Re: [emma len - peacekeeper] - fin

Surgery. I wanted it, more than anything. If anything was the hype twenty-four/seven in the Capitol, it was making yourself look glamorous, beautiful... perfect. And I was anything but. It seemed every time I glanced in a mirror or caught my reflection by accident, passing shop windows, the polished silver handles on the bathroom sink, my nose would crinkle, my eyes would dull in disappointment, and I would become lost for words at... at the pure ugliness. Eyes slanted too narrow, forehead too low, eyes too close together, hair the exact wrong shade of brown. The list would have continued on and on, listing each and every one of my flaws, my blemishes. Considering, you'd think I'd start to avoid contact with mirrors and reflections completely, to hide my face once and for all, so save myself and others from the raw imperfection. Yet, the exact opposite persisted. She would purposefully trek around the house, stopping at each and every pane of glass, concentrating hard on how she would eventually muster the money to pay for surgery, the perfect solution to becoming pretty.

---

Irritation dominates, driving me farther, pushing me harder. Never before have I been so bold, so willing to jump out and risk everything for a small piece of happiness. But damn, it's worth it. Diverting the merchant's attention, my hand snakes out, plucking a ripe, golden apple from the cart and carefully stowing it in my small knapsack. When he again faces me, confusion turning to anger as he realizes I have fooled him, I'm already gone, halfway down the block, giggle-snorts shaking my body, making it hard to stand, let alone make a clean get away. When I'm sure I've put enough distance between us, I remove the apple, grinning down on the piece of fruit like a juicy savior, before taking a giant bite, relishing in it's sweet tartness. Things always tasted better when stolen.

Licking my lips and wiping my hands, I toss the naked core aside, grimacing at the sticky mess in my lap. One downside of eating apples without a napkin of some sort: the unwanted leftovers. The thought brought along a hazy memory, in which I sat at the table, eyes alone feasting on the food set out on the table, seemingly shining with radiance. It had been one of the few times my lousy parents had managed to afford decent foo- "Hey You!" Eyes snapping open after slowly closing in a drunken sort of way, my panicked gaze danced along the alley, searching. There, at the mouth of the dimly lit alcove, the merchant. From whom I had stolen the apple. His face was a mask of ferocity, his eyes speaking the words hesitant to leave his mouth. He wanted to do bad things to me, that was for sure. "I'll kill ya, girlie! I will, and no damned copper's gonna stop me!" He let out some sort of battle cry, and charged along, head lowered as if ready to headbutt her to death.

Hopping to my feet, I hastily rush to the other side, clinging to the brick wall, cowering behind an overflowing city dumpster. He rushes past, the built momentum forcing him several more feet farther than where I hid. Grasping the opportunity, I hop on, the metal of the can's lid creaking under my weight. His feet shuffle behind me as he gathers his senses, trying to pinpoint my location. More shuffling as his gaze lands on where I crouch, dashing once again.

He underestimates me.

Lunging, his fingers graze the flesh of my ankle as I jump. I grin, hearing him squeal in pain as his chin connects with the dumpster. Hard. My fingers latch onto a fire escape unfolded above me, Nineteen years worth of muscle pulling my body up onto the roof, out of his reach. I don't think he'll be going anywhere, let alone the roof, for a while, but, to be safe, I pull up the ladder and clasp it hastily.

Yearning eyes take in the expanse of the city, my heart hitching at the sight of the gleaming metal, of all the cheerful hustle and bustle. The Capitol, the good section, drives the knife of sorrow deeper in my chest, obscuring any emotions felt previously. Lord, I'd kill to live there, to party with those people, to toast to the health and wellness of my perfect body, perfect features, perfect everything. At the last thought, my hand snakes up to my face, carefully caressing my rounded cheeks, no doubt rosy by the effort of the tussle below. My mind summons a mental picture, permanently etched into my brain from countless visits to the bathroom's mirror.

My legs fail, and my butt hits the concrete hard, nearly knocking the air from my lungs. It's hard to breathe as is, as I recall the despised color of my eyes, a light brown. (They look like poo for god's sake!) Further depressed as I finger a strand of my greasy hair, shining even without wash, without the sun's reflection, from the dirtiness I have been unable to wash away. It's frizziness occasionally reminds me of a rodeo clown's. The toe and finger nails, bitten to nearly nothing. To the very shade of my skin. Pale, pale, pale, and more pale. Chalky? Yeah, some of that too.

