The Remaking

by J. T. O'Connell

  Because work went on at the office through all hours, two dozen rooms had been outfitted with cots, with a standup shower in each of the four bathrooms.

  Michelle again thanked Sela for coming back. Sela was too tired to think about that. All she wanted was a pillow and a few days of serene slumber. She sauntered along in the group to the overnight rooms.

  Desmond pointed out one of the bathrooms as they passed. The door was labelled for women. There were two bathrooms for each sex. Those who wanted to take showers would have to take turns. Sela would not be one of them.

  He selected a bedroom for her, opened the door, and flicked on the light. She stepped in and looked around. It was nothing but a shoebox in the wall, just wide enough to stand up off the cot.

  Beside the bed, a fold-down shelf was clipped to the wall, and a few feet closer to the door, hooks were mounted to the wall to hang a jacket or an overnight bag.

  Sela turned around to look at Desmond in the doorway, “Thanks,” it came out as a whisper.

  He nodded and then tilted his head to the left. “I’ll be right next door if you need anything.”

  Sela looked into his eyes, saw the same fatigue she felt. That pain was still there, though.

  Desmond gazed at her, inhaled, paused, and then finally said softly, “I really wish things had been easier on you, Sela. I…” He blinked and blushed, and looked away.

  “What?” she asked, leaning one leg against the cot to steady.

  “I just, I hate what we have to do,” he sighed. “I wanted to trust you right away, tell you everything.” Desmond licked his lips, “It’s just not how we do things. We can’t be so… careless.”

  Sela frowned. If Desmond had been honest the first time, most likely she would have refused to ever see him again. Maybe he didn’t manipulate her, so much as try to ease her into doing this task.

  And right as the task was, Sela knew through every fiber of her being, she was only doing it to leave Megora. She intended to be gone by the time the Conference began.

  “I’m sorry for being dishonest, Sela,” Desmond spoke softly, his eyebrows arched. “Can you forgive me?”

  Sela tilted her head, “Well— I… uh…”

  “It’s okay,” Desmond glanced away, slowly turning around, “I know you’re tired. You should sleep.”

  “I… Okay,” Sela exhaled, shoulders slumping. Her purse swung against her side. She watched the door close behind Desmond. Leaning against the cot, breath coming heavy with weariness, Sela tried to dissect her emotions.

  It was just too late, or early. That was more accurate. She felt gross. Her skin felt crusty and her eyes itched from holding open far too long. Even though she wanted to wash her face and brush her teeth, she couldn’t envision taking another step, much less actually going through all that effort.

  For a cot only three inches thick, the cushion had a good balance between firmness and softness. As she lay down, it seemed to cocoon around her, although that could have been just how tired she was.

  The pillow was a black hole of bliss. She sank away and did not dream.

  The knocking woke her up.

  Sela had a vague impression that the knocking had been going on for some time. It wasn’t loud. Whoever was knocking wasn’t frustrated that she had not answered the door yet.

  Sela squeezed her eyes, and then labored to open them. Sometime in the night, she had kicked off her shoes. One was on the floor and the other was on the foot of the bed, teetering on the edge of the blanket.

  She had also hung her jeans and her t-shirt from the hooks and shut the lights off. Only a faint nightlight scattered thin illumination in the room. Her purse, instead of hanging from the hooks, was on the floor where it had fallen when she had collapsed onto the cot.

  The knock sounded again, still no louder.

  “Yeah,” Sela called out. “Yeah, just a second!”

  She kicked the covers off and slid her legs over the side. The air conditioning was chilly on her bare skin. The floor was covered with thin, office carpeting, contrasting the softness of the sheets and blankets over the thin mattress.

  Pushing her knuckles against the cot, she stood up, shivering from the cold, she sniffled and padded the step and a half over to the door. All she had on was her underwear and socks, so she just cracked the door an inch, hiding behind it.

