Chapter 7

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emilee

Home. What a funny little word. Misleading. A home is never usually a house, is it? It isn't for me, anyway. The Victorian was a house--I was no more connected to it than sharing its namesake. In an identical way, our current plantation is just a house--I go to it to eat, sleep, and leave for hell in the morning. That is it. These buildings, these establishments, they have never truly been homes. My home has always been a person, specifically my mother. And ever since mom left, I've been homeless, homeless within a place that was supposed to qualify as home.

Come to think of it, living without a home is like living with no purpose. Why walk this earth if you're not walking towards that ultimate comfort? Why turn the oxygen into carbon dioxide if you're not using the air to express your deep love and affection towards that person who makes you whole? I've spent the past two years asking myself that question--what is the point in living any longer when I have no home to live for? Why let my existence continue to wound me? Why not pull some trigger of some kind and do everybody a favor? Perhaps whatever waiting for me on the other side would be the home I've been seeking.

I see now why I didn't give up, but rather hung on. I see now why no one should ever give up, no matter how drastic the situation. Hanging on means there is still a thought, still a wish needed to be granted. And this--this is just that thought, and just that wish. How was I ever to know I'd end up here if I didn't tag along to find out?

There's a strange feeling of comfort in Norax's arm around my shoulder as she escorts me out of a big black car about an hour past when I made my ultimate decision. It's almost as if I've been steadied by a particular arm such as hers once before, in some long forgotten fantasy. I've only known one other motherly figure, one other homely figure before, and though I am scared, and nervous, and unsure of what the world is going to do to me now that I have made my choice, I can feel the gravitational pull of home; real, genuine home. It's somewhere out there, calling to me like that dream of piano playing that had let me sleep soundly for the first time in forever. Joining the Famoux, I feel, is taking me closer and closer to home, whatever--or whomever--that may be.

It takes hours and hours of silent riding before we approach a sleek black tower. I must've fallen asleep along the way, for I have to rub my eyes to see it not blurred. The building nearly blends right into the darkness outside, minus the dim glow of candles in a couple of the windows.

"Apologies for the long drive," Norax tells me. "We had to go far beyond Trulivent to get here. I'm glad you could get some sleep along the way."

"What is this place?" I ask.

"One of the Famoux's many control centers," she clarifies. "We have dozens scattered all about Eldae--a couple for publicists, a couple for insurance, a couple for advertisement. There's a building for just about anything. Generally, we tend to build them in remote locations so we won't get any reporters trying to ask us questions. This one in particular deals with makeovers and reformation."

Blood rushes to my head at the thought of reformation. "Oh, okay."

The building's inside is even sleeker than the exterior. The lobby is bestrewed with candles that illuminate modern, minimalistic furniture, and the floor is made of a spotless white marble--the walls, pitch black. I imagine there's a greater effect when the lights are working, for they must shine starkly on all the leather couches and glossy inked coffee tables. In the center of it all is an ebony reception desk, adorned with a large ivory Famoux symbol directly on its midpoint.

The woman at the desk greets Norax with a curt smile. She's got all her hair pinned up into a lustrous bun atop her head, and by the way the candlelight is catching it, it looks like it's caught on fire. I can't keep my eyes off it.

"Good day, Zoya," says Norax.

"Well, good day to you as well." The woman sets down a creamy white pencil. Its noise echoes in the otherwise empty space around us. "Haven't seen you here for quite a long while, Norax. What brings you to the reformation headquarters in the middle of a Darkening?"

Norax gestures to me. "Zoya, meet Em."

Zoya scans the bit of my face she can see from her seat and nods. "Em. Hmm. Em." She repeats my name a couple times, as if to test it out, then nods again. "Em. And she's the successor, I presume?"

"You presume correctly."

"Lovely." Turning her head to me, she asks, "How do you feel about all this?"

I shrug, but it comes out more as a tremble. "Okay, I guess."

"Excited? This is a huge opportunity."

"Well, I'm mostly . . ." What am I mostly? My hesitation rings through the air in a way similar to that of Zoya's pencil.