If only there was a wa-

"Emma Len." It's the second time an unexpected voice has startled me from a hazy daydream. I sigh in exasperation, raising my hands in defeat, ready to give a speech of surrender... when I see the uniform. Peacekeepers. "If you don't mind, we'd like you to follow us." They seem to spot the resistance before I do, the speaker's hand raising, shaking his head with a chuckle. "There's a chance of you becoming... pretty."

Another glance in the mirror brings on another bout of excitement. Dashes and lines have been drawn all over my face, chest, arms, midriff, legs, down to the tip of my toes. The surgeon will be in shortly, (or so the attendant said) to put her under and take the knife to her skin, modeling her into something unbelievably... perfect. And there was only a small price.

Apparently, I hadn't gone unnoticed after all. All the thievery, all the tricks, the small crimes had finally come back around to bite me right in the ass. The two Peacekeeper's had heard my little scuffle with the angry merchant, and had decided they'd had enough with my confident attitude and get-away-with-everything personality. After hauling me over to headquarters, they told me it would be unfair for them to be so lenient with such a troublesome girl, and have been forced to take action. They sentenced me to three years as a Peacekeeper, after undergoing a short-term training camp. Knowing I wouldn't go along with the plan so easily, they went through my files, my schoolwork, and deduced what I wanted most in life. To be pretty. Bribing me with surgery, they said three years would just fly by, and, soon enough, I'd be back in the safe confines of the Capitol, where I'd be able to live it up to my little heart's desire.

Sounded like an alright deal to me.

Shave off the unnecessary fat, tune up the cheekbones, bring out the light in the eyes, give the hair an entirely different look, remodel the fingernails. Everything would turn out alright. Another glimpse at myself and I giggle. I feel beautiful already.

The anesthetics have begun to wear off. Still, it takes more effort than it's worth to wiggle my fingers, to flex my biceps. Still, I'm ancy. If the medicine has faded, that means the surgery is over. If the surgery is over, that means... I wonder if I'm grinning as big outside as I am on the inside.

The IV's are removed, the surgeon's careful hands slide over my face, carefully rubbing something off of my nose. I can feel him lean over me, his lips at my ear. "It's time to wake up, Emma dear." And just like that, the remnants of the sleep medicine are gone, and my eyes snap open.

Light. Bright enough to cause my new eyeballs pain, causing me to squint against the glare. They adjust, and I stare at the ceiling with a curious intensity. Have I always been able to see every fiber, every crack in it? The dust collecting, even after all the care the night staff have given to keep it clean for operations? Or is this an after effect of the surgery that'll fade after a few hours? The crinkle of the sheets as I swing my legs over the side of the bed is loud. Louder than usual. The balls of my feet find the floor, the cold seeping through my flesh, chilling my bones. Still, I hop off, racing toward the mirror positioned on the far side of the room. I place my hands over my eyes for a moment, excited. Scared. I peek.

Rage floods through me, overshadowing everything, leaving my cheeks a heated red, my eyes turning to slits in disgust.

I'm scary-gorgeous.

My eyes glow a fiery orange, hard, cold. My eyebrows are pencil-thin, drawn down into a permanent glare. When I open my mouth, I see my teeth have been sharpened to points, ripened for... what? Biting? My new, slender neck, my muscular arms and legs, my perfectly tuned body. Just looking at myself sends my heart spinning out of fear, worry that the person in the mirror will jump at me, tear my throat out with her bare hands. What had they done?

I find my voice. "Who's she?"
"Emma... That's yo-"
"That isn't me."
"Emma, what are you talking about? Tha-"
"That isn't me! What the hell did you do to me?!"

He sighs, taking off his glasses to clean them off, carefully balancing them on the bridge of his nose when finished. "We've altered you're appearance as an experiment. We wanted to see if Peacekeepers would be more effective when the very sight of them would strike fear in the heart of citizens. Since we don't have very many willing subjects to test on, we've picked you. A troublemaker. Someone almost no one will miss. Not even your parents?" His grin is mischievous. He's playing me. But... why? They've already stripped me away, transformed me into someone I don't even recognize.

