Blood
AUTHOR: Yarrharr
RATING: G
SUMMARY: A journal from the POV of one of the selective-breeding cult kids. (I always end up doing unusual POVs.)
A/N: The young kids from the creepy breeding cult kind of parallel the young X5s. They have superhuman powers, are brainwashed, and they have tattoos (caduceus vs. barcode). Interesting, isn't it?
DISCLAIMERS: I don't own Dark Angel, it belongs to Cameron and Eglee, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Don't sue, cuz I don't own anything except for some yummy soy-protein fake buffalo wings.

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I am the third daughter of a third daughter. The blood in my veins is pure and strong; my genes are flawless. This is who I am.
That's who I must believe I am, at least. That's what Mom tells me to believe, because that's what she was told to believe. But I think I'm more than that.
I know I'm different from other kids. I am four and a half years old, and most children my age can barely write their names, much less an exposition on who they are. When the teachers talk about me, they say I am "very talented" or "special". They think I can't hear, but I can. I know I'm "special", because I can remember the day I first saw my parents, and the day, a week after that, when I started talking. Normal kids can't remember that well.
This, Mom says, makes me better than them. "We are superior," she says when Daddy isn't home, "because our blood is not dirty. Someday their own malice and stupidity will kill them, and then we will triumph. The earth will be ours someday. Because we're better than them."
But Daddy is one of "them". He was chosen for my mother because of his useful genes. How can I hate my own father? I know he is weak. I know I am weak for loving him, when he is beneath me and doesn't deserve it. But no matter what my mother says, I can't forget that blissful look on his face the day that I was born.
Mom warns me about emotions. She says they are for normal people, not for us. Sentimentality makes you soft and clouds your mind. One day about a year ago, when I kicked a boy at daycare and the adults sent me home, she told me I was weak for letting him bother me. "Your anger doesn't serve a purpose, except to blind you." So the next day, when the boy annoyed me again, I simply looked at him. He left me alone after that.
She tells me a lot of things, late at night when I can't sleep. I don't need to sleep much, and neither does she. Mom tells me stories and describes how I'll train when I get older. She also says that we'll become a new species after a few more hundreds of millennia. We won't have to interbreed with the "normals". There will be many of us and we will all be strong. That's why, she says, we must always help our brothers and sisters whenever they need us.
And recently, she has started telling me about transgenics. "They're even dirtier than humans. They are freaks, mutants with mixed-up animal genes. They threaten us and turn everyone against themselves."
I've seen films of transgenics on TV. Some of them are indeed hideous, but others look just like humans--just like us. They don't look dirty. And I wonder if they hate "normals", the people who created them.
In a few years I will start my training. I know I'll be brainwashed and forget that I ever loved a human I called my father, or that I ever doubted what my mother said. In a few years, I won't remember what I have written here. I will only know this:
I am the third daughter of a third daughter. The blood in my veins is pure and strong; my genes are flawless. This is who I am.

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