"Nervous," Norax says, answering for me. "She's nervous. And for good reason, of course. This is a serious decision."

Zoya whistles. "I'll say. Even if I was a fanatic for the Famoux, I don't think I'd be waiting in line to take the place of a girl who got shot in front of everyone."

I gulp, looking to Norax a bit helplessly. She gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and I'm able to exhale.

"Our security centers under immensely revamping, as you are well aware, Zoya," she points out. "Em is not going to be in the same kind of danger Bree was."

"Good idea," Zoya says. "Anyway, what can I do for you today?"

"You can start by telling me if there is any possible way to start the reformation process for Em right now. Must we really have to wait for the Darkening to conclude?"

"I'm afraid the Fissarex needs power to work, and there's quite a lack of that here at the moment."

Norax clicks her tongue, disappointed. "I see." She glances over at me. "What do you think we should do about this, Em?"

"I-I don't know," I stammer. "I'm okay with waiting."

She nods, but it quickly turns into a head shake, brow creasing with anxiety. "No, no, we can't wait, Zoya. The moment the light comes back we're going to have dozens of reporters and fans watching our every move to see what happens next. If they notice Em here tagging along before we get her reformed--we'd be in trouble. We need to get this done during the Darkening."

"And how do you think we'll get that done, boss," asks Zoya, "seeing that it's virtually unattainable?"

Norax pauses to think about this, curling a fist under her chin, resting her elbow on the desk in front of us. It takes all of eight seconds for her eyes to light up.

"Oh! Say I had the authority to take some of the electrical power from our little glass house and convert its path to your outlets. Then do you think we could start the reformation process?"

"You can actually do that?" I blurt out.

She smiles down at me. "I run the Famoux, my darling. I can make anything happen if I say it will happen."

"Well, if that's really possible, and you're not just hoping it is, we could definitely start reformation today," Zoya says.

"Then it's settled."

Norax sends our driver out to go to the Famoux's technician center with the orders to temporarily take away some of the Fishbowl's power so that the Fissarex, whatever that is, can function for as long as reformation may take.

"What'll the Famoux do without any energy in the house?" I ask.

"They'll make do," says Norax. "Besides, a little harmless worry in the house always makes for more interesting television. I'll make sure the members know they're not being attacked . . . again."

While we wait for a response from the technical headquarters, Zoya scribbles on several legal document-looking papers. She's working on making my new identity, which is, as she puts with a dramatic eye roll, "Not as fun as you'd think it would be, especially when we're in the middle of a full-fledged Darkening."

"How do you do it normally?"

"We usually have all the computers with all the options saved. Everything takes a little longer when we have to input this information manually."

I apologize to her for showing up at such an inconvenient time, and she looks at me like I've gone mad.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You're the star of the show now," she states simply. "We'd find a way to cater to you in any kind of condition. With minimal complaints."

xxx

The Fissarex looms tall and daunting. Maybe it's the tall rectangular shape, or the dark chrome finish, or its intimidatingly thin width. Whatever the reason, my palms get sweaty just at the sight of it. It looks like something Carstan would lock me in. I can't even imagine walking into such a contraption voluntarily, like I'm about to be expected to.

Norax clacks over to the machine in her high heels, Zoya and I trailing just behind her. They've dressed me in a white smock of a papery material--something reminiscent of a hospital gown. I've got my old sweatshirt and pants in a plastic bag that I hug to my chest. Norax suggested we throw the bag away, but I objected. It's the last bit of my old life I'll have now, anyway. There's no possible option to go home and say goodbye or grab a couple of things. I try my best not to think about any of that as Norax fiddles with the tablet control panel next to the Fissarex.

She presses a manicured finger onto the silver metal. A slab shifts, revealing a small keypad dotted with a dozen beeping, flashing buttons. She hits a few, and a hidden door swings open slowly, making a noise synonymous to that of an exhausted exhale.

"I can't promise it'll be painless," says Zoya. "But I can promise it will be worth every bit of pain."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Positive."

