Tâââ âHâââ âEâââ â âââ âNâââ âAâââ âMâââ âEâââ â âââ âOâââ âFâââ â âââ âYâââ âOâââ âUâââ âRâââ â âââ âSâââ âOâââ âLâââ âIâââ âTâââ âUâââ âDâââ âE
The likeness was striking. First time Ulrich had seen her he'd hemmed and hawed, tilting his head and squinting disapprovingly, but after the procedures he could see the canvas that the scout had spotted in the girl. A haircut, a dye job, an iris replacement, various facial fillers, tooth filing and veneers, and one would have to look close to know that she wasn't Rowan. And no one was going to look close.
She was a nobody; Ulrich hadn't even bothered to learn her name, and after his initial inspection and approval of the commencement of her transformation, he hadn't seen her again until she was all healed up and ready for her moment in the spotlight. Fear seemed to be a permanent flicker in her eyes, no matter the color, visible even through the empty sheen of distance that glazed them, like she was a husk, long withered. She'd had rope burns on her wrists and ankles when she'd come in, certainly nothing the cuffs of her abduction would've caused, fresh track marks up and down both forearms â scars now, all of which they'd covered with clothing.
On the screen inset in wall perpendicular to him in his office, an announcer was droning on in a grave monotone, listing Rowan's name, a date of birth they'd made up, an age they'd guessed, the offenses that had landed her on the scaffold. The small crowd murmured amongst themselves, creating a constant, irritating buzz. Ulrich muted the feed. Her rank didn't befit a huge spectacle, but treason was treason, and the hoi polloi never turned down a bit of blood.
All in all, it was a short affair. The girl didn't cry â just turned her vacant eyes to the sky until her head dropped when the bullet pierced her skull, and Rowan Greane was dead. It was a better look for the Government than escaped, but Ulrich found he still didn't like the lingering taste in his mouth⌠because he hadn't won. Not yet.









