Switchable Eyes, Changeable Hearts

Nicolas Gainsborough-Ashburnham was not a man to be woken up lightly. Ever since he was a child, he had ignored the bells of his alarm and the yells of his mother, only getting up after a large fuss had been made. Even after getting out of bed, he was never exactly pleasant. Not that he was particularly amicable to be around in a good mood, but mornings always seemed to make everything a bit lesser in his continuously switched eyes.

Because of his hatred for that particular part of the day, the Prime Minister of the Republic of North America was quite irked to be thrust from the dream world before he could be warmed by the sun’s rays. With a low growl of discontent, Nicolas opened his eyes only to narrow them in confusion.

He--one of the most powerful men in the world, the leader of an entire continent--was in a form of common transportation used by the Lower class. He was on a train.

He wasn’t even on the sleek, metal curved tubes that had been remodeled throughout the country back in 2902. No, he was in an antique passenger car painted in earth tones of brown and burgundy, further exemplifying the locomotive’s vintage appeal. The engine rumbled, and the seats shook minutely, but the windows were gray, leaving no hint to where he may be heading or when it may stop.

Scowling, Nicolas sat up from his slumped position in a passenger’s seat, quickly rummaging through his pockets for a sign of a ticket or perhaps a note explaining his sudden appearance on the unfamiliar train.

After finding nothing but lint, the Prime Minister resigned himself to grumbling about the uselessness of the Continental Guards. If they couldn’t protect him from a kidnapping--for that’s surely what this was--then what good were they? He had spent too much of his personal money on their own Switching procedures for them to fail at their job.

Scanning the dust covered interior, Nicolas’ gaze settled on the grayed-out window to his right. Or more specifically, the young man standing in front of it. The politician glared at his suspected kidnapper.

The man was of average height, average weight, average brown hair, and was overall, a very average, Mediterranean man. Except for his eyes. They were large and crystal blue.

“Who are you?” Nicolas scowled, glaring in an attempt to cover his fear. “What do you want from me?”

“You think I’ve kidnapped you?” The man tilted his head to the side in curiosity. He didn’t blink.

“If you need money, I’ve got some,” he offered, though he had no intention of ever providing the other with such. “You just have to let me go get it.”

“I have no use for mortal’s wealth.”

“I can get you Surgeries. You look like someone who could use a few Switches.”

The man’s eyes tightened.

“I don’t take what is not mine,” he turned from Nicolas to look at the gray window. He stared as if he could see more than the plain color.

“I have no patience for this!” Nicolas growled, standing in a fit of courage. “If you want something, speak!”

“I want many things,” he whispered. “But that is not why you are here, Mr. Gainsborough-Ashburnham.”

“Then why?”

The man looked back towards him.

“I am Phanuel. Icon of repentance and hope. The Sounder of the Trumpet. The Encourager and the Watcher.”

Nicolas blinked.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I suppose not,” he sighed. “Please, we have much to accomplish before you can return.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“After you can see.”

“I can see perfectly fine. Though I admit these eyes do not have the sharp quality I had asked for. I’ll have to have them Switched.”

“Those eyes belong to someone else,” he growled. “My eyes were made for more than earthly sight.”

Nicolas made a show of inspecting the man’s face, purposely zoning in on his wide eyes.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “I suppose your eyes do have an appealing quality to them. They would be quite Switchable.”

“Do not associate me with those who would steal from another’s body for the sake of beauty,” Phanuel growled, his gaze locked steadily on the gray window. He didn’t even glance at the politician.

“Is it wrong to want to look better than nature can provide?”

“When one takes what is not theirs and replaces it with something less, then it is wrong.”

“All the surgeries are consensual, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Phanuel’s jaw tensed, but he remained silent. He stared at the gray window. Nicolas waited a moment for the man to speak again. He didn’t.

“I assume you’re not just looking at that for fun,” Nicolas said, crossing his arms in a peculiarly childish fashion.

“If you look, you might see.”

“Obviously,” Nicolas rolled his eyes, but walked--or waddled--to stand by the other man. He looked into the window again, but was not expecting a different image to be staring back at him. He leaned forward as if it would help him retain the details of the image, or the outside world. He couldn’t decide which it was.

“What is this?”

“Roman Gladiator fight. 217 BCE. Slaves and criminals were put into a colosseum to fight each other.”

“I learned that in school. Which movie is this from?”

“It’s not a movie.”

“That’s not possible. What kind of screens are you using? The train must have been redone if it has such good resolution on these things.”

“I am showing you part of Earth’s history. The train is merely a way to facilitate travel between times.”

