Re: [Old Textile Mill]
She figured Gwen had been subject to tests, the kind of needles and vials and diagnostic hook-ups that needed only a collection of bad magazines to make it practically the full sickness experience. But Felicity knew nothing about cloning, and she was comfortable in uncertainty. Uncertainty was at least the possibility shit might go your way and that thin edge was her home-ground.
"You ever wonder why scientific origins turn out perfection? There's that rule about beauty, the seven thing." It was an artist piece of knowledge, filed away for reference and Felicity was careless now as she looked for her own seams, tiles or extraordinary drops. "Human beauty is easier to see when it's symmetrical, the proportions are all matching."
And okay, the donor? That was a way of putting it, but Felicity hadn't gone through funerals and the childhood memories, the grief thick as smoke at the back of the throat. Her death? Had been all about hope. "You call Gwen the donor," she said, curiously and she lifted her head to look at the girl who'd done what a team of scientists salivated over.
"So are you her stuff, or your stuff or somewhere in between?" It wasn't a scientific question, but Felicity didn't run test results. But Gwen was pointing and this, this Felicity knew how to do. She grinned insouciance and bold certainty and she tugged at the cuff of the gloves. The fingers were sticky - not glue sticks and pre-school sticky, but the kind that held fast to walls.
"So what am I looking for?" She was two foot off the ground.