I take the bait.

A growl rises deep in my throat, and I throw myself at the frail man, hands clenched to form claws. As I near, he produces a syringe from his lab coat, tapping it twice before stabbing it into my neck. I feel myself lose consciousness even as I pull the needle from my skin, crushing it under me as I fall.

I remember fighting. Before they chose to fight dirty, put me under again. Is that even healthy? Two full doses of anesthetics in one day? Can't be. What sort of doctor is he, anyway? Altering someone's entire being just because they don't have any lab toys to play with?

I try to keep hold of everything I've known in my nineteen years. I overheard the surgeon talking to one of the lab techs, explaining the procedure they would perform in fully reconstruction. They were going to cut into my brain, extract her memories, my very being, and implant the personality of a bred fighter. I would follow orders without a second thought, risk my life if it were for the good of the Capitol, I would be toned into an unstoppable war machine. He also explained why I needed so many sedatives. If I were fully conscious, I might be able to keep a good grip on my will, which would cause the effects to go awry, mixing the personality of a regular Capitolite and a Peacekeeper... which didn't seem to be a good idea.

I was willing to take the risk.

The sedatives didn't seem to be as strong this time. Sure, there was the insistent pull of sleep there at the back of my mind, but I was capable of keeping myself awake. I just had to keep reminding myself of who I was, who I would continue to be even after the surgery.

My mind flickered through everything I've felt, everything I've been called.

Unpredictable. Wild. Rowdy. Sad. Lonely. Annoying. Bitch. Joy kill. Clingy. Carefree. Bitch. Sneaky. Easy. Fast. Bitch. Sly. Mischievous. Evil. Bitch. Hurting. Mean. Whore. Bitch. Back-stabber. Gold-digger. Bitch. Slut. Bitch.

My mind searched for the positives, because surely someone had thought good of her, but could find none. I couldn't necessarily disagree with it though. I had been notorious for being a cunning bitch, capable of using people for what they were willing to give to an ugly girl with a life not as great as theirs, and would toss them aside with no remorse when finished. But I had also thrown some pretty great parties. I had also... ended a lot of them. I always had a short fuse. Especially when drunk. Spilling beer on my good pair of shoes wasn't exactly a good idea when I've had a bottle or two of champagne poured down my throat.

The anesthetics pull me under.

Once again, I wake to the sound of the surgeon's voice. However, he isn't talking to me this time. Squinted in the light, my eyes make out his lanky form off to the side of the room, talking to an orderly in hushed whispers. I manage to retrieve a few phrases. "Perfect... war machine... she'll obey anything. And then their conversation ceased, and his leather shoes squeaked their way over to the table I'm propped on.

"Emma. I know you're awake." I open my eyes again and glare. He smirks, waggles some sort of remote in front of my face. "This monitors your heart rate, your pulse. Everything. You have no more secrets, Emma. You are... ours." Fury wells, and I struggle against the metal reinforcements they have latched around my wrists, ankles, and abdomen. I open my mouth, my head darting for his outstretched hand, teeth biting air. "Stop. Calm down." Immediately, the anger subsides, and I feel like I want to obey the man. My body goes limp and I lay against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "Good. Now, I will be back in a moment to release you. Please, stay still, darling."

The orderly appears again, leaning forward so that the surgeon may whisper. He bats his head aside, choosing to yell, apparently wanting me to hear what he has to say. "What the hell went wrong? Why is she still fighting! That isn't supposed to happen! She's supposed to fear people after the first few days, not try to kill them! Did we not give her enough anesthetics?" The orderly takes a step back, obviously shaken. The surgeon has chosen to blame everyone but himself for his own mistakes. Classic Capitolite.

He turns, nonchalantly strolling to my bedside. "Well, whatever's done is done. Minor setback. We'll just need another... operation." He frowns, eyes travelling over my body. "Nurse! Please prepare Ms. Emma for memory extraction!"

Apparently, my father isn't my... father. I see my mother holding me, a strange man gazing down on me with loving eyes, watering as he takes in... his? child. I'm rocked gently, they're booth swooning over me, but still I cry. Why did I cry so much as a baby? And then the scene changes, instead I'm in the house I live in now. My father and mother sit on our sagging sofa... brand new in this memory. They're talking in hushed tones, stealing glances at my three-year-old body, lowering their voices when they fear they've gotten too loud. I know I'm annoyed. I've never liked being the last to know about anything.

