync with Dominic¡¯s.


    ¡°What prediction?¡±


    Oliver smiled, being obviously pleased with himself.


    ¡°I logged that someone would fall victim to the shadow the same day that Jonathan went to the hospital.¡±


    ¡°Wow,¡± Dominic said, ¡°I mean that¡¯s great, Oliver. But how is that just confirmed today? You should¡¯ve received credit for that the day it happened.¡±


    ¡°Not quite. That wasn¡¯t everything that I had logged¡­I also recorded that it would be motivated by a gamble.¡± He looked at Arran. ¡°more specifically, a wager among friends.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s what you wanted,¡± Arran said, ¡°That¡¯s why you wanted to come here. You just wanted to confirm that your prediction was right!¡±


    ¡°No, Arran. Not just that¨C¡±


    ¡°Yes. Only that. Ha, that¡¯s why you made the suggestion to come here. I mean you don¡¯t even know Jonathan.¡± Arran shook his head and placed his tongue on his upper lip. ¡°It all makes sense now. This was all about your prediction and needing us two here to confirm that it was true.¡±


    ¡°Arran, stop.¡±


    ¡°No, forget it. I¡¯m not going to testify for you. You can get someone else.¡±


    ¡°Are you serious! C¡¯mon Arran, that¡¯s fucked up. Dom, help me here.¡±


    Dominic took a deep breath and looked at Arran. ¡°You know he needs two people to testify for his prediction to be confirmed.¡±


    ¡°Like I said, he can get someone else.¡±


    Just then the driver pulled up. Arran opened the back door and waved for Dominic and Oliver to get in. When they did Arran closed the door firmly and opened the passenger door.


    ¡°I¡¯ll give you fifty extra bits if you let me sit next to you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really not allowed,¡± the driver said, ¡°I cou-


    ¡°A hundred then.¡±


    The driver blinked and gestured for him to take a seat.


    ¡°You really know how to be petty,¡± Oliver called out from the back.


    ¡°And you really know how to act in bad faith,¡± Arran called back.

 Chapter 16: A Luncheon

    One afternoon while Eloise was meeting Audrey for their regular Tuesday lunch date, she began to playfully broach the topic of Audrey¡¯s relational status (knowing that she was voluntarily single); and in the manner that women often laugh and tease amongst each other, she followed suit in making a game out of noting prospects around the restaurant. It came in the order of Eloise pointing someone out and Audrey indicating approval with knowing expressions.


    Daring to go further, Eloise would make attempts at reading their thoughts. When Audrey would catch her, she would convey her mild disapproval, ¡°Stop it now,¡± she would say half laughing, ¡°they¡¯ll catch you, Eloise.¡± But that was all part of the game: Aesthetes were much harder to read than Innocents, and Eloise was having fun with the challenge.


    ¡°Oh, come now, you talk as if there¡¯s an Orwellian Thought Police out there to condemn me as some kind of thought criminal.¡±


    Audrey laughed a little more, ¡°Well it¡¯s not against the law but still, have some respect for privacy¡­¡± She paused to take a sip of her cabernet while looking at Eloise over the rim of her glass ¡°Alright so tell me already, have you found anyone interesting?¡±


    ¡°Ha! So you think you can have your cake and eat it too?¡±


    ¡°Yes-yes, now tell me."


    Eloise took her turn to laugh. ¡°Well, it seems that we have a particularly keen bunch this afternoon. But that man over there,¡± Eloise indicated to a slender, middle-aged fellow with a toss of her eyes over Audrey¡¯s left shoulder, ¡°is something of a director for Hollywood films. They must be filming in Brighton; I saw images of the set. I think it¡¯s espionage related.¡±


    Audrey kept herself from making the hundred-and-eighty degree turn, ¡°Hmm, interesting. Anything else.¡±


    ¡°Not at the moment. Like I said, they¡¯re a very keen bunch.¡±


    What Eloise meant by this, being surrounded by a ¡®keen bunch,¡¯ was that they were actively keeping up their defenses from Aesthetes. And here was the main difficulty in reading Aesthetes: it was the fact that they were educated on how to safeguard their thoughts by thinking in pictures rather than in words. This however was a terribly hard thing to break into habit. It was like having to translate foreign words into your mother tongue before understanding its meaning. When people didn¡¯t get past this mental-index-card-flipping-phase and progress into fluency with the language (or in this case, what was called their picture dialect), it became very unlikely that they¡¯d proceed to use it regularly. Here, the saying, ¡®if you don¡¯t use it you lose it¡¯, even applies to Aesthetes. Another trying aspect about developing a picture dialect was that it wasn¡¯t communal; it¡¯s purpose was to be a private language. Thus, it was only to be understood by you and you alone.


    As a result, those who weren¡¯t too inclined to secrecy naturally developed a half-and-half method, going back and forth from words to pictures evenly. This way, if their thoughts were being read, the whole thing would come with muted gaps. Which for them was good enough: In effect, trying to understand their thought at length would be as difficult as trying to understand a conversation you kept leaving and returning to.


