CHOICE Lover (Love, Manufactured #2)

Prologue – A Brilliant Idea

Movement in the window catches his attention.

A woman steps into the display, removing a scarf.

He watches her slip back to the sales floor, and there’s just enough of an opening to see her hand the scarf to a customer before they both step out of view.

Had there been a salesperson there that day?

Did they watch Jerme die? Did they even try to help?

Or did they ignore him? He squeezes his eyes shut, turning back to the stone wall.

The ache that’s been there since the day Jerme voluntarily left this world steals his breath. He left me.

From: MSP Coroner’s Office. Subject: Death Report. Do you wish to continue?

A fresh wave of grief seizes him, nearly knocking him to his knees. His hand shoots out, clutching at the wall for support as the acid rain continues to fall.

He remembers thinking, Death report? Someone I know died?

But why would they be sending me a message unless .

. . His vision momentarily blurred. At 21, he was far too young to conceptualize death or associate it with himself or anyone in his peer group.

Because humans had the technology to halt or even reverse aging, why would he?

To his mind, death wasn’t a topic to consider for a long time.

At the time, he was focused on the place in the scientific community he intended to carve out for himself.

Since his youth, the science of human engineering fascinated him, and he was determined to be a part of the next wave of advancement.

Jerme always said he was destined for great things.

He said he would enjoy watching his older brother—older by a few minutes—spearhead humanity into a new and better future.

Aside from being physically identical, they were opposites in so many ways. Still, they had a deep fondness for each other. A soul-deep connection he couldn’t explain—a twin thing. Which was why this couldn’t be true. Because if Jerme were gone, wouldn’t he have known? Wouldn’t he have felt it?

The respirator’s mask fogs, and his surroundings cloud over, almost like he’s living in a dream.

He draws in a deep breath of filtered air, shifting the mask enough to wipe away the tears collecting in the seams where the rubber meets his skin before putting it back in place.

As he stands on the sidewalk amidst his grief, a few people with black umbrellas pass, not paying him any heed.

What does he look like to them, having his annual meltdown in public?

Does it matter? He can’t tamp down the memory bubbling up like it wants to be seen.

Like it is Jerme himself who needs to be witnessed one last time.

Res6 takes a deep breath, determined to let it take the space in his mind it demands, like a penance of sorts. He’s memorized the body of the message.

Valued Citizen A-RES6-MSP-00022960:

As the emergency contact listed in the NHOS Citizen Database, we regret to inform you that the remains of Citizen JERME-MSP-00022961 was found outside of Tower F39 at 10:03 this morning.

After reviewing the body, including DNA identification tests, along with footage from area surveillance cameras, the medical examiner was able to certify the citizen’s identity and determine the cause of death to be atmosphere-assisted suicide.

The coroner has processed the citizen’s physical remains and conveyed them to the nearest morgue in Quadrant H for recycling.

Please accept our sincere condolences. If you are thinking about harming yourself or others, remember, the health and well-being of all NHOS citizens is our utmost priority. Operators at MSP’s GoodGrief hotline are standing by to take your call.

There was more to the message, but when he first heard it, he got to that point and thought: Replay message.

It took listening a dozen times before he finally understood what he was hearing.

They’d taken Jerme to the biological remains processing plant before he could see him.

Before he could do anything. Say goodbye.

He stares at the concrete, visualizing himself lying there at his feet, slumped over. Still. Lifeless. It’s what Jerme would have looked like. He forces himself to conjure the image in his mind; does that somehow count as closure?

There’s a window a few feet down from the spot.

The year Jerme died, it was an anti-aging clinic with bright particle panes displaying an array of procedures promising customers an aesthetic that would surely lead to unparalleled happiness.

The current occupants have replaced the particle panes with a reflective film, hiding the interior from the street’s view.

He stares at the silver surface, at the man looking back at him.

“I’m still really mad at you.” He isn’t sure if he’s talking to himself or Jerme.

