A baby's wail reverberates off the concrete walls.
"We can't keep it here. Its powers are as yet undeveloped." The speaker is a tall, thin man with thick glasses and receding hair. "The suppressant appears viable. The subject is on it now."
"What if it doesn't have powers?" The rough reply comes from a smaller, squat man, bearded and with an air of authority.
"You joking? It's the product of class four and five mutant parents. This kid is the jackpot—unexpected, to be sure, but the grand prize of the evolutionary lottery," the thin man reassures him, rubbing his receding hairline with a handkerchief.
The squat man is not convinced. "But its powers haven't manifested."
"No."
"Our employers have neither the time nor the energy to look after an infant. Foster it out—say the suppressant is for a heart condition. I don't care, but don't lose track of her. Wolverine's child—imagine what it could do! You have your assignment, Doctor."
The smaller man leaves, with barely a glance at the subject of their conversation.
The doctor looks down at the experiment. With dark, wild hair and green eyes flecked with silver, she has the face of an angel.. Yet he cannot afford to think of her—it, he tells himself fiercely—as a child.
"It's a tool. Only a tool," he murmurs to himself, and shudders. "A tool that could kill us all."
Sighing, he pulls out his cell phone and punches in a number. Pacing, he glances at the now-silent child. A faint, tinny voice echoes from the speakers.
"Hello?"
"Marian. I have a child for you."
"A child? How—"
"No questions. All the papers, birth certificate, everything in order. And a child to raise. Everything you wanted. But no questions."
"But—"
"Marian!"
"All right. When?"
"As soon as possible. Tomorrow?"
"Yes! Jim, of course! But—"
He flips the phone shut.
"Jim!"
The doctor steps off the helicopter and thrusts the carrier forward. "Here she is," he says stiffly.
He hands the woman a sheaf of documents. "Everything's in order; you'll receive a monthly stipend of two thousand."
Her fingers close reluctantly over the folder. Tucking it into her purse, she picks up the baby from its carrier and cuddles it close. The child coos and gurgles as she skims her nose over its full head of dark hair.
"I didn't take her for the money, Jim, you know that."
His voice softens. "I know, Mari. But this child is—is special."
"Aren't all children?" She looks up from where her face is buried in the baby's chest. Her brown eyes search his. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny of eyes that see too much, he looks down and shuffles his feet.
"Yes…but this child is—different. She's got a heart condition—her parents didn't want her."
Her eyes widen. "How could anyone not want someone like you?" she murmurs to the now-dozing baby. "What could you possibly have done to anyone?"
He shifts again. "She's done nothing, Marian. But she is different. Remember this—if you do nothing else, remember this!—she must take this pill," he proclaims, holding up the small green bottle, "once a day. Every day. Without fail."
"All right." She returns to cooing at the sleeping baby.
"Every day, Marian! She could die if you don't." He shifts uneasily at lying to her; but this child is too important to both him and his employers to lose too soon. However, he thinks savagely, we have very different reasons.
"Of—of course, Jim." Marian, confused, looks down at the child again. "What's her name?"
Softening, he replies, "She doesn't have one—I thought I'd let you choose."
"How about Aimee?"
"Aimee?"
"It means beloved."
"Perfect, then." He looks down at the child. No! Not a child—a tool. It's Marian's child. My tool.