Seven and a half centuries remained poignant, defining the entirety of our strengthened human race through the success of barricading all that had failed evolving into the newly found one. Mother—an avid conformist, as the rest of the Bryleigh House—contented her life fighting against the rights of this unfortunate group of human beings. The status quo it was, raging violence unheard of against the weaker kind.

There was after all, a supremacism of sorts in the quest for immortality those long centuries ago that led to the subsequent victory of stable health for all with the altering of bodily compounds discovered by Incumbent King Cadmus of Southland. A researcher, J. Cadmus Wakefield, spent the majority of his thirty-five years as a developer of the Elixir—one, when taken, would provide a human with vitality. It was not such vitality that was to provide immortality; it was such vitality that suppressed the effects of ageing—both externally and internally.

The world was divided in two, five years after the discovery. At that point, the future King billed for the rights to immunise the entire race of the then four million humans that populated the land. It was successful; approximately ninety percent of the world was turned.

It was all that mattered to the Southland Government and Cadmus. Those three million six hundred people were all perfect—no longer needing the burdens of health care or superficial topical treatments that prevented wrinkling of the skin.

It was all that mattered to the Southland Government and Cadmus. Those three million six hundred people were perfect, so the human population was well.

What of the mere ten percent? What of the mere four hundred thousand?

As the rest of the world, these four hundred thousand people were immunised as well. They responded to the medication. That response was an undesired one.

They took on terrible forms. Irises of silver from nickel content in the elixir, brutish stature of six inches beyond the height average, no signs of resilience to ageing, but all signs of resilience to further medication were all developed. And that ghostly tinge of grey that was just under the surface of their skin, it was obvious, no matter how pale or how dark one was, no matter how much they tried to use products to hide it, they were visibly Exceptions.

Cadmus deemed the minority as the Exceptions which later became known as Rejects, disregarding them after so any trials of elixir based treatments. He looked unto euthanizing them, but they were still humans, protected under the Universal Rights.

But they were still humans, humans that were something different from what the rest of the world now was—far different.

Mother and I were Novus Humanae—new humans. Father, my brother William Cassius, our entire family, and just about anyone I knew were new humans. Most precisely though, no one has used the term 'new human' since the creation of the elixir, so we were only humans now—the population having grown to seven and a half million. We were boring, selfish humans—that still lived and died, mind you—but with our vanity still in tact.

Back when I was too young to possess the load of knowledge—I was seven, still quick enough to grasp, but too naive to understand—I attended West Orleigh Elementary Academy. It was on the Eastern part of Southland, in a province called Kellach.

Although a private academy for higher learning bonded with expenses that ranged from twenty-five thousand quarterly, there was a small concentration of Exceptions that attended the school.

Our school was the first school to let in such types.

My mother became hesitant of letting Cass and I attend, raving on about how the Exceptions were nothing but dirty children that were forced to attend school on government grants. Father was the one to opt for the decision. I never once heard father speak a word against the Exceptions. I never once heard father speak a word of derision.

"'Jects," said Evander Lewiston, "They don't belong here." Evan, they called him, sat beside me in our Math class—he failed the second grade twice and was now large and imposing enough to gain consensus from the class on whatever opinion he held.

He cut his brown eyes at the four new students that filed into the class, clutching their books with strained faces. Mr. Lawford directed them to their seats as Doctor Madolyn Brisbane, the academy's counsellor, whispered a few words to Mr. Lawford. Attentive, he listened. Then, after Doctor Brisbane left the silent class room, Mr. Lawford straightened up, clasped his hands, and addressed us.

"Children," he began, "We welcome our new students."

"Animals," Evan snickered. He hid his face behind his textbook.

I worked hard at ignoring him, fixing my eyes on my pencil case—still new and unsullied after two months of our class' resuming.

"...are very special," Mr. Lawford's voice cut through my concentration, "they should be treated like any of us here."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Evander raise his arm up, he waggled his long dirty fingers in the air. "Look teacher! Teacher!" he developed a conniving grin that raised his elfish ears.

Mr. Lawford nodded to him. "Yes Evander?" He had been just about half turned, beginning to write down the names of the four Exceptions on the blackboard when Evander inquired.

"If they are so special, why must they be treated the same as us?" His smile was the most disgusting. His smile made me sick.

At the time, I was too young to ever think twice about the churning bile that swamped at the pit of my stomach, but nowadays, it was something that always came up at the mentioning of the marred rights of an Exception.

