Prior to her exploitation, she had deduced she needed hard currency and friends.
That to be immersed within this human race, such things paid worthy dividends
yet time was not on her side, she would be carbon dust by dawn’s first light
her incineration, the chosen method, ridding the cosmos of the blight
the wise men perceived as actual, for she defied all natures laws,
overlooking entirely that she was Aristotle’s final cause.
Given a choice in the matter she would never have opted to be one of a kind. Sadly, she was never afforded a say. In hindsight, and given her current situation, her designer had come to a similar conclusion that he should have kept her very existence a confidential thing until the time was right.
It was at The Linnean Society of London, arguably once the epicentre of natural history and taxonomy he first let his, upon reflection, diseased self-esteem part company with sanity, and had proudly presented her in all her glory to his peer group of esteemed biologists and interested academics. His presumption that his genius would bring forth accolades and plaudits across all corners of the globe, sadly ill-founded. Instead, he would be vilified by one and all as the creator of a monster that challenged the authenticity of the human species being at the very zenith of The Tree of Life.
Two poached eggs set upon a nest of saagwala her preferred last supper. That the self-effacing duty officer acceded to her request, an act of startling kindness toward one who was, in essence and indeed, in actuality a miraculous collection of handpicked organic cells encased, as of the moment, in a ghastly prison cell in a place far, far away from the public eye.
“I’ve heard tell you have the same emotions, same intelligence, same state of consciousness as a regular human being, yet you cannot catch a head cold?”
“You are correct, yet I am however, capable of crying, laughing and dancing a waltz when the mood takes. I should perhaps add that I never fart or belch.”
Trying his level best not to laugh at her remark, he continued, “Why did he…that professor bloke who made you…name you ‘Mayday’?”
“Because that was the day he completed his work; the first of May, the day I came into being.”
“He’s banged up doing forced labour in some archipelago now by the way. So you never had a childhood; you just came into being.”
“Yes, I was not born of a mother. I am ‘unique’ they say…well that plus the fact they see me as a threat to your species were I to breed with one of you. Moreover, many don’t like the thought of a highbred. I understand as it conflicts with long held devout beliefs. Those people think me the Devil’s daughter.”
Was it a tear she saw in his eye…it mattered not…as he continued, “You are not the Devil’s daughter, you are the most beautiful creature there has ever been; you deserve better than the fate that awaits.”
“Thank you, kind Sir.”
“Do you know why the professor just made the one version of you? I mean to say he could surely have come up with a male prototype to keep you company? He could have called you Eve and him Adam I’m guessing!”
“If I recall he said, ‘There is more scope for compassion within the female of any species, no place for a male in the new order I envisage’ or words to that effect”
Later, into the early hours, over more than a glass or two of moonshine
he shared memories with Mayday, told of his childhood days, so sublime.
With that he unlocked her cell door, took her hand, made good her getaway.
Even now all that is really known of her, is just her name, the name ‘Mayday’
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