Rich Man

"Why don't you talk?"

I stared at the unfamiliar child, completely alien to me and yet so much like myself. Her body was built so much smaller than mine, though Nathaniel's partners all said that she and I were virtually identical. I didn't see it.

She was a talkative child. All of the other kids were. There was a whole collection of PWCs, as we were labeled, running around this massive building. I was fourteen when I found out I'd have so many friends, just like me. The PWCs were all new additions to a family that was once simply Nathaniel and I.

At first the idea didn't really settle well with me. I was a nervous girl, aching for the support of my father over interaction with these tiny intellects. They were all socially advanced, engaging each other in conversations whenever they could, all striving to bend the human mind and play psychological games with each other when they weren't studying or playing video games and sports.

"Hello," another child would beckon my attention, waving a slow hand in my face as if to check for attentive consciousness. I simply stared at her as she asked me again, "Why do you never speak?"

Those idiots thought I was mute for the longest time, until they watched the interactions of my father and I. We talked together, theorized ethical solutions to simple psychological problems encountered by everyday life. He used what I had to say, judged my interaction with the rest of his partners.

While the other kids flitted away their time with idle games and daydreams of something more than science and progress, I was busy silently figuring out the purpose of my adoption. By all means, the others were fully aware how different we were from normal kids. We were all bred the same way: Blank slates without real parents, pets, schools, or friends. Adopted by elite psychologists, we were all taught the same theories, languages, and arts. However, it was our simple differences, both in heredity and preference, that set us apart from one another.

I was just the first one to figure out that we were all being judged for something greater.

Soft snoring and light breathing kissed my cheeks in gentle, warm waves. Marc's face was a safe amount of inches from mine, features soft and completely as ease. Effeminate eyelashes adorned completely calmed eyes. His chest rose and fell, body curled into a slight arc, innocently mirroring mine.

I watched him sleep for a few moments, examining the absolute purity of his features. Self disgust welled in my stomach. It was enough that I was lying to everyone else; I hated the idea of lying to someone so simple and innocently caring.

"Hi," he whispered, voice gruff and hoarse, and yet retaining his sleep-charged charisma.

'Hi."

My eyes fell gently shut in a series of slow blinking, a hand sweeping over my bangs and tucking a string of hair behind my ear. The action had me recalling that night with Patrice, lying beside him as he comforted me to sleep. Only this time, the paternal hand of my friend was running feather light over my face, images of my father instantly burning into my mind.

Project W.A.I.N.R.I.G.H.T.

They referred to me as PWC Alpha.

At the time, I had no idea what the hell they were talking about, or even that they were referring to me in particular whenever they said that. Most of the time, I thought they were talking numbers and business figures. Considering all nine members of this strange scientific group belonged to respective companies, I was used to hearing about their finances in passing or simple conversation of interest.

I observed within months of meeting the other Project Wainright Children (PWCs) the actions of Nathaniel and the other eight men. In the easiest terms to describe them, they were nine business men with a similar interest in psychology. They always got together to talk about their favorite theories and studies and question old philosophical sayings. At first I thought we were just like their children on a play date while the grown-ups tasted wine and contemplated things for fun in the other room.

"Amanda, we'd like to talk to you, please."

Those were the only words Nathaniel spoke to me that morning, an ecstatic smile on his face as he guided me to the next room. The house we were living in at the time was a boarding house he and the other eight men had purchased. It was in a nice part of upper New York and very classic in architecture, Gothic in nature and furnishings. The library was their "office" of choice, where we were frequently called in for whatever reasons. Usually we just sat in on interesting, random discussions.

It wasn't hard to tell that this one was different.

"I hate to say it, but we have to get up," the man whispered, patting my cheek to get my eyes open.

Pupils barely given time to dilate, he hopped out of bed and threw the blinds open. I grumbled, but tossed myself out from under the warm comforter. "You can shower first if you'd like," Savvy offered, shuffling over to his suitcase with a stiff morning gimp.

"No, you go for it. I'm slow, anyway."