"What's that?" I point to the object in her hand--a slender stick made of an onyx black metal. There's a thick white lock of hair at its tip.

"Oh, think of this as something like a paintbrush," she explains. "Your figure is going to be projected on one of the Fissarex's walls from out here, and I'm going to use this to make my edits on you. Whatever I paint onto you will appear; whatever I erase will disappear. Erasing your skin might hurt a little, but it'll only last a few seconds, I promise. The only other thing that will really hurt is the hair fusion. I need to pull out every last hair on your head and restitch new strands that'll be able to be cut and grow out like your regular hair. It's a complicated process, and none of the Famoux members before you have ever found it all too pleasant."

"It doesn't exactly sound pleasant," I point out.

"I'm sorry it has to hurt. But please, try not to move or scream, because that makes things hard for me to do. And the quicker I can get it all done, the quicker I'll be able to finish, and the quicker you'll be able to be a Famoux member. So no moving or screaming. Can you do that for me, Em?"

"I think so," I say.

"Good. You can get in, then."

I swallow hard, slowly making my way into the little contraption. It's so slim inside that my shoulders hit either end, and it's so tall that my neck strains when I look up. The interior walls are a stark, glossy white.

"The Fissarex may take a while to warm up, so you may have to stand in there for a while before anything happens. Hope you're not claustrophobic."

"I--"

She presses a button. The Fissarex's final open wall slips down, brushing against my nose as it closes in on me. The walls, once white and blinding, flicker for a second before turning pitch black, like a Darkening. I can't see my body below me.

"Calm," I whisper to myself. "It's a small space."

I reach down towards my waist, but grab ahold of nothing.

"Wait, what?"

I go to kick my other leg and get only air.

"Wait," I say, voice strained and wobbling. "Wait . . . "

I plunge headfirst towards the wall ahead of me. There should be impact. My forehead should be throbbing. Instead, I'm propelled towards nothing, falling forward fast and freely. I land straight on my knees, but even they don't feel the collision with floor.

When I blink, I'm standing up again, right as I was, like nothing ever happened.

It comes out like a sob. "Wait, wait, get me out of here."

Heavy breathing. Rapid blinking.

"Wait, wait, I want to get out. Wait."

I try to pound on the door, but I don't know where my hands are anymore. My nerves are completely inactive. My mouth opens to scream, but some kind of unearthly force compresses down onto it before anything can come out.

"Just stay calm!" Norax's voice comes through the metal muffled. "The calmer you are, the sooner you'll get out, remember?"

"Is-is it w-warmed up y-yet?" I stammer.

"Just about," calls back Zoya. "Just stand still and close your eyes."

I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. My heart rattles in my ribcage. My entire body feels numb, as if I'm lodged in a hidden corner of the world, where gravity doesn't exist, where no one's going to look to find me.

And if they find me, they'll leave me, because they'd rather me be lost than exist to ruin their lives with the stick-like freak I have no choice of not being . . .

. . . stopstopstop, I command myself, words flooding atop one another like a mental slur. No more self-pity. No more negativity. Everything is going to change, right here and now, after this is over.

I try to use the same tactics I employ when I'm trying to keep from falling asleep, and when I'm trying to stop thinking about how I only wound myself and the people around me with the person I am: state as many facts about the world as I can until I'm too tired to think any longer.

Delicatum was founded, I think to myself, one hundred and eighty-eight years ago.

The feeling comes back to my waist, where I feel my skin being carved at. I bite my lip, pinch my eyelids shut, and come up with more facts.

Identical generations started three decades ago. Scientific investigation shows no reasoning for the sudden shift in infant genes. Researchers assume it is the radiation still left in the air from a nuclear war that ended the people before us.

The pain slips down my legs, physically searing off flesh I can't see as it goes down. Immeasurable. Unbearable.

There are three countries of Delicatum: Eldae, Betnedoor, and Notness.

Pain on my stomach.

Eldae's capital is called Trulivent.

Pain on my arms.

Betnedoor's capital is called Colburn.

