An old man sat alone in a dark room. The room itself was simple but fashionable and luxurious in its own way, but dark nonetheless. A desk sat at one side- -his desk- -and he leaned over it, putting his head on one hand and running his fingers through his graying hair. He had once spent so much time dying it, something that was almost absurd in the era where even mundane aspects of the human condition like fading hair could be treated with genetic engineering. Every day he saw them: people who were born the same time he was, from tanks and factories instead of from mothers, destined never to age and to live at least twice as long as he ever would. They would never old or sick- -and they had been rendered incapable of experiencing the level of sadness that he was quickly growing accustomed to.
The ice in his glass clinked and he raised a steady hand to take a sip. It was scotch, the most expensive kind available. It cost more than most people would see in a lifetime, and it tasted like watery shit. Still he drank it, because some days it would help. He wondered if today would be one of those days.

The room was silent, or nearly so, but after a time the man came to know that he was not alone. He could hear soft breathing coming from the shadows.

“Sixty seven billion vod,” he said, staring into the shadows but not the one where the owner of the soft breath was waiting. “That is how much I invested in securing this facility. Corporate espionage, foreign invaders, even the War. None of them could reach us in here.” His eyes slowly drifted toward the shadows, and he vaguely saw two orange reflections staring back at him. “And you come to me unhindered.”

The shadow laughed, and then spoke. Her voice was clearly female, but cracked slightly. “Perhaps if you had not slaughtered the majority of your employees.”

“Company policy is my business. Not yours. Or did you come here to question my decisions?”

“Perceptive. I did. But not on that subject.”

“You’re wasting your time, then.” He tilted his glass and looked down at it. It was empty, save for the ice. He had run out of scotch. “And mine.”

“Well you certainly seem to have an awful lot of it. Or terribly little, depending on how you look at it.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?”

The voice laughed. “It could be. If you want it to be.”

“Any man who came to my personal study with a threat, any man- -I would have him drawn and quartered.”

“But I am no man. As I’m sure you’re aware. Nor do I trade in threats, not especially. None of us do. We trade in death. And life.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“You’ve been interfering, Mr. Spitzer.”

Bronislav Spitzer VII looked up into the shadows. He saw a glint of white teeth from an infuriating smile. “Interfering? You murdered my goddamn son. I have every right to interfere with in whichever way I see fit.”

“And you are mistaken on multiple accounts. Such a right does not belong to you. Not one who is…incomplete. Nor did I kill your son.”

“I’m not in the mood to debate definitions,” growled Spitzer.

“A pity,” replied the voice. “We could have had a lovely philosophical conversation.”

“GODDAMN YOU!” screamed Spitzer, suddenly standing up and throwing his glass into the darkness. Ice scattered across the floor and he heard glass shatter, but the eyes watching him did not move, nor did the owner of the female voice react in anyway. “I SHOULD NEVER HAVE TRUSTED YOU! You- -all of you- -you’re insane! It’s not worth the cost!”

“I assure you. It is.”

Spitzer took a step toward the darkness but suddenly stopped. The room swam slightly and he staggered back.

“What…what’s happening…” he said, putting a hand on his head.

“Your son was critical. Not ideal, but your kind are desperately rare. And we need them. Not the poor ones. Or the second-borns. All of them. All of them until we are complete. Then…well, I’m sure you’ll be happy.” A slight womanly giggle came from the darkness. “Because then your kind will no longer be necessary.”

“What did you do to me?”

“A pity,” continued the voice, ignoring Spitzer’s demand for information. “Perhaps you might have been great. I had high hopes. I thought perhaps we could remove the tumors from your brain. Unfortunately, the exploratory surgery has shown us that the best you could ever hope for is to keep them static. Unchanging. And that is unfortunately not adequate.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Spitzer swooned and dropped. He tried to reach for the chair but struck the floor instead. Grabbing onto it, he tried to stand, but it felt strange, like his hands were passing through it instead of grasping.

“Mr. Sptizer,” said the voice, feigning pity. “I’m afraid you’re exhibiting something of a memory problem. Don’t you even recall that we already came into your study at least an hour ago? You were sitting in that chair, right there, and we came up behind and…” She trailed off. “Well, I suppose it is something we all would rather not remember. But sadly, Mr. Spitzer, it is time to wake up.”

“Wake up? What- -what are you- -”

The room began to spin and shift. Spitzer held on as though he would be thrown off as the shadows were illuminated with light, revealing that there was nothing behind them. The room he had known so well had never truly been there; instead, he was surrounded by nothing but empty blackness that began to break apart into light.

Then as he opened his eyes it all returned to him. Sitting there, waiting, the sadness- -and suddenly a sensation that someone was near, followed by a sharp pain and a loud sound. The change had been so fast he had not noticed it- -but now he knew, and he understood what it meant.

He tried to scream, but he could not. To scream would require lungs. He could stillmove what was left of his face, but his trachea had been disconnected when they had removed him from his body. Yet despite this, his brain persisted, fed oxygen through the artificial blood injected through the exposed arteries of his neck.

It was wet. There was water. He was drowning, because he could not breath no matter how hard he tried. He could not move, and yet somehow the body he no longer had still ached badly. The world around him was dim and foggy, tinged with blood and distorted by the glass in front of him. Through it, he could see a pale teal face, her hair neatly trimmed around her long spiral horn. Beside her stood a woman, and even though she was partially obscured Spitzer could recognize her horrendously familiar face.

“Don’t try to plead, Mr. Spitzer. We are going to cut off your oxygen now. Yours is not of use to us. But before you go, don’t worry about Monsanto. We have already picked a successor for you, seeing as how your bloodline has officially ended. And for the record?Your son was not compatible. So perhaps you will be joining him, no?”

Sptizer had neither the time nor the means to answer. They stopped the pump that fed his severed head oxygen. The world swam with blackness and faded quickly. The last thing he saw was a pair of immense orange eyes staring at him- -smiling at him- -through fluid tinged with his own blood.