Tomakin fled, up stairs and through corridors, the sterile white momentarily blinding him after leaving the decanter room, his screams bouncing of the walls. Moments later, the door to his office was flung open, the familiar white walls greeting him, all its contents neat, in orderly piles (a sign of a hardworking, organised man). A man who held a high position and deserved it. Tomakin ran the hatchery efficiently; each egg fertilised accurately, every embryo receiving the correct amount of alcohol. He had built up respect amongst his peers though his efforts. The familiar surroundings eased Tomkins’s terror slightly.

Yet it was all so easily stripped away. Tomakin’s plans had changed. Rather than Bernard leaving, humiliated, with his tail between his legs, while Tomakin turned his focus to more important matters. It would be the director. His attempts at saving society from this madman had been foiled. Tomakin was only doing right by everyone here. Unlike Marx, Tomkins followed the rules, he stuck to his caste, not endangering those around him with individual thought about society’s workings. There was no need to change, because everyone was happy. Conditioning assured that. Everyone had their roles, and fulfilled them without complaint or gripe. There was no reason to, after all. There was also soma. A holiday was calling to Tomakin now, a way to escape this humiliation and pain.

Tomakin was disgusted. Thoroughly and utterly disgusted, horrified, nauseated down to his very core. Linda had shown up, wrinkled, brown and fat, her teeth yellow and covered head to toe in dirt. The stench that clung to her figure and permeated the air could not be overcome by any synthetic sound that existed. That hair resembled ropes and twine, greasy and dirt streaked, but still not enough to disguise its silver colour. An extinct colour. She resembled every civilised person’s nightmare, a reminder of the horrors that befell those who were unlucky enough to live outside of civilisation.

And the clothes! The director had not seen such rags in his entire life. Linda ought to be ashamed, going in public like that. She no longer resembled the young, nice, beautiful woman he once had. Claims of ‘doing nothing wrong’ poured off Linda’s lips, but didn’t reach Tomkins’s ears. Too shocked to see such a nauseating sight, right there in the perfectly sterile decanting room. The savage wasn’t much better either. John’s only saving grace was his face and hair. Though that didn’t mean much when the man knelt at his feet and cried ‘father!’ over and over, like some broken record. A mother and her child! Anyone would feel faint at the sight. A mother.

Revulsion had washed over Tomakin in waves. The word alone enough to make him gag. The fact that it was directed towards him only heightened his nausea. Even now, he wanted to retch. A ghost of Tomakin’s past had come to haunt him, mock him. Dare to touch, to come close, despite the muck and grime that coated its very being; it stained and tainted Tomakin. He was that boy’s… that boy’s father. A single child, born from his genes.

Tomakin was also horribly enraged. Bernard, that traitor to civilised man, had the gall to flout society’s rules, become nothing better than an anarchist, under the pretence of supporting it. Time and time again, Bernard had shoved the opinions of Tomakin and others in their faces, believing himself to be above them, instead pursuing his own. Thomas had gotten enough support, enough evidence, to finally ship him out, to Iceland, and bring peace back to the hatchery once more. It was almost done!

It was moments away from Bernard’s humiliation, laughter following him out the building and to Iceland. But then he has to bring in a bad memory and a mistake, an accident, abomination. It shouldn’t exist. The laughter, meant to fall upon Bernard’s ears, turned to him. The horror, anger, embarrassment. Tomakin didn’t deserve this. He’d done everything right, worked hard to get here, to this position of power, to respect from all those surrounding. Only to have it ripped away in an instant. A horrifying, humiliating, hideous instant. Anger consumed Tomakin whole. Tomkins wanted nothing more than to slap that woman, that creature, savage, across the face, for daring to come close to him, bringing dirt and disease. Daring to associate itself with him.

Tomakin has to resign, he has no choice. The arrival of the savages had ruined everything. If he wasn’t fired, he would have to resign. No one will respect Tomakin after this. The thought alone would bring tears to people’s faces in glee. The laughter still rung in his ears, like a bell. Only soma could stop his shame, wallowing in embarrassment and rage. Soma could make him forget, improve such a horrible day. It would chase the laughter away. Perhaps things would’ve been better if Bernard took his advice and took some too. Everyone else was happy then, after all. “A gramme is better than a damn.”