shades // year I

Behind the sleek glass doors of a towering skyscraper in the center of Chicago, Whytte and Blanc sat in two plush, chairs of snow. The light aqua tint of the glass panes and door were the only hues other than white present in the room. Only type A directors were allowed on this level. Type B and C could only stay in the lower half of the building. Any lower than C could not even step foot here. Already, the black gradient of the other levels tainted the elevator and common rooms. The pristine, monochrome world of the tower was the most prestigious association in all of society. No, reds, oranges, blues, yellows, no other colors could be in here... only types A to C, white to black, were allowed.

"We need to recruit a Type A for this commercial... No one likes type B or C actresses anymore."
"Are you kidding?" Whytte retorted, "Slate is the actress with the highest popular demand right now! Why can't we --"
"Because she's a B type. I'm telling you, no one will like the commercial if there's a filthy grey!" Blanc spat out the last word as if it were bitter poison.
"What? You told me that you didn't want to recruit any of them because it wouldn't fit the color scheme!"
"Well, that's not much better, is it?" Blanc shot a look at Whytte and took his glasses off, proceeding to resignedly clean the lenses with a white silk handkerchief. "Look, I know that you're a new employee here, but none of the companies like B and C anymore. They only want the shining diamonds -- the pure, white class of type A. And frankly, I feel the same way."
"There's nothing wrong with Slate or any greys or blacks, now is there? They're just born one color or another."
"There is something wrong. Their colors are wrong. Tainted. No one wants them. They're outcasts."

Whytte couldn't find a way to argue against this false logic so that his superior would listen, so he sighed and went back to flipping through possible candidates. Blanc was looking at him, he could tell, even though it seemed as if he were too busy with his flying fingers on the clacking keys of his computer. Every time a B or C model came up for review, there would be a strange, hair-raising bitterness that washed through the room, its waves flooding over his shoulder from where his employer sat, subtly scowling.

They're all better than Type A actresses, yet they still find themselves blocked by their rank, Whytte breathed to himself. He walked out of the room, unable to bear the starchy stiffness of the unflappable institutional atmosphere.