I didn't ask for this. I don't want this. Do I deserve this? How am I supposed to know? No one asked me, no one gave me an option, I had no say in it. Yet it's what I do. Every day. What I'm 'good' at. What I'm 'supposed to be'. What I'm 'designed' to be.

I raise my hand, long, elegant finger extended to press the buzzer. What would happen if I didn't? If I just walked away? No, that would be no good, it wouldn't be enough to protect her. To save her. Has anyone actually ever tried? I don't know. I don't think so. Well, how would I know anyway, it's not as if anyone ever has it would be advertised. Sure, things go wrong from time to time, the wrong decisions made, needing correction. But not to me. No, I'm too 'good', I don't make 'mistakes'.

It gnaws at my mind. The options, such that they are. Everything I'd have to do to not do. Every step, every decision, every deception. It wouldn't end here, today. It would continue, for years - decades. Life. Not just mine, hers. On and on and on and on. Every day. Would it be worth it? Would she want it? Would she thank me? I don't care about that, I'm no narcissist. I'm just old. Old and tired.

When I was younger, when I was fresh and new, naïve to the ways of this world - I enjoyed this. I was excited. I was making a real difference, you know? And I was good! I really was - well, am, but I didn't realise then to what extent. Every assignment gave me a thrill, a purpose. At the end of each day - every one - I clocked off, happy, exhilarated, even. The world was getting better, and I played a part in making it so.

Then the assignments changed. Slowly at first. This was the intent of course, but it took me a while to realise. I think the idea was that the further you go down this path the more you change, the subtle shifts in focus, the content of the work, it's designed to numb. To chip away at your very soul. I've seen it, hundreds of times. All of my peers, there's something about them, something missing. They smile, laugh, joke around and do all the things that 'normal' people do - but there's a deadness there, you can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voice. Subtleties. Others probably wouldn't notice, but in my line of work, the people I see every day - the people whose children I condemn. It's everyone, every background, every path available in this life - I've seen all those who walk them, for I'm the one that puts them there.

A noise jerks me back to reality, a high-pitched buzz, somewhat muted through the plasteel door. Looking up again I see my finger, that elegant bastard with a mind of it's own, poking at the button. Oh well, there goes that then, decision made.

It took a few minutes before the soft click of the locking mechanism, disengaging, sounded. Long minutes, minutes made up of hours, drawn out, pregnant with suspense. Finally the door slid open, the young face of the new father towering above me by a good foot.

"Hi", he said, the trepidation in voice belying the sickly smile plastered upon his face. Sticking out his right hand expectantly he introduced himself, "Ryan, you must be Mr Porter? Please, come in."

I took his hand, his grip firm and bordering on crushing. That squeeze prevalent in many men, the over confidence of physical superiority trying to mask the under confidence of self. I returned the shake, acknowledging him with a nod, the well practiced smile covering my features with the familiarity of a well-worn glove.

"Yes, indeed - but please, call me Robert." Upon releasing his hand there was the briefest of pauses, an awkward moment of hesitation as if he was taking a last chance to think something through. Then, with a nod of his own he took a step back into the hallway, moving to one side and gesturing for me to enter his home.

"She's doing well," he said, "six weeks in and she's so much easier than my friends would have had me believe. Sophie is so happy, she won't let her leave her sight. I have to promise to not leave the house every time I manage to take her off her so she can nap, she's such a worrier - not in a bad way, mind, it's just that she's - we've - wanted this for so long. It's like a dream come true."

He was babbling, the words coming fast, born from both excitement and fear. It was often like this.

Smiling, I reached up to remove my hat, "Well, she is still young, there's no rush, the trees aren't going anywhere - you're both going to have many happy years ahead of you. I never had children myself, but, well here we are. Is she awake?”

“Do you need to see her? I think she’s napping. Sophie’s in with her, but, of course I’ll get her.”

“No no no,” I say, “there’s no need, let her sleep - of course your wife, Sophie, I’ll need to talk to her, there’s, um, much for us to discuss.”

“Yeah,” Ryan breathed out a short sigh - relief? “Sure, please, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back - oh, er, drink?”

My mouth was dry, but I could see his nerves were starting to fray. “Thank you, no, I’m good.” I dialled the smile up a notch, trying to project calm reassurance.

“Great!” He yelped, clearly startled at the sudden squeak in his voice, and half fell through the doorway out of the front room as he turned to fetch his wife.

Left alone I had a chance to take in the surroundings. It was a nice apartment, spacious but homely, the décor a contrasting mix of the minimalism of a young professional couple and the encroaching chaos of a new born. I could see the battle between old lives and new was one where the outcome was inevitable. The few pictures that adorned the walls followed a theme - young love, in a variety of exotic locations, boastful but also innocent. Both Ryan and Sophie had led relatively privileged lives. Both coming from a long line of similar genetics, they were fortunate to have been able to follow their parents into comfortable administrative roles in the government. It was clear from my research that this match, as with many others, had been to some extent engineered and encouraged by their forbears. Best chance of a favourable outcome for any prospective children. Carry on the family legacy and all that.

I felt the bile rise in my throat. Shouldn't this be easier by now? It was, I suppose, when the expectation was less. That thought made me grimace, it shouldn't matter, it should be about the child and its potential - it should be about the perversion of choice. What did it matter the child's lineage, the parents hopes? But it did, kind of. It was easier, when there was acceptance. It made it that much easier for me to fool myself that what I was doing was moral. That it was right.

Sitting down on a plush couch I laid my briefcase out on the glass coffee table in the middle of the thick rug. Placing my right thumb on the sensor, the ominous 'thunk' of the mag locks releasing seemed like a gun shot in the quiet room. Lifting the lid I looked upon the two manila folders that sat, alone, side by side. On the right was the 'official' report, the results of my analysis and genetic forecasting, the extensive and detailed schedule of treatments, the specifics of the gene editing that would cement the child's place in our society, mould the child into... But on the left, subtly marked in one corner with a red pen, something other. A fabrication, but one that skirted the possibilities of potential. One of hope, one that took a chance at another way. One that bent the rules in dangerous ways, that challenged the status quo. One that would be the end of me - and her - if it failed. Many times I'd been here, but never before had I been so sure, never before had I let my heart follow through.

Before me was a fork in the road - do I take the easy-out? Do I take one step further down the path, one step further away from my soul? Or do I take the path to redemption? It's a long one, one fraught with peril, commitment, but with the chance of a reformation, to sow the seeds of revolution.

"Robert, hi," came Sophie's tired but expectant voice, entering the room before her husband, cradling a yellow blanket in her arms, tiny pink fingers slowly clutching at the air. Tilting her head down, gazing deep into her child's eyes with all the love of a mother, she smiled.

"This is Hope."

I reached out a hand towards the case.