ANNET blue.
Dr Gromov's first thought on Charles Snippy shouldn't have been a surprise. Where the sky could be seen between the towering buildings, it was painted gray, and the seas had been marred by toxic waste long since. Blue was now a color only seen in holograms and screens - and Charles' eyes.
For a second, Gromov wondered if the picture wasn't flickering on the computer. He pressed his fingers against his temple and rubbed away the tiredness nested deep into his brain. Not even the brief respite from the headache made Charles' eyes turn brown, or grey, or whatever color eyes were supposed to be nowdays; a strange feature amidst an entirely ordinary man.
Ordinary. Gromov couldn't think of a word more fitting. Amongst the Good Directorate personnel, Gromov could find many extraordinary people - himself included – whose minds were born to shape the world around them. Charles was a smudge in an otherwise controlled environment, fitting in only in the same way you'd fit into loose clothes: it wasn't right, just doable. His appearance reflected all of his normalcy but for his eyes.
Charles Snippy had shaven for the picture, but the high definition camera captured the spots where he'd missed. His skin was sickenly pale and there were bags underneath those impossible eyes of his. Not a man who takes care of himself, he thought absented-mindedly. Not unlike the rest of the population. So common it hurts.
Why, then, couldn't he connect?
Gromov sighed at the puzzle in front of him. With a flicker of his hand, Charles' picture became lost amidst a group of photographies. Disconnected from the rest of the world, the 1% was hard to track and label, yet here they were, the ones Gromov had any report of, men and women of equal insignificance, staring at him dispassionately through the filter of his personal computer.
There was no imprint in any DNA, no genetic problem, no neural short-circuit that could bar Annie from entering their mind if she wished so. After word got out that a few people were unable to connect, he'd run all sorts if tests, pushing through his team's every limit to come out empty handed. Logic dictated there was no issue at all: Annie was a fickle creature - she was his, after all - and she had, like a moody teenager, stomped her feet and banned the uncool people from her party. It was a reasonable conclusion for the Good Directorate Inc., with its salesmen, executives and marketing team, but it wasn't good enough for him. He was a creator, after all, and Annie was his Galatea. Gromov wouldn't admit anything less than perfection, reason why he ached all over in an attempt to understand his creation.
There was no discernible pattern between the one percent, not by age, gender or race. The only common feature to the lot of them was their tired gaze, but then - Gromov yawned - who wasn't tired? He could only notice that, anyway, because their features weren't hidden by any piece of headgear. Which had come to be how he'd noticed Charles' eyes, to begin with.
Gromov leaned back into his chair and stretched until he heard his joints snap.
"I need to get out." He said out loud, groaning as a wave of relief spread through his body. The computer in front of him buzzed in outrage, what earned it a pat on its carcass, a sullen note of agreement. Going out. Gromov resisted a frown. That wasn't a thought he usually had, but sitting inside his office through the entire week hadn't brought him closer to find any reason behind Annie's rejection of the one percent. Also, his eyes were starting to water whenever he kept them open for long. He'd been comparing Charles to Annie, for god's sake.
She'd be devastated if she knew.
He's… subpar, she'd told him once. Gromov felt the hesitation in her thoughts, knowing it wasn't a slow signal broadcast but her feelings on choosing the correct adjective. Her grasp on grammar was flawless, of course, as her knowledge on English and Russian, but she'd already said Charles to be unconnectable, unscannable, and therefore useless, and even though Gromov agreed with her, he'd chastised Annie nonetheless. Every effort to assimilate him, through drones or otherwise, has been denied. His refusal to be integrated should be taken as an affront to the system.
And what's your suggestion?
He'd be better resting, my love. He misses sleep terribly. Why not grant that to him?
He felt her, he really did. The drone he'd assigned to Charles came back with nothing but inconclusive reports - mainly about coffee. Now Charles stared at him defiantly from a computer monitor, as if taunting Gromov for the only failure in his career: someone uninterested, who looked upon his gift with scorn. He'd built machine to keep the soul of the man intact, and yet there was someone who could look down on him, as if the greatness he'd brought to mankind was nothing but a curse. ANNET's gentle gaze sprawled across all of Eureka. Her eyes, of a flickering blue, sought to guide and protect, while Charles' were filled with contempt.
Pity. They were such beautiful eyes, too. Gromov couldn't remember the last time he'd seen that hue of blue naturally; the last time he'd stared at the sky was when he'd been too young and stupid to realize what the smoky grey clouds meant for the world. Progress, yes. At a cost.
Gromov got up from his chair. He'd been there for so long his limbs rusted, and he stumbled outside to pretty much everyone's surprise. It was noon, and Gromov was known to eat in his office.
"I'm going to need a suitcase," he announced as he strode forwards, expecting the first intern to hear him to comply. None of his subordinates did: they just stared at him, too dumbfounded to act on his request. Gromov felt the need to clap for attention.
"I'm off to the dead zone."
To be continued.