AN: Aaaaaangst. The other three have a glint of perfection about them, and they're so pretty. Someone needs to be around to do real work. :) Not that I don't love them all.

NUMBER 17: brown

She's just mud under their feet. The stick they use to smash a particularly gross bug, one they wouldn't chance touching with their pale pink fingers. Someone come with a broom and get this, this thing out of here, please, before she contaminates us all. So so so dirty. Get it out.

(They won't risk their golden girl on this mission because blood is too much of a contrast on pale blonde hair.

They won't risk their bejeweled girl on this mission because dirt dulls the shine of emeralds and rose quartz.

They won't risk their girl of ivory on this mission because knife marks mar the perfection of smooth soft skin.

But they'll risk their mud-girl.)

Someone come with a broom.

Get this thing out of here.

She'll contaminate us.

Send her away already, and maybe she'll die this time.

(Everyone needs a scapegoat.)

Why won't the mud stains come out of the damn carpet already?

(Gold is lost over time, the wealth spread from hand to hand and dropped on the streets and lost. Jewels loose their luster, chips flying away as the cutter heedlessly cuts them away to force out perfection that is not absolute. Ivory dims and chips, loses its appeal to quickly. And dirt will always be, always holds on, incessant.)