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To him, she is perfect.

Everything about Rose Lalonde is precisely as it should be. She wears her nobility outwardly, displaying that gorgeous violet font for the world to see. She carries herself with the proper grace of one with her place on the hemospectrum, and uses the language befitting her position. There are times when he secretly daydreams about her speaking to him, commanding him with those beautiful words she always employs. Of course, he can never share these daydreams. They are too improper.

For as perfect as Rose Lalonde seems, Equius cannot simply ignore that she is human. An inferior, despite her noble grace and demeanor. While he can watch her and pretend that her skin is grey and her hair is black, it is impossible to ignore the truth, especially when her candy red blood slips through her skin. It could be as simple as an accidental prick from her knitting needles, or just a stray scratch from an imp, but each time he sees her mutant blood (even if it is perfectly normal for her species) he can’t help but draw back from the screen in near shock as his stomach churns uncomfortably.

It isn’t fair, he thinks. She should have been born a troll of noble heritage on Alternia. Then she could live up to her true potential rather than being trapped behind that eerie peach skin of hers. Yet life does not work out favorably, he finds, and frequently those who have noble blood do not deserve it, and vice versa. So it goes.

He reaches for another towel.