    ¡°Then what does tha-¡±


    ¡°Ah, just a moment,¡± Eloise lifted her free index finger, ¡°I¡¯m receiving a call¡­¡± Eloise didn¡¯t recognize the number and was uncertain of who it could be. ¡°Hello?¡±


    It was the sound of this ¡®hello¡¯ that instantly put Audrey in a different head space. A sense that the future was rapidly encroaching. She knew what it was. She had had visions before. But none so terrific and terrifying as this one.


    She saw Arran¡­


    Audrey was in a daze when Eloise got off the phone, but she was too frazzled to notice anything out of the ordinary.


    ¡°Audrey,¡± she solemnly began, keeping eye contact at bay.


    ¡°I know,¡± Audrey replied softly, as one in the spirit of omniscience.


    ¡°What?¡± Eloise looked up at Audrey curiously; and what was there was a face that contrasted her own ¨C a look of certainty.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s about Arran.¡±


    Eloise inhaled deeply and prepared her mind for what she was about to hear. She knew there was only one thing that could make such an alteration to a person in so little time (she herself was no stranger to visions).


    ¡°Tell me what you¡¯ve seen.¡±


    ***


    The next day, Eloise arrived at the Metropole of Erudition with Audrey. They had arranged to meet Arran for dinner. Arran supposed that this would be about the encounter he had with the shadow. He knew that Eloise would never just message him out of the blue about a spontaneous visit ¨C being the ¡®type A¡¯ planner she was. Not only that, but Audrey was the same way.


    ¡°So yes,¡± Arran told Dominic before leaving a study lounge, ¡°to believe that both of them had the idea of a last-minute trip, especially one for the sole purpose of ¡®checking in on me¡¯, is absolutely absurd. I mean, how na?ve do they really think I am?¡±


    ***


    When Arran got to the restaurant, he saw that Eloise and Audrey were already seated waiting for him.


    Eloise had her back to the door, so it was Audrey, who was sitting across from her, that welcomed him first with a contagious smile. Eloise followed her smile by making a 45 degree turn, and looking over her shoulder, greeted the last member of her party with welcome a smile of her own. always conscientious to apply proper etiquette ¨C even if it was with her own son.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    When Arran arrived at the table he insisted that they stay seated, but Audrey couldn¡¯t help herself. She rose from her chair gracefully and wrapped her hands around his back.


    ¡°It¡¯s good to see again, Arran.¡± She drew a step back to take a good look at him and he took the chance to do the same.


    Physically, there was much to appreciate about her. Audrey was a slim creature with dark eyes and vibrant red hair, a feature of hers that was especially spectacular in London¡¯s gray environment. Her style of dress was also something to contend with: having a taste for Versace and Dior, she sported a sleeveless denim blouse that complimented a pleated skirt ¨C screening most of the legs at the profit of serving attention to her hips. Arran thought that she was as chic as ever.


    ¡°You look great,¡± Audrey said with sincerity.


    Arran returned the compliment and saw his mother rise from her seat.


    ¡°Mum,¡± he acknowledged her as they airkissed each other¡¯s right cheek. This was one of Eloise¡¯ few customs she preserved that traced back to her Spanish lineage. Though it was only done with a select few.


    After they all took to their chairs, Arran folded his napkin into his lap and Arran exchanged equal glances at his visitors.


    ¡°So¡­To what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu visit from the two most organized individuals that I know?¡±


    Audrey looked slightly uncomfortable as she glanced at the woman across from her; but Eloise knew that Arran might be different given his recent acquaintance with the shadow. He¡¯d be less agreeable. More critical. And of course, he¡¯d be cutting to the chase.


    She kept her intelligent eyes on him. ¡°I know you know why we¡¯re here, Arran.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you mean it isn¡¯t just your general checking in on me then?¡±


    ¡°I never said anything about general.¡±


    ¡°Then get specific.¡±


    Eloise and Audrey exchanged glances this time.


    ¡°How are you feeling, Arran?¡± Audrey asked.


    ¡°Perfectly well.¡±


    During the moments Arran spoke, he felt a slight intrusion. He knew it was his mother; he was expecting her to take advantage of his dividing attention as he responded to Audrey.


    When Arran pushed her energy out aggressively, he turned back to face her. ¡°You¡¯re not welcome to just sneak around my mind whenever you please.¡±


    And right then for the first time, as he looked into Eloise¡¯s eyes with a hard expression, he saw her guard fall. It was a reaction of genuine shock.


    Yet, this didn¡¯t alter Arran¡¯s mood. ¡°Was this your plan ¨C to get Audrey to talk to me while you snooped around in my mind?¡±


    At that moment the waiter swept in with a cart of food and placed each plate in front of the person that would give it its due.


    Eloise and Audrey were grateful for the distraction; and the latter angled for a change in subject.


