handler

The lab had a small fake courtyard filled with the laughter or tremors of children. Depends on who hears it. The old gentleman, walked towards the door with the little child led by a professional lady.

The door opened to a perfectly designed room with artificial sun illuminating the field giving it a natural look. The hybrids in all shapes and sizes and genders are playing around. Some are on the artificial trees hanging and others reside in their cages.

“Here love, choose whoever you want.” The old gentleman, spoke with such delight, but the child–oh the child–in such innocence still dared to question the world's hierarchy, “But you said we are here to get pets? They are not pets, right, Papa?”

If only the world considered their human side too, then maybe they wouldn't be just pets. Some will even say, the hybrids were more humane than most humans existing.

“Sweetpie, they are your pets. Whoever you want, you can get them. And you can make them do whatever you want. That's what they are made for.” It was so inevitable to hate the old man, the child in all her unsurely manner, could just mumble an agreeable sound.

She walked around the field with the lady. All the hybrids suddenly stopped at the sudden presence of a human child between them. It was like someone had intruded on their personal space.

“How old are they?” the old man asked, surveying all the species around him. “Around 10 to 15 years old. But they are well trained,” the lady replied almost automatically, as if she could recall them even in her sleep.

The child was too mesmerised to notice the change in her father’s voice. The hybrids looked at her cautiously. Waiting, as if the tiny being could harm them.

"I need someone much younger," his brown eyes trailing to each beast, "Someone near the age of my little girl." He looked at the lady, her clipboard tight against her hands, a list of all their 'projects' in them.

"Those are untamable, we don't recommend it, especially for young children," the lady replied professionally, not afraid of him.

She knew very well, the projects are luxury even to the rich, and they cannot compromise on their rules for those deep-pocketed. But the old man wasn't just some patrician. For the old man, he was ozymandian. An ozymandian is someone whose power is so vast they believe it is eternal, but they don't realise that their own powers would lead at their eventual downfall. And this, would be the exact moment he would regret much years later.

The air in the artificial courtyard seemed to thin as the old man pulled out his phone. He didn't look at the lady; he didn't even look at the 'projects' anymore. He pressed a single button. The call was answered before the first ring could even finish.

"Vane," he said, his voice low, monolithic rumble that didn't belong in the room with a child. "I am at lab 5. The staff here is hiding behind 'recommendations' regarding the younger hybrids."

He paused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips — not out of joy, but out of a cold, imperious certainty.

"Correct their understanding. I want the clearance codes for the nursery wing sent to my device in thirty seconds. And Vane? If the Boards of Directors has a comment on the 'untamable' nature of my request . . . remind them who signed their charter."

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his coat pocket. The lady scientist’s tablet suddenly chirped with a high-priority override, the screen flashing a deep, authoritative crimson.

The old man finally turned his gaze toward her. It wasn’t the look of a customer, or even a boss. It was the look of a Suzerain acknowledging a peasant who had forgotten her place.

He gestured vaguely toward the heavy, reinforced steel doors at the back of the room—the ones labeled with biohazard warnings.

"Now, unlock the nursery. My daughter is waiting to meet her new toy, and I find that my patience for 'recommendations' has a very short half-life."