Vinny: Divergency, #2

By Andy Siege

1888: A young prostitute opens a gift from a painter and discovers van Gogh's bloody ear.

2042: The inventor of gene-tweaking buys a desiccated ear which he believes holds the key to bottling human genius.

Vinny lives on an isolated island and paints. Scientists watch him, waiting to see if his artistic genius or his latent schizophrenia will manifest first. He's been cloned to be an artist; he's surrounded only by things that stimulate his art. Until he discovers rock and roll…

The island is full of secrets. Vinny is hiding a guitar cut out of paper. His surrogate parents are hiding their anger and shame. And in an underground lab lurks a far more dangerous secret, a warped, wrathful angel that longs for freedom.

As these secrets explode into the public eye, Vinny must discover what it means to be true to himself when he's been born to be someone else.

• Language: English
• Publisher: UpLit Press
• Release date: Jul 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227651686

Book preview

Vinny

Divergency, book 2

Andy Siege

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Copyright © 2024 by Andy Siege

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.K. copyright law.

Contents

WARNING

Chapter

1.1888

2.2042

3.2047

4.1888

5.2042

6.2050

7.1888

8.2052

9.2052

10.1888

11.2052

12.2052

13.2055

14.1889

15.2056

16.2056

17.2057

18.1889

19.2058

20.2058

21.1890

22.2059

23.2060

24.1890

25.2063

26.2063

27.1890

28.2063

29.1852

30.2063

31.1851

32.2063

33.1854

34.2063

35.2063

36.1856

37.2063

38.2063

39.1866

40.2066

41.2069

42.1882

43.2074

44.2075

45.1890

46.2077

47.2079

About the author

UpLitPress.co.uk

WARNING

This book contains loud noises and flashing images which may upset you. It also leads down unpleasant corridors in your brain. Please read responsibly.

I have put my heart and soul into my work, and I have lost my mind in the process.

-Vincent van Gogh-

1888

A few weeks after Gaby turned seventeen, her older sister got married and moved to Paris. Gaby lost the apartment they had shared because she couldn’t pay for it on her own. She suddenly found herself homeless and looking for work. There weren’t a lot of options in the village of Arles and so she started cleaning at the brothel. Here she was given a small room to sleep in and enough food to keep her healthy. Gaby was a comely girl with straw-like hair and sky-blue eyes.

After a couple of months at the brothel, she saw Vincent for the first time. She remembers him mostly by his mood and not by how he looked. Despite his red hair and fair complexion, he had a dark disposition and she could tell that there was something genial about him. He was also respectful of Gaby, which wasn’t common, as many patrons of the brothel would try to sleep with her. But not Vincent. When he came in he simply nodded at her and then took a seat by a divan in the corner. Gaby immediately felt safe in his presence. She knew his name was Vincent because that’s what the other man called him.

The other man, who she later found out was called Paul, was a lot bolder. His appearance made him seem rich and stylish in an expensive frock, a frilly white collar and gold rings on his fingers. He took a seat beside Vincent and immediately began eyeing Gaby with that hungry look that men get. She was mopping the floor at the time, so she made sure not to turn her back on him lest he grab at her. Gaby had a hole in her blouse. Through the hole you could see the curvature of her left breast and Paul kept staring at it with a mad grin on his face.

Gaby wondered about the two men who seemed so different from each other. She wondered what they were doing together in a brothel. What they were doing together at all. What business would such a quiet and sensitive man as Vincent have with someone as flamboyant as Paul? The brothel was empty of patrons that night apart from the strange duo. Two girls, Jenny and Chloe, made their way across the barroom towards the men. The girls hiked up their slim fitting dresses to show their legs and pulled down their corsets to show their cleavage. Vincent didn’t give them any attention and Paul only looked at them briefly and then pointed at Gaby.

I want her, Paul said.

She isn’t working tonight. Chloe chortled.

I’ll pay double.

Jenny shook her head. She’s too young.

Gaby’s heart beat double-time. She leaned the mop against a grimy wall and escaped into the kitchen. Booboo the Grand Dame was preparing pig-ears and roasted peanuts for the patrons, and a couple of girls who had just woken up were eating stale croissants. Gaby sank to her haunches in a corner. The ways of men were scary to her. Her older sister Michelle had raised her alone because their parents died of consumption, and the only man Gaby had ever interacted with was their landlord. The landlord was a firm man who had smacked the girls upside the head as often as he had smiled at them.

Booboo glanced at Gaby and then stepped away from the stove. Booboo was in her 40s, with a large belly and fat bottom. She was dressed in a purple bathrobe with nothing underneath. As she stepped up she looked concerned.

What happened? Booboo asked.

Gaby shook her head. The man scared me.How?

He wants to sleep with me. Said he’d pay double.

Booboo grinned. What did you tell him?

Nothing.

Take my advice. Sell your virginity to whoever will pay the most. You could make a lot of money.

Gaby shook her head again. No.

Don’t wait too long. You won’t be fresh forever.

Gaby remembered her parents, dead in the hospital. Her mother’s blonde hair was slimy and there was a fly on her father’s pupil. His eyes had been so green but now they were so dull. She’d wondered why he wasn’t swatting the fly away. Her sister had been sitting in a chair and crying so Gaby went over to her and gave her a hug. Gaby was only seven years old and although she’d heard the word dead over and over again, she still hadn’t quite understood it.

She understood it now. It meant not being fresh anymore.