Nicolas raised an eyebrow in obvious skepticism, but didn’t fight the other on the matter.

“Then why the gladiator fight?” He asked, eyeing the scene unfold through the window with fascination. Two men faced each other in a large arena, large masses of people crowded the sides, cheering and jeering at the warriors. The two men went back and forth receiving blows.

“Do you have no sympathy for them?”

“They died thousands of years ago, if what you say is true.”

“That doesn’t make their deaths any less cruel. They were forced to kill each other just for the pleasure of others. How is that nothing short of heartless?”

Nicolas shrugged in response.

“You’re people are heading there,” Phanuel turned to the Prime Minister.

“We don’t do something as vulgar as that,” Nicolas sniffed.

“No, but you will. Wait a few years, and if the path isn’t changed, there will be acts of murder committed daily for the amusement of the masses.”

“You don’t have any right to judge my people!”

Phanuel didn’t respond, but only waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. The image in the window (or the view of the past) changed suddenly. Where there was previously an arena full of people, now there was a seashore full of wooden battleships. Flames devoured the city that stood on the land, people ran and screamed as canons were launched.

“And what is this?” Nicolas questioned, inspecting the new scene with pursed lips.

“The Cyprus Massacre, 1570.”

“I suppose this is supposed to have some sort of relevance to me.”

“The people here were slaughtered for a war of little consequence by the Ottoman Turks. 20,000 murdered for nothing but the ownership of goods. Churches and palaces looted and destroyed,” Phanuel looked to the shorter man and frowned. “No, it wouldn’t have any relevance to you, now would it?”

Nicolas’ face heated up in embarrassed anger.

“We had to attack the Southern Americas,” he tried to defend himself. “They were destroying the land itself, tarnishing the Earth we all live on.”

“You authorized the attacks because of their abundance of resources,” Phanuel waved his hand again. “Even some of your own recognized your treachery, but did nothing to stop it.”

“You can’t possibly be accusing me of treachery---”

“Treachery against your country? No.” The plain man stared at Nicolas with flames burning deep in his eyes. “But treachery against mankind? Most assuredly.”

“I have never---” The Prime Minister cut off as he caught a glimpse of the image on the window. A young woman with a bandage covering her nose was lying in a cramped hospital room. The pale blue of the sheets were stained, the curtain around her portion of the area half-way open. A flickering monitor lit up as she awoke. She opened bloodshot eyes and immediately put a hand to her face, covering her eyes and nose as whimpers escaped her. An overworked doctor rushed to her bedside, the stress and lack-of sleep evident in his face.

“It feels different,” she sobbed, letting the doctor guide her hands away from her face. “God, these aren’t mine.”

“What feels different?” The doctor questioned, looking into her eyes with a clinical expression. “Are you in any pain?”

“I can’t move the left one. It won’t move up or down, the right is fuzzy…Did something mess up?”

“There may have been an issue with the attachment. They never specified.”

“Where are the surgeons? This…this can’t stay like this.”

Nicolas could see the panic start to set in on the young woman’s face, she breathed hard. The doctor looked away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The surgeons are very busy and…and your recipient has not paid for any additional expenses.”

“Additional?” She gasped. “They messed up my eyes! Please, get her back. She can fix this. The surgeons can fix this.”

“I can’t,” he was apologetic. “Senator Elana has already left. She will not be contacted again.”

“Please!” She begged. “I have a family, a job. I’m…I’m a construction worker. I can’t work if I can’t see. Please, you have to do something about this.”

“There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry,” The doctor rushed out of the curtained area, but that didn’t stop the woman’s pleads.

“She said I’d be let go if I didn’t take the procedure. Please! I have kids…They can’t eat if I don’t work…”

The images began to fade.

“What was that?” Nicolas turned to Phanuel, anger plain on his rounded face. “What did you show me?”

“That was a young woman who had her eyes Switched with your Senator and her nose was Switched with a private investor,” Phanuel hummed. “That was Elana’s sixth eye Switching, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t keep up with that,” Nicolas frowned. “Why did she not pay to fix the woman’s eyes?”

“No one ever pays to have the poor’s eyes fixed.”

“Yes, they do. All the surgeries are just to replace parts. They are just switched.”

“That they are, but that doesn’t mean that the surgeries have to be at the highest quality for both.”

“You’re saying the surgeons are intentionally focusing on the one who’s paying them? Leaving the poor to suffer the consequences?” Nicolas curled his lip, disgusted by the thought.

