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 – 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 – 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.

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 – looked into them – 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 – a side of her that Mr. Hue was in fact no stranger to – 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 – 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.”