DAMAGED.
That's what the society calls us, the prisoners, the ones who are feared and hated. We are parasites of our Intelligence Bodies, the carriers of the plague. At least, that's what the Majarlikan military forces said. Of course, it's a fabric...
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Today is my birthday, and mom wants me to look presentable. The dress she made me wear is made by Glymeer Williams, her childhood, neighborhood friend, a Belvyur. Mom said that it's cheap—the suit, but I don't believe her. The price must be outrageous, because when I gave her that look of suspicion, she went on explaining how little money did she spend on it. It's not that I don't mind, but I thought that arguing is pointless when it has already been done, especially for my birthday. So instead of protesting, I thanked her. After all, she deserves a compliment for her efforts. But really, she should've saved the money for dad.
Now, I stare helplessly at my reflection. Jersan said that I look regal in this coat, wool washed in gray, the distinctive color of Quadiops. Jet black lines stretched across its lapels and sleeve hems. Black buttons fastened the front, tightening the coat's hug around my torso. It's not rare to find things like this within our Intelligence Body. Made by a Belvyur, designed by Jersan, mom, and dad, who are Quadiops—the three of them, except me. I don't belong to any Intelligence Body yet. Not until I get the result of the Intelligence Examination, which has to be taken today.
Jersan, mom, and dad are visual-spatial intelligent. Mom loves painting, dad loves photography, and Jersan loves sketching. They have a common interest in art, the reason why they are listed as Quadiops. As for my interests, I don't know. There's nothing noteworthy about me. I tried painting, but the result is meaningless. Mom would say that it's abstract, a fulsome lie for my sake. The truth is, the result is way too far from what I envisioned. I tried photography but captured only what most Youngsters can also do—too plain. Dad would throw me effusive praise, but I know better. My brother taught me to draw—or just as well copy—his sketch of, considering his perspective, a too-simple one dimension steam locomotive, but all I could muster is biting my lower lip for trying. I have no talent, but I'll be looking up to any if there is. I don't know if I should feel excited or nervous now that I'll get to know which of the Intelligence Bodies will I be placed into. Maybe it's best to feel both.
Or just nothing at all.
Mom tries to groom my messed-up curls with hair wax. I feel like she's subjecting me as her human artwork. She doesn't trust me in making myself presentable. It's proof that I'm no good at art, whether unnoticed or ignored by her.
"Maybe designing buildings," mom responds to whatever Jersan has said. "Just like his uncle."
"Or maybe fashion designing," Jersan argues, propping himself up on the bed with his arms and tilting his head to his side as if scrutinizing me whether I look good in that angle or not.
"Architecture." Mom seems to be rooting off my hair from my scalp. She'd be a terrible gardener if she does the same with the plants—definitely doesn't have a green thumb.
"No, fashioning," Jersan insists. "Or he could be a mixed-traffic locomotive." He winks at my reflection, testing again my nerves.
It takes an effort not to speak. Fashioning is for girls or gays stuff. And the locomotive he meant is a reminder of what a terrible artist I am.