  It wasn’t Desmond. In fact, she didn’t recognize the man. He was young, dressed in business casual, button down and slacks. It was bright out in the hallway, day lighting.

  “Yeah?” Sela blinked in the light.

  “Mrs. Duncan asked me to wake you up.” He shifted his feet nervously. “She said you should eat some breakfast.”

  "Oh, okay." She glanced at her clothes. "Gimme a minute, alright?"

  "Sure."

  She closed the door and dressed. However much time Michelle had allowed her to sleep, Sela knew it was going to be a sluggish day for her. But she did feel better.

  When only her shoes were left, Sela decided to scratch an itch that had begun to form in her mind. Check the purse. The gun was still there, waiting, as was her emergency card, and the letter from her father too. She set the purse down on the cot and grabbed her shoes.

  Tugging her them on, grabbing her purse, Sela went through the door. "Can I wash my face first?"

  He gestured assent toward the bathroom door.

  "Thanks," she went inside. The bathroom was tiny, just enough space in the stand-up shower for the mechanics of washing. There was a toilet and a sink, all of it recently cleaned. The smell of porcelain detergents permeated the room.

  Splashing cold water on her face felt invigorating. It was nice to scrub away the thin film of grime from sleeping on foreign sheets. At last she was finally beginning to feel physically okay again.

  Emotionally, Sela worried she was a wreck. So much had happened in the past few days… How was she supposed to make sense of it all and go on about life, as though none of it had happened?

  Her tentative threads of trust had been cut in a firestorm of panic. Now she had to put all of that aside and just pretend everything was alright. She didn't like Michelle. She had never come to trust Michelle, and she certainly never would.

  How can you trust that she'll follow through on her promise to get you out of Megora?

  Sela looked into the mirror, staring into her eyes, seeing nothing of her image.

  In the silence, her mind suggested another thought, What other choice do you have?

  If Michelle Duncan was willing to… dispose… of Leon Wallis, would Sela even be able to turn down this job? Would she be permitted to leave Hannan Enterprises with all the knowledge she had of their organization?

  Sela sighed and dried her hands on the hand towel. She followed the man in the hallway. He led her to a cafeteria, a few people mingled in small groups, most of them huddled around a table where a platter of donuts sat between two large coffeemakers.

  Sela selected a banana and a cup of yogurt for breakfast and then followed her escort back out into the office. The hallways all looked the same, and they went into yet another section of the office she had never seen before.

  The man showed her through a doorway, "Michelle will be by soon." And with that, he left.

  Sela looked around, banana in one hand, yogurt cup cradled in the other with a plastic spoon pinched between two fingers. This was a film studio, though small and cramped. There was a green screen, multiple cameras, lights on stands and mounted racks, wires snaked and curled to and from everywhere.

  A booth was nestled into the wall toward the back. Several mixing boards with translucent touch screens were mounted at eye level.

  Engineers could watch the actual stage if they looked up a few degrees, however the screens would show the raw capture footage, or enhanced versions, or the final cuts after all editing was completed, right from the same station where the raw images were captured. Even special effects could be put together from those consoles.

  "Oh, you mu
st be Sela."

  She turned around at the voice. It was soft, with a gravelly undertone also. The man was late in his fifties, wearing a polo tucked in to his jeans and a brown leather jacket that looked to be at least ten years old.

  He sported a full beard, dark and greying, and his hair was trimmed short, full and thick and also streaked with silver. He looked like someone who belonged in a studio, like he wore the jacket because he rarely left the air conditioning.

  "Yes, I am," Sela answered.

  The man held out his hand, "Bob Carson."

  She juggled the banana into her other hand to shake his.

  "I built the studio here." He had a warm face, even though Sela couldn’t imagine seeing a smile on it. He had the look of an uncle. “I used to run a small newsroom in Milwaukee.”

  “Why do the Vines need a studio?” Sela wrinkled her eyebrows.

  “Michelle’s given us a few projects,” Bob answered. “Usually we aren’t as low-key as today.”