    ¡­


    ¡°So what was it like?¡±


    ¡°What was what like?¡±


    ¡°Using the shadow. I know it¡¯s treated as somewhat taboo, the harm and difficulty that comes with it and whatnot. But still, this is an accomplishment you know? In fact, as far as I¡¯m concerned, congratulations are in order.¡± Audrey raised her glass of chardonnay.


    Arran felt better with this encouragement, the first he¡¯d actually gotten since the accident. ¡°Thanks Audrey. And to answer your question,¡± Arran paused not knowing what to say next; there was so much to the question.


    ¡°It was an incredible thing,¡± Arran confessed, ¡°Never had I moved so fast in and through another person¡¯s mind¡­I don¡¯t even think she felt me there.¡±


    Audrey gave a resonate hmmm, as one does to show when they¡¯re well acquainted with a said experience.


    ¡°And I suppose you¡¯ve heard about what happened with professor Callaway?¡±


    ¡°I have. And yes, it¡¯s unfortunate. But accidents happen from time to time,¡± Audrey threw up her hands in protest, ¡°Hell, what are they going to do, punish you for doing your damn homework?¡±


    Arran smiled and raised his own glass in acknowledging a point well put. But after returning his water to its rightful place, his attention fell to the woman on his right; it was for how quiet she was being. He looked at her and remembered something he had long been thinking about.


    ¡°Mum, why didn¡¯t you ever teach me about the shadow?¡±


    Eloise was raising her fork to her mouth when the question was asked, a portion of lobster tail in transit. But instead returning her forearm to the table¡¯s edge, she elected to finish her movement. She chewed as she lifted her chin ¨C looking as if she were giving more attention to the taste of the lobster than she was giving thought to Arran¡¯s question.


    Arran became annoyed as he watched her. It was the same thing he saw in Alexander¡¯s condescension chin-raise. It was that which he didn¡¯t want to become.


    Eloise turned to severe another piece of lobster before answering. ¡°Didn¡¯t your private tutors cover it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Well, they were supposed to. I recall putting meditation on the curriculum.¡±


    ¡°Oh of course you did,¡± Arran said icily. ¡°I¡¯m sure you put psychoschismatics on the curriculum too.¡±


    Eloise was about to take another bite; only this time she returned her fork to the plate. ¡°You can¡¯t blame me for what your tutors failed to teach you.¡±


    Arran glared at Eloise with a contempt so total that it made Eloise swallow what could¡¯ve been the lobster on her fork.


    ¡°No, Eloise,¡± Arran said as he placed his napkin on his plate and stood up. ¡°I blame you for what you failed to teach me.¡±


    ***


    Audrey was in the passenger seat next to Eloise as their hovercraft navigated itself back to London. A heavy awkwardness had lingered between them after Arran stormed out of the restaurant. And it was still in effect.


    ¡°So why didn¡¯t you ever teach him about the shadow?¡± Audrey asked.


    ¡°To be honest,¡± Eloise sighed as she kept her eyes ahead, ¡°I was scared to.¡±


    ¡°I understand that, Eloise. More than anyone¨C¡±


    ¡°Then why would you ask me in the first place?¡±


    Eloise¡¯s sharpness caused Audrey¡¯s brows to furrow. ¡°Did it ever occur to you that Arran would eventually learn of the shadow sometime ¨C as he already has ¨C and that it would be a greater harm to him than to not have any knowledge of it?¡±


    Eloise was quiet.


    ¡°Listen,¡± Audrey continued, "I¡¯m not trying to make you feel bad. Or to point blame. What¡¯s done is done. But now we have something of a situation on our hands.¡±


    ¡°Did you see his face when he caught me trying to read his mind?¡±


    Eloise¡¯s question was in a drifting tone and Audrey had to force the memory up with a sigh for thinking it irrelevant. ¡°Yes. Sure. What about it?¡±


    Eloise shook her head. ¡°It was in his eyes. They reminded me so much of him.¡±


    ¡°Alastair?¡±


    Eloise nodded.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Audrey said, trying to be more empathetic. ¡°Their blues are remarkably similar.¡±


    ¡°No. Not the blues. Not their shape. Not their size. Of course, that¡¯s there.¡± Eloise paused, a little exasperated. ¡°It was something else. The dark shade swirling in them at the expanse/dilation of his pupils¨C¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s enough. We¡¯re not going there. Arran is not Alistair. They¡¯re not even close.¡±


    ¡°Before tonight Audrey, I thought the very same thing. On the way up here I kept reminding myself of all the ways that their not the same. But when Arran pushed me out so abruptly ¨C so powerfully ¨C and looked me in the eyes, I couldn¡¯t help but see his father¡­¡±


    They were both quiet for a moment before Eloise continued. ¡°Perhaps your vision is correct.¡±


    ¡°Visions aren¡¯t always correct. You know this. And every kid goes through difficult times at this stage in life. We just have to be there for him. He¡¯ll be okay.¡±


    I don¡¯t want him to become that, Audrey.¡± Eloise was looking more helpless than Audrey had ever seen her.


    ¡°Arran can¡¯t become Alastair.¡±