His reflection doesn’t answer. He does this sometimes when he sees his reflection.

It’s never the same as talking to his brother.

The reflection that stares back at him doesn’t have the playful quirk of Jerme’s full lips.

His honey-gold eyes hold pain where Jerme’s were once filled with humor.

The hollows under his cheekbones are prominent, whereas his brother’s were fuller. Jerme was so full of life.

He steps toward the reflection, placing his hand on the glass. “What happened to you? What did I miss?”

There is only silence as he stands in the street, drizzle dripping off his thankfully water-repellent clothes.

The space in his chest carved out by Jerme’s absence expands.

Inflates, as if someone stole his heart, put a balloon in its place, filled it to the point of bursting, and left it there to remind him of the terrible vacancy.

Why is he doing this to himself? Coming to this spot every year so he can do what .

. . remember? It’s torture. But the Res6 of seven years ago had to know the exact coordinates in the city where his twin took his final breath.

What did he expect? Jerme was already gone.

Grime-covered concrete and a dingy stone wall were all he found.

Standing there didn’t stop the grief that first day, and it doesn’t stop it now.

Instead, it seems to unleash it. Amplify it. He could avoid that spot and keep pretending Jerme was in a different MSP quadrant, going on with his life—probably charming his next lover. But that feels wrong.

Aside from the self-inflicted torture, what is he seeking? Answers? An awakening? Direction? As if standing here is going to give him a jolt of inspiration, knocking out the heavy cloud hanging over him.

He should have done something. Been a better brother. Been freer with his love. Let Jerme know how much he meant to him. He could have been enough to give his twin a reason to live. But he wasn’t.

He must look insane, glaring at his reflection the way he is now.

The weight of his emotional deluge doubles him over.

He grips his knees to keep from collapsing.

No one is on the street anymore to judge him.

But that’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? Judging himself.

It’s your fault. Jerme is dead because of your shortcomings.

In a flash, his grief is replaced by an inwardly directed anger so strong his teeth clench.

And there’s something else too. Something akin to a white-hot pit burning deep in the center of his chest. Something gaping, hungry, and shameful that he’s desperate to extinguish .

. . or fuel like the self-loathing he’s been feeding for the last seven years.

A sudden urge to rush to the lab momentarily distracts him, almost a compulsion.

That’s what he always does when his emotions are getting out of hand.

But his work has been fruitless since his initial breakthrough—the discovery that nucleic acid memory, or NAM, a form of DNA-encoded data storage buried in a previously undetected neural layer housing experiential memory, could have instructions or data imprinted into it.

Despite the countless hours he’s devoted to pushing that science—the potential theoretical applications for programming NAM are compelling—he hasn’t made any significant progress.

No notable findings. When Jerme died, so did his inspiration.

“What am I doing with my life, Jerme? You thought I’d make the world a better place, but I’ve done nothing.

” No meaningful impact. He could have at least discovered a way to shield others from the acute pain he still lives with daily.

Doesn’t he owe that much to Jerme? Instead, he’s letting him down. Again.

But how can he possibly be good enough to fix the entire world?

He has a strong urge to slide down the smooth cladding and lay there on the warm stones until the coroner comes for him too.

Res6, it wasn’t your fault.

Those aren’t his words. They’re from the psychologist he worked with during the first year when his grief was winning. The man’s belief remains in direct conflict with the one his mind can’t seem to release.

I wasn’t enough.

He wasn’t even who Jerme left a letter for. An image of 3Zeez flashes through his mind. Though Res6 never saw the woman’s appeal, Jerme became enamored, and their relationship progressed quickly.

It was just like Jerme to jump into things—like the one time he came home on a mission to invent more realistic simulation chamber props.

Another time, Jerme decided to bring back private aviation, even though the world’s two major governing bodies manage all air transportation through the official state airline Uni-Fly due to unfavorable climate conditions.

He started an online group that continued even after he lost interest, going as far as petitioning the government—which rejected their petition, swiftly disbanding the group.