-

I was walking back to the room after a late-night swim. I could consider the game successful and rather irrelevant considering we won something like five to two and Blake was on a bragging streak with a rare hat trick under his belt. Patrice got a couple assists; nothing too significant, according to him.

Soft foot steps echoed through the lone hall beneath my feet. A few doors opened and shut here and there as people came and went. It was a about midnight when I was walking back to my room, clothed in long pajama pants and one of Marc's t-shirts. I had grabbed his by mistake. At least he smells kinda nice.

"Hey," the harsh whisper slightly threw me off. I stopped and turned my heel to a door over my left shoulder, where Patrice was slipping out of a pitch black room. He was adorned in pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt underneath an untied hotel robe. "...Why is your hair wet?"

"Swam."

He shut his door, walking slowly in step with me down the hall. Hands shoved in his pockets, he stared at the floor. "How's rooming with Savvy?"

"He's sweet," I whispered simply, toying with the partially damp wash cloth that was wrapped around my one piece. The pit of my stomach was beginning to warm me of his presence, questioning what his motive was for speaking to me. Does he want a session? Maybe just a civil talk. Back straight, arms tense...Nervousness. Breathing relatively calm, but lacking in eye contact...

"Ah," he hesitated now, watching me approach the door to my room. Just as I slipped my key in the door slot, he blurted, "W-wanna go down to the lobby for some hot chocolate with me?"

A half smile peaked the corner of my lips. I just slipped into my room and left him standing there. Savvy watched me enter, reading some random mystery novel when I came in. I darted into the bathroom, hung my bathing suit over the shower curtain rod, and darted back out. "I'll be a little late. Cocoa in the lobby so yeah. Sleep tight, Savvy," stating this firmly from the doorway, I made sure both he and Patrice could hear me.

He watched me with weary, gleeful eyes as I paced down the hall, allowing him a single glance back to let him know I wasn't bullshitting anyone. He caught up with me in a matter of steps and let his hands swing freely at his sides. That's what he was so nervous about? Hm... That's kind of weird for him.

A thick blanket of silence loomed over the desolate lobby. Patrice and I snaked over to the complimentary hot cocoa machine and filled up a set up cups. Taking a sip, I found a seat in the corner, out of immediate sight, on a small corner couch. He took a seat beside me and stared forward at the TV mounted on the wall across from us that was spouting news.

"I hate the news. Everything is negative."

I shrugged. "We're human. Humans feed off of misery, rumors, and lies like a child feeds off of birthday cake."

"Well that was.... Kind of sad. But true, I guess. Sadistic humor definitely backs that argument."

They told me I was special.

They told me that I was an exemplary young mind with more promise than they could have hoped for. They told me that I was different; that I was something of a treasure. They told me to pick any college I wanted, told me that they wanted to administer a test on a grand scale. The PWCs and I were thrust into college when we had never even had basic public schooling. I was eighteen when I received a degree in Psychology, same as every other PWC. Only I was the first to achieve my masters, and that's what really counted.

"I find your points of human nature intriguing," Nathaniel told me, reading glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he read though one of many theses I had composed over the years. "Tell me, Amanda, how these properties derivative of pessimism fuel emotional and contemplative logic."

"It is human to judge others, feed off of their aches and pains... The way I see it, the way to the human heart is not at the core of its issues. If you can't reverse a person's pain, then change everything around it to suit that emotion or at least sustain and survive it. I suppose it's like reverse adaptation."

I've always stuck with that theory. All because Nathaniel liked it so much.

Sitting with Patrice then just reminded me of it. The boy was completely clueless as to my brief trip into the land of memories. He leisurely sipped his cocoa and trained his eyes on the television. However, it was clear to me that his thoughts were elsewhere.

"Whatcha thinkin'?" I asked quietly, taking a quick drink.

The brunette took a few moments to respond. "We go home tomorrow."

I had to study him just then, the bittersweet caution in his voice enough to pike my keen interest. Eyes idle and transfixed with a hazy glow, the boy glanced at me sideways. "Yeah," I murmured, "Maybe you should tell me one last story before we get there."