“No,” Phanuel growled, surprising the other man. “Do not blame this all on the medical staff. Many of them don’t want to be Switching organs at all, but they are coerced into it. They are responsible for taking the organs from the poor and doing the procedure on the rich. The Recipient uses the most despicable of the college medical students to close up the poor. They can pay the students for less, though their work is less than satisfactory, as you saw.”

“That…that’s not everyone, though,” the politician tried to protest, his confidence wavering. “It’s only people like…Elana.”

“Have you ever looked at the contracts you’ve signed when you’ve Switched before?” Phanuel sneered. “Did you ever check up on the man whose muscles you took? Or that skin donor you’ve taken a liking to? Does she have any qualms about replacing her skin with yours? Or what about your heart? You had it replaced because it was weak? How does that man feel about it? Has he had a heart attack yet, in your stead?”

“I---”

“Just watch,” he growled, snapping his hand to the side so that an image appeared from the grayness. A little boy appeared outside the window. His hair was a soft red, his skin lightly brushed with freckles. He seemed to be four or five with a large smile upon his face.

“That’s my son,” Nicolas gasped. “That’s Tristan.”

“Yes, that is your son how he is today.”

“What do you mean?” The Prime Minister turned to the other, fear evident in his features. “What do you know will happen?”

“I don’t know anything will happen. I just know what could happen.”

Nicolas watched the image of his son distort and waver in the window, the boy was lost from his view for a moment before he reappeared, but different.

His hair was no longer red.

Instead, it was a dull gray that hung past his shoulders, making him seem decades older than he was. Terror filled his small face.

“What---” Nicolas gulped. “What happened to him?”

“Someone decided they wanted to Switch,” Phanuel shrugged, intentionally being nonchalant.

“I would never…never allow that.”

“I know.”

Nicolas looked back and forth between his son and the other man.

“Someone kidnapped him to…to steal his hair?”

“It is a possibility in the future. There have already been kidnappings of poorer children for the use of their organs. Apparently it’s too much to ask a grown adult for their body.”

The image of Tristan flickered again, and the boy reappeared with a new set of eyes. They were brown instead of his usual green, but they didn’t seem right on the child’s face. They were odd in a way Nicolas couldn’t place. Not until the boy pulled up and hand to quickly push the left eye back into place as it began to fall from its socket.

“Eyes are quite Switchable,” Phanuel reminded him in a mockery of his earlier words. “Even children’s eyes.”

“How dare you!” Nicolas lunged at the other man, snarling as rage took over his senses. He latched onto the man’s shirt, but he disappeared from his grasp. The Prime Minister quickly spun to find him in the other corner of the train. He had crossed his arms, but appeared apologetic.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he admitted. “That was insensitive.”

Nicolas breathed in, holding the air in his lungs for a few seconds before releasing. He ignored Phanuel’s apology in favor of looking out the window. His son flickered in and out over and over again. Each time, one of his body parts was different. A different arm, a different nose, a patch of skin that didn’t belong. The politician, the father, tried to control his breathing as it went on, but he quickly found it difficult as his son began to age as well. The Switchings never stopped.

“You have taken me here on this train,” Nicolas began, panting between every few words. “Shown me parts of history and then related them to my present. Kept me here against my will, and have now shown me these…this horrible thing. Whatever is being done to him. To my Tristan.”

“It is not the future,” Phanuel looked at him sympathetically. “It is only a mere possibility in trillions.”

“You can’t just show me---”

“I am showing you this so you can change it!”

“What?”

“You can change where your country, where the world, is heading. You are in a position of immense influence and power! What you do and say will affect millions of people. It’s why I brought you here. To change your heart so that you can change others!”

“Change hearts?” Nicolas shook his head in confusion. “I can’t…no one would listen…Oh, Tristan…my son…”

“Yes. For your son and for all the other sons and daughters out there, you can,” Phanuel insisted, swiping his hand so that all the windows of the train were unveiled and Nicolas could see hundreds upon millions of people standing outside in rays of light. They all looked in at him, waiting for him with eyes full of hope.

“You said eyes were switchable,” Phanuel said, holding at an arm for him to take, his blue eyes waiting for him just like everyone else's. “Well, heart’s are changeable. They just need a bit of help.”

“I---” The Prime Minister took a step forward, looking at all the different people from all over the world. All the young children and old couples, all the young adults and the middle aged. They were all there.

“Yes,” he said, taking Phanuel’s arm with his hand, staring into his eyes with a conviction that surprised even himself. “I want to change.”

The other man smiled, his features softening in what could be fondness.

“Then so you shall.”

Nicolas closed his eyes as the light from outside enveloped him, warming him from the inside out. He let it into his heart, let it reshape him so he could save himself and save his son. So he could save his country. So he could save the world.

From itself.