  He led her over to a table and indicated with a gesture that she could set the food down. A cardboard crate of bottled water sat on the far end, nothing else.

  “This doesn’t look low key,” Sela replied, panning over the studio again. The equipment looked expensive, state of the art, to her untrained eyes.

  “We aren’t going to be using all of this, actually.” Bob said. “What we’ve got set up is around the other side.”

  Sela noticed now that what looked like a cramped room was really just half of the room, or even less. The green screen was a dividing wall that could be moved out of the way. It didn’t reach quite to the ceiling and was several feet short on the right side.

  She accompanied Bob around the divider. Extra lights were packed against the wall, where others weren’t even constructed. Folded up assemblies and diffusion shrouds stacked in a controlled disarray.

  This set had no green or blue screens to recreate exotic backgrounds with the magic of CG. Two walls were painted neutral colors, forming a corner. A couch sat on one side of an end table in the corner, a ratty, stained-couch that looked well-used, the sort of couch that only a man in his twenties could like. On the end table was a cheap lamp, dust collected on its fogged glass base now smudged from handling.

  And that was it.

  Sela knew immediately what it was supposed to be; a portion of an apartment. It didn’t look like her apartment. Even with meager funds, Sela owned furniture much nicer than this. And it such things were expensive. ‘Affordable amenities’ in Megora usually referred to lousy junk that could not be given away at a garage sale, ten years ago.

  It was tough to get nice items now. There were flourishing refurbishing businesses though, both legal and illicit. And still, Sela managed to get hold of better furniture than these pieces. She was not impressed

  Sela would be sending Leon Wallis a video message. What was she supposed to send him? A request to meet him somewhere.

  Why would I ever do that? she thought. I would never do that!

  Voices emerged from around the wall as Michelle, Desmond, Phil Calhoun, and several other people emerged around the corner.

  “Bob, Sela,” Michelle said, “I see you’ve already met.”

  Michelle proceeded to introduce the rest of the people to Sela, no handshakes, just a quick introduction.

  Then Phil Calhoun stepped over to her and offered a folder, “This is the best version we’ve worked up so far. I spent all night going over the final details.”

  He didn’t look like he had even begun to tire yet. Desmond looked only a little worse for wear, though he held a steaming mug of coffee near to his chest. Five-o'clock-shadow was showing on his chin and cheeks, since he had not shaved this morning.

  “What is it?” Sela asked, taking the folder. She opened it to the only page within. It was triple spaced, one paragraph eating the entire page.

  “Your lines,” Phil answered.

  Bob directed people to different tasks. Apparently, the lamp wasn’t going to be the only source of light for the video, since they moved to set up soft spotlights.

  “My lines…” Sela replied skeptically. She gazed over the page and skimmed it.

  One of the new people brought out a tablet and plugged it in directly, to one of the lines running to the console. Bob went with another assistant back into the second editing room. Noise of setup permeated the studio.

  Sela felt an ache of worry in her chest. Phil certainly knew Leon, at least on paper. He didn’t include any of the affection that was normal between cousins. And yet he still attempted to appeal to family connection.

  “This won’t work,” Sela said with more certainty and vigor than she knew she possessed. All the activity in the studio stopped abruptly. All eyes turned to her.

  Chest thumping with anxiety, Sela shook her head, holding up the folder with one hand. “This won’t work,” she said again.

  “What do you mean?” Michelle asked.

  Desmond crossed an arm over his chest, rested his right elbow on it, and held the coffee up beside his face.

  “I mean, Leon’s not going to fall for this,” Sela said. She wanted to leave, get out of this predicament, find another way out of Megora.

  “And why not?” Phil’s arms were crossed too, though his voice broached no emotion.

  “It just won’t,” Sela growled, tossing the folder at the linty couch. Her legs were moving before she even realized what she was doing. The thought of leaving in a hurry had not occurred to her, but she was moving back around the barrier dividing the room.

