Alessandro glanced through the thick pane of one-way glass with a mix of expectation and remorse. Arms crossed, he cast a sideways glance at the man in the white lab coat that approached him, noting the disdainful expression he made at Alessandro’s less than professional appearance. His hair was cut choppily, and his deep brown eyes were wary after a week of long, sleepless nights. A black net shirt clung to his rigid muscular frame, and he wore black jeans, torn on one knee.

“How many are left?” The Doctor finally asked.

“Five.”

“Only five?” Alessandro nodded, his expression unchanging. “How are they?”

He paused for a moment. “Perfect.”

“This is the final screening then?”

Again he nodded, passing The Doctor a clipboard indifferently. The Doctor glanced over the figures, a small smile surfacing in his expression.

Alessandro stepped through the door that connected The Observation Room to The White Room. Five girls sat cross-legged on the white tile floor, staring up at him with identical, indifferent expressions. They were identical in age, identical in dress. Even though they had varied hair colors, the style was the same.

Alessandro has spent enough time studying the girls to know that the only difference between them was their eyes. One had pale blue eyes, another had dark green eyes with flecks of gold. Two had eyes in different shades of brown, and the last girl appeared to have green eyes, but in reality her irises were blue with an outer ring of yellow. Alessandro clung to these differences, even as they were the last shreds of human diversity he to destroy.

To The Doctor, they were numbers 342, 698, 1013, 1487, and 2162, but to Alessandro, they were Isabella, Arabella, Rosabella, Orobella, and Maribella, the most perfect specimens of the existing human race. He named them himself. The only reason these five were still breathing was because of their superior genetic structure: perfect features, accommodating and obedient personalities. The Doctor was going to breed a utopia of human automatons, and these genetically divine ten-year-olds were the beginning. But, to Alessandro, their purpose seemed like little more than prostitution.

Now, as the girls stared up at him complacently, Alessandro regained his pseudo-dictator composure. “Number 342,” he barked. The girl’s expression remained indifferent; Alessandro knew The Doctor was giving her high marks. “What is your name?”

“I don’t have a name,” Isabella replied. It was the answer The Doctor was looking for.

“Who are your parents?”

“I don’t have any parents.”

Alessandro nodded approvingly, moving on to the next girl. “Number 698 – what is your name?”

Arabella stared up at him with her unblinking, pale blue eyes. “I don’t have a name.”

The questioning continued in the same manner until he was at the end of the line, all the girls receiving high marks in obedience and lack of discernible personality. It appeared that The Doctor had found his utopian prostitutes.

It was Maribella’s turn for inquisition now as she gazed up at Alessandro with the blue and yellow eyes that remained a biological enigma. “Number 2162,” he spoke clearly. “What is your name?”

“My name is –“ She stopped, and the room went dead silent. “I don’t have a name,” she finished meekly.

But it was too little, too late. Alessandro knew The Doctor had marked a red “X” across her papers. Maribella, with just three words, had made herself person, and now The Doctor would have to make her into the nothing the other girls had become.

Alessandro returned to The Observation Room; it had become routine at this point. The Doctor closed the door, a shot rang out, and The White Room was sprayed with blood. The other four girls didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, and Alessandro found himself mourning the loss of humanity utopia entailed, and the enigmatic not-green eyes that it died with.