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 – 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 – 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 – 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–”

“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.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

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 – 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 – 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–”

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 – 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 – 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 – 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.