Pain in my teeth, on my cheeks, my nose, and my jawline.

Notness' capital is called Bren--

Sweltering, white-hot, blistering pain on my scalp. My thoughts break off halfway through the word. I let out a scream and fall to the floor, only to be repositioned again out of thin air, within my next rushed inhale.

"We're almost done, I promise!"

Norax, from outside. It comes barely audible, as my hearing seems to be faltering from the agony within my head.

"This is the worst part up next." Zoya. "The head is always the worst part. It's almost over, Em, just a little bit more and you'll be good to go."

"Brennan," I sputter out to the darkness around me, to no one. "That is it. Notness' capital is called Brennan."

The pain swells deep into my brain . . . so deep into my brain . . .

My speech turns into a string of slurred syllables, tied all together into one mass, into one large and incomprehensible word.

"In the last year, Betnedoor produced 90 percent of Delicatum's manufactured goods and luxuries, the other 10 percent coming from--"

The throbbing balloons, slipping down my throat, bringing my speech to a halt. I want to cry out in pain, but I can't. I can't find the ability to summon a sound out of my mouth. The screaming occurs internally, bouncing off the corners of my cranium, tinting my otherwise dark, blank vision a bright red. So much pain inside my head . . . so much pain inside my head . . .

The other 10 percent comes from Eldae, I conclude through thoughts, over the pounding and the screeching inside me, due to their mass production of natural resources such as--

Pain in my chest, punching my ribcage.

--minerals, lumber--

Pain, swimming in my veins, advancing towards my heart.

--and petroleum.

I lose all consciousness.

xxx

I wake to all the lights in the Fissarex flickering on. The stark whiteness temporarily blinds me, but I welcome it graciously. No more darkness. I'm through with darkness--I only find pain in it.

The door slides open in front of me. My balance falters, I tumble right out of the machine and onto my knees--this time not appearing back in anatomical position. The modest bruising feeling in my kneecaps feels like nothing in comparison to the agony I've just endured.

"Careful!" says Zoya. She takes me hand and helps me up, brushing dust off my hospital gown. "I just remade you. I don't want you getting that new body of yours dirty already."

It clicks in my mind. New body. I quickly remember that I've not even the slightest idea what I look like anymore. Eagerly, I glance around the room for a mirror, but there are none in sight.

"How do you feel?" Zoya asks me.

"I . . . I feel different," I reply. And it's completely true. Just standing in my body feels foreign. I try not to take a peek down at myself; I want to see who I am now through the mirror, not in bits and pieces of what my eyes are able to see. I want to take it all in at once, for I imagine one big shock is better than a string of several small ones.

"What was the pain like? Was it too much to bear?"

"It was more than you could even imagine."

"For the record, it looks pretty worth it to me." She glances over at Norax. "Don't you think so too?"

When my gaze meets Norax's, there are tears glistening in her eyes.

"Uh, is everything okay?" I ask her, brow furrowing.

She wipes an eye hastily, mascara catching the edge of her cheekbone. "Everything is absolutely okay, Em. It's more than okay. You look remarkable."

"I-I do?"

"Of course you do," says Zoya. Her paintbrush twitches in her hands. "I only create remarkable things. Anything less is unsubstantial and redundant."

"You have to see yourself," Norax insists. She takes my shoulders and leads me out of the Fissarex's room. "You're going to love it. I know you will."

She brings me down the hall to the restroom. As she pushes open the door, I feel my heart thumping quick in anticipation, trepidation. I try not to predict anything, but my mind can't help but wander to thoughts of the current Famoux members, and how beautiful and how perfect they strike me as, and how I've now been re-crafted by Zoya, by the very same hand as they were. That can only mean that I must look . . .

The door leads directly to a wall-length mirror, and my eyes meet themselves in the reflection before I can finish my thought. Same eyes, I notice.

Same eyes, but a completely different body.

I gasp, but it's full of awe.

The hospital gown is boxy, but even with it on I can already tell my waist is lean, my stomach flat, my legs thin and muscular. No longer are my arms weak and bony--they

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