Boutique Baby.

Andy enters the 'Incubation Station' of the hospital, his steps routine and unhurried. 'Incubation Station' is just what he calls the "Uteral Accord" (UA) wing of the hospital. Most of his colleagues refer to it affectionately as the "Womb Ward"; but to Andy, that brings to mind something more literal than conceptual - and so not worthy of the term. 'Incubation Station' to him rang more true to describe the goings on there. These were not human "beings", they were 'human concepts', designer babies whose genes and future were well thought out and calculated according to probabilites and statistics, not love. They were computations on graphs denoting a string of personality potentialities given the right growth environment. 

The conditions in the UA had no variability and were tightly controlled in its constancy. Any amalgamation of cells needing anything other than what was provided in the Amniotic Sack Solution (A.S.S), meant that the child was unviable, as it was already showing traits of volatility and irregularity. Statistically, this meant a heightened risk for unpredictability and subversion. These aberrant abominations were discretely discarded in a manner unbefitting dignified discussion. The clients there at "Future Forward" needed a living, breathing "Tabula Rasa" to imprint on. The owness was on the future parents of these 'Haute Couture Creatures' to provide the perfect environment to "breed" success. In fact, this was a wonderful marketing ploy, spin and selling point as it allowed the lab's well researched "science" to avoid any potential liability and accountability for any "loser" children.

'Parents get all the credit for "Breeding Success"' according to the well worded advertising copy. Any "losers" became "The Undestined" meaning that they failed to live up to their promised potential. As is Andy's way, he changed the term from 'The Undestined' to 'The Decommissioned' at times or even 'The De-destined' - bemused by the fact that when using the former, it gave the impression that the children in question were in actuality some form of defective robot; and if the later 'De-destined' was used and said quickly, it sounded like "detested" - which was most accurate of all, though no one would ever admit that aloud. 

These now unwanted children usually found themselves in boarding schools away from their parent's disapproval and disdain. The parents are not allowed to opt out of their due diligence to these kids before the age of 6. After such a time, if unwanted behavior presents itself or persists, most parents would refuse to take accountability for any objectionable behavior picked up in the household and simply claim that the fault was "in their stars" or a non-litigious medical oversight (meaning that perhaps they should or should not have ignored a recommendation from one of the many genetic specialists assigned to their case). That war would be waged at home and not in the courtrooms, with the clinic holding no liability for a failure to comply with medical suggestions (as is stated in article 2, section 3 of the contract) and reinforced with a signed waiver by both parents and the head of the fertility clinic. 

From the ages of 6-16, most of these unfortunate kids find themselves sent halfway around the world to boarding schools under the auspices of "international schooling" for the role of future diplomacy. This was deemed dignified and far less embarrassing than for the parents to admit their failure to provide an adequate environment for success; although, this could be inferred with many divorced or estranged couples with "disappeared" kids. After the age of 16, if these kids were able to course correct, their parents would delightfully reunite and be fully present as they move onto their "Mandatory Mission"; assigned posts for all 16-18 year olds regardless of caste. Mingling the youth was thought to bring about egalitarian ideals, nationalism and to help foster compassion, understanding and even collaboration between the different socio-political/economic groups. 

Andy made his way through the lined rows of elongated wombs atop wheeled pedestals that always looked to him like babies in egg cups and he pondered for the millionth time what the ASS (A.S.S - Amniotic Sack Solution) might taste like. He had never quite drummed up the courage to taste it, although there were rumors around the ward that it was simultaneously acrid and sweet. It was a thick glycerine-like alchemical solution that was said to taste like 'Kombucha Pudding'. Noone knew of anyone who had directly tasted the solution, and the ingredient list was patented and highly protected intellectual property - so there was no telling what its particular flavor actually was.

The rumbling in his belly brought Andy back to his present task as he worked his way across the room to ready the baby for the last client of his working day. 'Timely', he thought to himself as he looked hungrily at the "egg cups". He made his way to the very last womb pod, checked the wires feeding pod 34, from the ceiling, and embarked on the careful task of unplugging the wires one at a time in sequence; much like defusing a bomb. 'One down', he muttered to himself as he pulled the last cord and turned to wheel the pod through the back automatic doors for "Fetal Extraction". This is when the faux amniotic fluid is drained and the baby is substituted and swathed for delivery to the parents. Andy was partial to calling this process 'Ex-ASS-inating'.

Andy watched through the window at the fully automated process in which the robotic arm-ed assembly line gently, (almost "tenderly") handled the "newborn". Andy followed the proceedings quickly down the windowed hallway. As the bumpered and padded conveyer belt fed into the last room, Andy entered in time to place the first mask on the baby. The first mask gently sucks out any remaining ASS liquid, with the second mask gently filling the baby's lungs with oxygen. This would be the first time human hands will have touched the child, and Andy was honored for it to be his. As much as he would like to pray over them, sing to them, or even temporarily name them himself, he was careful not to take any personal liberties in his job. The last Nurse Technician - 'Manger Wrangler' to Andy - was fired for instinctively cradling the baby in her arms close to her breast when it began its first after-breath cry, instead of leaving it on the conveyor belt to be swaddled. 'That's the last time they hire a woman to do a man's job', his colleagues joke. 

Andy would not make the same mistake as he took the now swaddled child from the conveyor belt and keeping it at arm's length, turned to place it in another wheeled chariot. A pedestaled bassinet this time. He wheeled the package out of the room and down the long empty corridor lined with windows that looked out onto the tranquil medical compound courtyard. The light pouring through the windows was only partially muted by the tint of the glass, and as the light caught and held the swaddled baby moving down the long length of the window, the pale yellow of the swaddling cloth seemed to catch aflame with a golden light, giving it the appearance of a Harry & David gold wrapped pear. 

Andy entered the chapel, where the parents waited, faces aglow. He deposited the baby not to the parents, but to the Chief of Clinic, or 'COC(k)' to Andy. He cordially congratulated both of the new parents with a handshake and took his place in the background, there for reference only; standing on his mark by the door. The 'COC(k)' made quick work of the check out, with only a half hour before the next proud parents were due to arrive. He passed a clipboard and a hard bound book on child developmental psychology to the parents, and waited as they looked over their purchase sheet of genetic possibilities made reality in their bundled miracle. They both took turns signing the document after which they digitally released the rest of the funds for their purchase . Eyes glazed and mouths semi-salivating, they turned to each other triumphantly as if to say "the fun has only just begun". #nofilter