Who are those men? she asked Booboo.

Painters. Vincent something and Paul Gauguin.

Painters? Another word she didn’t really understand.

2042

Doctor William Hussein is riding the train across Paris from Petit-Montrouge to Bel-Air. Out the window he watches the architecture change from fancy villas to graffiti-plastered high-rises and back again. Paris, he thinks, a city too complex to understand with your mind. A city you can only understand with your heart. The Doctor is surprised at the sentimentality of his own thoughts. Must be the jet-lag.

For a moment Hussein sees his reflection in the glass. His tan skin and curly black hair. The round glasses balancing on his hooked nose. Sunken cheeks and a wrinkled forehead. Ugly. He looks away and scans the compartment. There’s a man sitting up ahead who definitely tweaks his genes. The guy is extremely muscular and the doctor recognizes the proportions. A tweak that Hussein designed himself that gives the user broad shoulders and a slim waist.

Tweaking is the process of injecting a gene into your blood that alters your genetic makeup. If you’re weak you inject a gene that gives you muscles. If you are short you inject a gene that makes you tall. If you are ugly you inject a gene that gives your face symmetry. If you are hairy you inject a gene that gets rid of hair. If you are going bald you inject a gene that gives you hair. The process is always painful but very effective.

The doctor looks out the window again, just in time to see a video ad for gene enhancements hanging from a bridge. A grinning woman’s eyes change color from brown to ocean blue and her hair changes from black to gold. Apart from the name of the company, Neohume, there’s no text over the image. There doesn’t have to be, because everyone knows what the ad is for. What they don’t know is that the company belongs to someone who doesn’t tweak himself… a man who prefers to stay ugly. Hussein.

The train comes to a halt at Bel-Air and the doctor exits. The station is full of tweakers, beautiful blonde women and tall handsome men. A gorgeous new world created by Hussein’s own company and yet he craves something older and more stable. The doctor walks off into the city, admiring the Haussmann style architecture, large elegant buildings with stone facades and wrought iron details. He keeps glancing at the maps function of his handheld device. Finally, he reaches his destination. Rue de la Roche 174. Doctor Hussein finds the name Lecume and rings the doorbell.

It takes a while but then a lady answers with a shaky voice. Oui?

Madame Lecume. This is Doctor Hussein.

Doctor? Yes, come in.

There’s a buzz and the door briefly unlocks. Hussein pushes it open and walks inside. He finds himself at the bottom of a spiral staircase. A door creaks open somewhere upstairs. The Doctor is out of shape, too skinny, and the ascent costs him a lot of energy. By the time he reaches Madame Lecume he is out of breath. The old lady has curly white hair and is wearing in a flowery dress. She’s short and wrinkly.

Bonjour, Doctor, she says. Please come in.

The first thing Hussein notices when he enters the apartment is a large crucifix on the wall above the couch. Apparently Madame Lecume is religious. She gestures for him to take a seat in an armchair and then disappears into the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the room and the old lady returns with a couple of cups and a full pot of joe. She pours the doctor a cup and then one for herself.

So, you have come for the ear? she asks.

He swallows hard in excitement. Yes.

I looked you up online, she says. I know who you are.

Not everything it says online is true.

She nods. You’re the owner of Neohume, correct?

I’m just a scientist trying to make the world a better place.

She scrutinizes him and then smiles. Excuse my directness, but you don’t look like you tweak. Why create a product and then not use it on yourself?

I’m happy with who I am.

What do you want with the ear?

I want to find the secret to Van Gogh’s genius.

He was insane. That’s the secret.

I disagree. I believe that he was a genius despite his mental illness and not because of it.

She thinks about this. You might be right. But why don’t you study Marie Curie or Einstein? Why Vincent?

We’ve tried raising people’s IQs but… the test subjects couldn’t handle it.

What happened to them?

They became psychotic.

They went insane when you raised their intelligence? She chuckles.

Yes. So, in layman’s terms, I’m going to use Van Gogh’s DNA to isolate the genius gene from the madness gene.

Madame Lecume looks up at the crucifix hanging on the wall. And what do you think God will do when you mess with his designs?

I don’t believe in God, Madame.

Hussein is a Muslim name, right?

My father was Muslim and my mother was Christian. I’m an Atheist.

Figures that you’d be an Atheist. She sighs. I thought about declining your offer but in all honesty I could use the money.

Madame… the ear?

Yes, of course. Give me a moment. She stands up and leaves the room.

Hussein yawns. He’s jet-lagged so he takes a sip of coffee. The brew is too strong so he pours some milk into the mix. Much better.

He thinks for a moment and then figures that the truth really is that simple. He’s just a scientist trying to make the world a better place. This isn’t about money or fame for him. It’s about something else. Another thing that can only be understood with the heart.

Madame Lecume comes back carrying a small wooden box.

Here you go, Doctor. She places it on the table in front of Hussein.

He opens the box with shaky hands. There’s a small bundle of cloth inside. He carefully unwraps it. The ear is shriveled and black but devoid of mold or other signs of decomposition. He swallows hard. Then he places his briefcase on the table and unlatches it. Inside there’s a small cooler, and he carefully places the ear inside.

The ear was kept in a jar of alcohol for two generations, Madame Lecume says. My mother put it in the box.

It’ll do. The Doctor smiles uneasily.

And the money? Apologies for my directness.

Hussein nods and pulls his handheld device out of his jacket pocket. He