Glancing at the children seated off in the farthest corner of the room, Mr. Lawford paused. He mulled. He paused and he mulled. It was evident that Evander had made such a point, no matter what stance one may have on the subject matter.

All of the students shifted in their seats, impatient—and perhaps nervous—of Mr. Lawford's long wait. We did the usual things during his pondering, we finished our exercises, we wrote the agenda, and we whispered quietly to each other about any math questions that challenged us.

It was after that, after a minute or so, that Mr. Lawford smoothed back his blond hair and said, "They are humans, like us. Am I right?" He looked unto the four children for approval.

As if they were able to answer such a philosophical query. Humiliated, the children deepened their mute silence by staying as stationed as possible, caution in their steel eyes.

"Ah...where was I..." We all watched as the now flustered Mr. Lawford slapped his hand on the blackboard. "We'll welcome all of the new students, okay? One shall stand when named."

Ah...this was a much brutal experience. I recalled when I had to stand for my name, for my shut-mouth proclamation of my being—it was impossible to imagine the magnitude of fear in the feeble hearts of these Exceptions to stand up in front of a room filled with us.

Of course, this thought was only an after thought—what was broadcast in my mind was how humbly lovely the children were put together.

From their garments, one could tell they were not rich. Then again, 'what Exception was above middle class?' as mother would always chime.

"Fanny Holmes," Mr. Lawford announced. It was easy for him—and us—to spot Fanny Holmes, presuming that Fanny was a much popular Exception's name that was female. And there was only one female in the minority.

Fanny Holmes' cheeks flushed against her pale white skin. She stood up, arms as if bound to the sides of her weathered navy dress, biting her small red lips. She sat down not a second too long, bowing her head down at her desk, playing with the red bow in her light blond hair.

"Ian Sandalwood," Mr. Lawford continued.

The boy that sat across from Fanny Holmes stood up. He was very gangly, and waif. He tugged on his grey woollen jumper, focusing on the chalkboard. As if counting the seconds passed in his mind, he sat down after four seconds.

Mr. Lawford nodded, saying, "Micah Smith?"

Micah Smith, a tawny haired boy, rose up. He sat down as quickly as he stood up, not providing a chance for anyone to notice.

"Micah, if you do mind, please stand," Mr. Lawford said.

He glared at our teacher. "I mind," said Micah Smith, "Lots, if ya tell me." He crossed his arms across his chest, shrugging in his oversized sweatshirt.

Uncomfortable was the silence that was felt in the room. It was a shroud of embarrassment for us all, one we had no choice of wearing when faced with this Micah Smith's brash challenge.

The teacher did not attempt to further the disagreement. Instead, he at length said the last name, "Reid Kempton."

The final boy, seated beside Ian Sandalwood, pushed back his chair and stood up. He looked unto the class with his steel eyes, somewhat stoic, serene. Standing far longer than the rest, Reid Kempton let us observe. He remained, slate-faced, looking back at everyone who dared eye him.

His dark mane should have shielded his gaze, but the dark waves only added more to his piercing stare. I remembered that look, the look he gave me when his eyes fell upon mine. It was one that had left me confused for so many years. It was one that had never warned me of such an impact that this Exception, among many others connected to him, would have on my underwhelming existence. It was one that never warned me that being his friend would have been a hardship.

Or perhaps, I had not noticed that such a hardship was well-presented since the beginning, since we met. Our friendship was always like so.

"Somebody make that 'ject sit down, he's too fond of himself—"

I sprang on Evan.

"No Chancellor, I have not the slightest consideration for what my Honora was thinking when she..." my mother cut her grey eyes at me "pounced ever so ferociously on that poor Lewiston child."

"I as well Mrs. Bryleigh, I as well..." Chancellor Harrington sat at his desk, frowning my way. His massive hands were folded together and he was leaning over his birch bureau, striking much unwanted fear into my senses.

Mother was standing behind me, grasping my shoulders as I sat in the guest seat across from the Chancellor. It was a much unhappy experience might I tell you. The Chancellor had many animal trophies from his days as a man of game. He hung these deceased tigers, dears, and zebras behind where he sat.

"Miss Honora," Chancellor Harrington looked at me, asking, "Why did you... leap on Evander?"

This was the fourth time he asked. He had called my mother an hour ago, and she arrived about ten minutes after, furious—also demanding why I attacked Evander.

Though, each time they asked me that question, I kept my mouth shut tight. What was to be said? My reason seemed to contradict anything that mother believed.

But I thought of father. At the time, I thought him more pleasant than mother.

At last I spoke.