Scene changes. I'm unwrapping a present, four years now. A box appears under the flimsy paper, a box that reads... "Kiddie Hoverboard!" My four-year-old self lets out a squeal of joy, greedily ripping into the cardboard, dumping the plastic flying toy on the floor, stepping on it and nearly falling off the first try. Scene changes. I'm six now. Screaming at my parents at the top of my lungs. It seems to be my birthday again. They've forgotten. They both wear shameful looks, eyes pointed toward the ground instead of at me, which only fuels my anger. There are no presents for me. No cake. I'm miserable. Scene changes. I'm ten. My mother waves a cheery goodbye before exiting, ducking her head under the section of the roof that has begun to collapse. A car idles outside, a strange man glaring at the house as my mother climbs into the vehicle, trembling under her gained weight. I think the man is strange, but return to the television, not much caring what my parents did and did not do anymore.

Scene changes. I'm laying in bed, crying, hands covering my ears, shaking my head. Even through all of this, I can hear my parents fight. A thunk as one of them hit a dresser or nightstand, flutter of pages as books hit the floor. My father yells at the top of his lungs. "You whore! How dare you!" She fumbles with something about money, and then the slap of hand against face. Scene changes. I'm fifteen, sitting at the dining room table with the two of them, eating a light dinner of bread and pasta. Neither one of them look at each other, or me for that matter, eyes trained solely on their food. They know I've heard. Scene changes. I'm seventeen. My mother's leaving again, my father sits next to me, shaking his head, bowing in exasperation. Their fights have grown considerably worse. He calls her a whore more often. I wonder why they fight. What has my mother done to anger my father so? Or is he simply losing his temper over nothing?

Scene changes. I'm nineteen. My mother leaves, and I dash for the closet, scooping up a sheathed dagger and my hooded jacket. I leave the house, racing for the market. I know where this is going. I'll race through the stalls, pick at the fruit, steal a few pieces for lunch, a sweet cake for dessert. I've been doing this for about a year now. My parents never seem to be home in time to feed me before bed, and I'm hopeless at cooking. Thievery is the only option. The scene fades away as my hand grasps the orange, and I tremble. This had just happened hours ago.

The procedure was over.

"Emma, get up. Now, please. Good, now go stand over there by that closet, and put on the clothes prepared for you." Every fiber of my being wants to obey the man. I cross the room, pick up the clothes, (drab, gray jeans and tee) and stand there, alert and aware. "Good, good. Now... think fast!" I have little time to process what's happening before two cloaked figures burst through the entrance, one grabbing the surgeon by his throat, the other unsheathing a little knife, holding it dangerously close to the area above his heart. I snarl, and launch myself across the room, landing a kick to the first figure's stomach, quickly spinning and digging my elbow into the other man's shoulder. Both drop, groaning in pain. I crouch, ready to tear them apart, limb by limb if necessary. The surgeon's hand comes down, a finger brushing my nose. "Stop now, Emma. Go stand over there again." I'm confused, but I do as he asks, watching the two on the floor wearily. The surgeon pats them on the back, and asks them to leave, which they do, willingly. It was all a test.

"Her obedience is good, her reflexes excellent. It seems the procedure worked just fine." The word procedure chills my bones, shivers working their way up my spine. A nagging feeling in my stomach tells me something's wrong here. This isn't right. But I push these feelings aside, focusing on the surgeon, begging him to let me do more work, to let me prove myself. I'm disappointed when he signs the clipboard, handing it to a Peacekeeper positioned at the corner. "WE're finished here. Please escort Emma to the hangar's, inform the pilot she is to be taken to District One. Also, speak with her coach, tell him we've reprogrammed her brain to obey all direct orders from those with authority, and that her personality has been altered to resemble that of a... monster." He tries to whisper the word, but I catch it anyway. It brings back the nagging.

The Peacekeeper grabs my arm, and pulls me down the hall, where my new fate awaits.

- CHRISTIAN SERRATOS
- history based loosely on Scott Westerfeld's UGLIES