In a futuristic society where people are differentiated and valued based on the purity of their genes, can a person define for themselves who they really are? Or does The Gene Test provide the answer for them?
Depression... Addiction... Criminality...
Catching up on my beauty sleep to make my already flawless self even more radiant; Plotting the downfall of all those who've wronged me during the week; Rejuvenating and recharging my energy so that I can exert my full effort into exacting my plans...
There's just one small thing that I always dread. Well, a big thing. A big six-foot-one burden that I call brother. Stepbrother.
How is one such a bothersome, uncultivated, gauche, A-class bastard? I mean, I'm an understanding person, and I get that he has his pride as I have mine, so I don't expect him to fall at my feet instantly when I say the word, but I at least expect him to begrudgingly bow down. Until now, after being siblings for nearly two years, he still hasn't bowed down to me! Not even once!
Jerk-ling must be some kind of new breed with a chromosomal mutation that makes them lack the gene for basic matriarchal respect. I guess even Perfects can have some sort of anomaly in their DNA. Yes, that must be it! That makes a lot of sense, and would explain a lot. This theory would account for the aberrant behavior of that hybrid playing Perfect (What's her name again? Jenny? Sally? I don't care to remember) as well as that witch-tester from two years ago.
I'm not one to hold grudges, but I never forgive or forget when one crosses me, ever. I always make sure to get my revenge. Although, perhaps, in these cases, I should grant a gracious exemption? Since these poor souls seem to have some deformity, and I'm always for helping the less fortunate.
Wow, I just debunked the formula to a regressive behavioral pattern in unique individuals. It's the Rosamund in me. I'm a natural-born genius. It's in my blood. I'm honestly ready to take over the company right now, at eighteen years old. If only my mother was gone... Not that I want her to die or anything, I'm a filial daughter, but if she were to get into some sort of sudden terrible accident putting her into a coma for about twenty years until I've managed to eclipse all the company assets, that would be quite convenient.
From the window in my room, an entire sheet glass stretching from one wall to the other, I spy down four floors to the front porch of the mansion where a limousine has stopped.
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Sterling throws the limo door open and storms out with his bag slung over his shoulder, ignoring the numerous maids and butlers who attempt to offer to take his bag, as usual.
Why does he always do that? What's the point in being rich and hiring servants when you don't even utilize the benefits? He refuses their service all the time and just does things on his own. I, on the other hand, have forgotten what it's like to do things on my own. Scratch that, I didn't forget — I never learnt. I take much pride in the fact. I was born with a diamond spoon in my mouth and I've never had to tarnish my milky white, soft, pristine hands by doing any form of dirty work in the entirety of my blessed existence.