  Michelle protested and Phil said something, but their voices were lost to Sela as she gained pace. A hand corralled in her shoulder, and this voice she heard.

  “Sela, wait,” Desmond spoke softly. She turned halfway, saw his eyes, the same pain and compassion still filling them. “Let’s just talk for a second, okay?”

  By now, Michelle and Phil had rounded the corner, followed closely by Bob who was holding his silence. Both Michelle and Phil were talking over each other, both loudly to be heard in the jumble.

  A sharp look from Desmond silenced them both. He pushed Sela gently, turning her back in the direction she had been going.

  Her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking, and all she could think about was getting away from the Vines, as much as she ever wanted to get away from the Provisional Council. This plan was going to get her caught!

  Once out into the hall, Desmond let go of her shoulder, and despite the momentum she had built up for leaving, Sela slumped against a wall, across from where Desmond leaned.

  He took a deep breath and sighed. His coffee was gone, set down somewhere inside the studio.

  Desmond just looked at her, breathing slowly. She breathed and glanced away, feeling her pulse in her temples, and around the edges of her eyes.

  Finally he spoke, softly, one arm crossed, and his other palm against his face, against the thin stubble. “You know, I always hate when someone else does the planning.”

  Sela looked at him, breathed heavily, kept silent.

  “It’s a little like jumping over a fire you didn’t build. You don’t know how wide it is, and who knows what kind of fuel is about to explode in it.”

  She licked her lips and thought again about leaving.

  “Sela, I know you’re having doubts, and you’re worried about how this will affect your family.”

  He waited for an acknowledgement, but she didn’t give him any, so he continued, “I can’t tell you how often I worry the Council will find out about me and try to use my family against me.”

  She looked down at the office carpeting, pushed the toe of one shoe against it. And then she muttered, “What would you do then? If it happened to you.”

  Desmond squeezed his midriff and thought for a breath. “Truthfully, Sela, I don’t know. I really don’t.

  “On the one hand, I would want to be strong enough to make a deal with the Council; my life for theirs. And at the same time, I know that I should be wi
lling to make all kinds of sacrifices for the greater good.”

  Sela wrinkled her eyebrows.

  Desmond continued, “Yet, I’ve only had to speculate about what could happen. And with how much it gnaws at me, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to you.”

  She took a deep, unsteady breath and sighed. The pain in her chest was overpowering.

  “It’s vile that you have to make this choice.” His voice quavered. “And I cannot make any promises about how things will turn out. We do our best and hope to handle whatever comes up.”

  His shoulders straightened and he held out his hands, palms up. “I can tell you this: the person who doesn’t have anything for which he would sacrifice everything, has nothing worth keeping anyhow.”

  Desmond’s eyes gazed into Sela’s. And she saw resolve alongside his pain and his empathy. Whatever strength undergirded his emotions formed a deep-seated fire in his soul. She could see that plain as day.

  He was right. It would be a pitiable life that was clung to, at the expense of actually living it. Sela knew that her father wanted more for her than just hiding in Megora, hoping for a brighter day, but doing nothing to bring it, and never getting close to anyone, for fear of discovery.

  Yet, there wasn’t really a good choice, was there?

  She winced as she recalled the lines they wanted her to read. Leon was not going to fall for Sela reaching out to him, of all people, and asking him to relay messages to her father.

  “Leon will see right through it,” Sela spoke quietly. Each word seemed to drill home the finality of it.

  If she sent the message and then tried to meet up with her cousin, he would show up with a phalanx of Guides, decked out in iron grey and navy blue. She would be captured and used. Of that, Sela was confident.

  “Then rewrite it,” Desmond shrugged. “There has to be a way.”

  Sela narrowed her eyes. Rewriting Phil’s words had not occurred to her.

  The Vines were looking at this job from a perspective of knowledge and pure logic. What did they know about Leon? What did they know about her? How could that intelligence be compiled to maneuver Leon into a net for the closing?