I hate being poor; ATR-not; Excerpt: The Anomaly

The plans are as follows:
1. Paint the Kid’s room.
2. Grow and eat mung bean sprouts.
3. Get him a BMX bike.
4. Buy him clothes for school.
5. Wrap up all old stories.

* * *

OMAKE

Being a retiree wasn’t so bad. Not when he halfway felt as though everyday they lived like normal people was one more day when he’d kept the world safe.

Warrick would never say anything, but checking up on the things Vereint had gotten up to while he was indisposed and reading a few essays floating around the Internet about the minds of supervillains had really freaked him out. It was obvious that Vereint had gone a bit psycho.

It was somewhat flattering to think that he was the only thing protecting the world from Vereint going full scale SUPERVILLAIN Darkstar. He got to have the love of his life and save the world at the same time. Blue Ice was dead, but Warrick felt like more of a superhero than he had in a long time.

Having Nick manifest his first metabilities was a bit worrying. Warrick didn’t quite know how he was supposed to handle things, but he managed to at least look like he wasn’t throwing hysterical fits so he considered it a win. Vereint wasn’t even trying to cover up the fact that he was freaking out. It made Warrick feel a bit superior to be the controlled one for once.

“Remember, no showing off,” Vereint said with a pointed look at Nick.

“It’s fine, Dad.” Nick rolled his eyes, but didn’t try to move away when Vereint tugged his jacket straight. “I got this.”

A quirky smile curved Vereint’s lips as he looked at Nick. “You’re growing up really fast. Just don’t expect to get your own car until you’re twenty-five.”

Warrick moved in when it looked like Vereint was about to spit on his hand to smooth their son’s hair. “We’re going to be late.”

Vereint let himself be tugged away from Nick. Warrick wrapped his left arm around Vereint’s shoulder, less as a comforting gesture and more to hold him back from his fussing.

“I guess we better get out of here,” Vereint said.

Nick looked proud in his suit and tie, his hair styled to look careless and windswept. He had Vereint’s dark hair and Warrick’s blue eyes and was growing up to be a good looking kid. When he grinned, it was to show off Vereint’s dimples in a charm that no one could deny. “I look good, right?” He stuck his hands in his pockets and spread his jacket wide for a moment.

“Don’t get a big head.” Warrick clapped Nick on the back and nudged him toward the door. Vereint stayed curled against his side, their legs almost tangling when they stepped out on the porch. Warrick refused to let him go.

They walked up the sidewalk as a group, meeting up with others making the journey. Boys and girls dressed in their best clothes, excited younger siblings bounding around, and indulgent parents trailing along. It was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, this stream of people all headed toward the country school.

Warrick had never imagined that a child’s graduation between grades was such a big deal, yet here they were. Vereint was beaming with pride and fiddling with the camera hanging around his neck. Nick spotted a couple of his friends and ran up ahead. And suddenly they were taking a romantic stroll.

“Are you going to write about this in your diary?” Warrick asked.

Vereint slanted him a confused glance. “Huh?”

“Never mind. It was stupid. Life is good.”

“It is.” Vereint gave Warrick’s shoulder a squeeze.

Warrick smiled contentedly.

He had a husband he loved and a son graduating the fifth grade. He had sixty-one years of life experience and a thirty-one year old body. There wasn’t much more that he could ask for. Life was good.

/EXCERPT

* * *

They gave him the name Gellar Rembrandt when he was decanted. One more Bottle Baby sent off to the creche. And as soon as he had a mouth full of teeth and could walk and talk, he was bundled off to the Learning Center.

It wasn’t a bad life, being the clone of a clone of a clone. For everything he thought and did, there was a precedence. It gave him a sense of peace to know that he was a stereotypical representative of his genotype. One amongst thousands.

Until the Graduation Exams when he was 20. Until his world was ended with the declaration that he was an Aberration, and Unclean.

He was not the perfect copy he’d always known himself to be. He was an anomaly.

Gellar was taken from the Learning Center in the back of a van. His wrists were shackled together and he was treated like a prisoner, an inevitable threat.

He could see the disgust and disquiet in the faces that looked like his own. (His type is used in the police and military.) Every single one of them was forced to wonder what they would have done if they were him. He was the possibility of failure that any one of them could have been.

He was their worst fear brought to life.

Aberration. Discord. Failure.

/EXCERPT