Chapter 1: Reception
Chapter Text
I watch them from the balcony overlooking the great hall. The two of them--specimens, really--mingling awkwardly among my carefully selected decorative guests. The woman (Elise Chet, 31, venture capital associate, no immediate family, perfectionist with abandonment issues) keeps touching her hair. Left side, always the left, tucking it behind her ear only to untuck and retuck it seventeen seconds later. I've counted.
The lighting cost $240,000 to install. Custom spectrum filtration that makes everyone's skin look precisely like they're in the first bloom of fever. Not enough for them to notice, just enough that I can see what they'll look like when they start to change.
She's wearing Louboutins. Fake. Good fakes, but the stitching at the heel gives it away. She thinks wealth is something you can counterfeit. She'll learn.
The man (Darius Webb, 34, "consultant," pathological liar with body dysmorphia) keeps performatively checking his watch. Breitling. Also fake. They're a matched set without realizing it. Both so desperate to belong in this world. My world.
I should go down. The acoustics in this room are perfect. I can hear her whispering to him:
"Do you think that's really him? Thorne?"
"Has to be. Look at this fucking place."
"I've never seen anyone worth more than eight figures before. Do you think he can tell?"
"Just act like you belong. Rich people can smell desperation."
I almost laugh. He's not wrong.
I make my entrance when I notice Darius shifting his weight, looking around. He needs to urinate but is too intimidated to ask where the bathroom is. Perfect moment to establish the power dynamic.
"Welcome to Thornewood," I say, appearing beside them with calculated abruptness. Elise flinches (satisfying) and Darius overcompensates with a too-firm handshake. His palm is damp. "I'm Malcolm Thorne."
"It's incredible to meet you, Mr. Thorne," Elise says, voice pitched a half-octave higher than when she was speaking to Darius. "Your home is magnificent."
"Thank you. I designed it myself." A lie. But the architect is now part of my permanent collection, so in a way, it's true. "You must be Elise Chet. Your application was... memorable."
Her pupils dilate slightly. She submitted to my "exclusive mentorship opportunity" with a video that was trying so desperately to be unique. The desperation was the only unique thing about it.
"And Darius Webb," I continue, nodding to the man who's now shifting his weight again. "Your military background is impressive."
A microflicker across his face, fear. The lie about his service record coming back to him. "Thank you, sir. I mean, Mr. Thorne."
I detest being called "sir" by the help. But I'll let it pass. This time.
I gesture to a server who materializes with champagne flutes on a silver tray. Vintage Dom Pérignon Rosé. Not that they would know the difference if I served them Cook's. But I would know.
"To new beginnings," I say, raising my glass. As they reach for theirs, I study their hands. Elise's fingernails: manicured but with a barely perceptible chip on the right index finger. Darius's hands: calloused but not from the combat he claims to have seen. Gym callouses. Performative strength.
My hand trembles slightly as I clink glasses with them, a momentary loss of control that sends a flash of white-hot rage through me. The tremor causes champagne to slosh over the rim, spattering onto Elise's black dress.
"Oh! I'm so--" I start, feigning concern while inwardly seething at my imperfection.
"No, no, it's fine!" she insists, dabbing at the spreading stain with a cocktail napkin. "It's just a dress."
Just a dress. As if anything here could be just anything. Everything has purpose. Everything has worth. Everything can be transformed.
Her smile is forced now, the moment having created exactly the awkwardness I need. Vulnerability through social discomfort. It's a start.
"Let me show you the east wing," I say, "where you'll be staying during the program."
As I turn to lead them, a server (new hire, still being trained) drops a tray of empty glasses with a shattering crash that echoes through the vaulted ceiling.
The sound--
...cat skull cracking under the hammer, mother screaming, blood misting the wallpaper...
I blink. One second lost. Two. I'm not here for a moment.
"Mr. Thorne?" Elise is looking at me with concern. Darius too.
"Fine. Everything's fine." I smooth my jacket. "Accidents happen." The server is already being discreetly removed by my head of staff. The replacement's training will begin tonight. "This way, please."
As they follow me across the marble floor, I catch our reflection in the gilt-framed mirrors lining the hall. They look so ordinary behind me. So...ugh, unfinished.
But not for long.
Chapter 2: The First Alteration
Summary:
A mysterious gift from Malcolm leaves me staring at the mirror, wondering if I’m still seeing myself or someone even better.
Chapter Text
The bathroom in my suite is bigger than my entire apartment back in the city. Like, stupidly big. The bathtub could fit four people, not that I'm planning an orgy or anything. Though maybe that's what happens at these billionaire "mentorship retreats." God, what if this is actually some weird sex thing?
No. Malcolm Thorne is eccentric but legitimate. I googled him for hours before applying. The man has a Wikipedia page longer than most presidents.
My reflection stares back at me from a mirror that's surrounded by these little lights that make everyone look airbrushed. Like those filters that smooth out your pores and make your eyes bigger. I look... good? Better than good. My skin has this glow I've never seen before, even after those $300 facials I splurged on last year.
I turn my face side to side. There's something... different. Not bad different. Just not... me? Maybe it's the lighting.
I should be preparing for tomorrow's first session, reviewing my portfolio or practicing my pitch. Instead I'm obsessing over my face like I'm thirteen again, sitting at mom's vanity while she was at work, smearing her Lancôme lipstick on my mouth, trying to look like the women in her magazines.
The marble is cold under my bare feet. Everything in this place is either cold or warm, no in-between. The towels: warm. The floors: cold. The staff: cold. Malcolm: hot-cold-hot, like he can't decide which temperature to be.
That moment when he spilled champagne on me--there was something in his eyes. Anger? No. Something hungrier.
Wait, are my cheekbones higher? I lean closer to the mirror, pressing my fingertips against my face. The bones feel the same, but they look... sharper? The light must be playing tricks. Though my face does feel slightly tingly, like after a chemical peel.
I run through my nighttime routine, though it feels silly using drugstore products in this palace. Cleanser. Toner. That serum that cost too much but makes me feel like I'm not completely surrendering to age. Moisturizer.
As I'm patting it in, I notice my fingers leave slight indentations in my skin that take too long to bounce back. Like pressing into soft clay.
"What the fuck," I whisper, leaning closer.
My phone pings. A text from Darius: You awake? This place is weird, right?
I should respond, but I can't look away from my reflection. The indentations are gone now. Maybe I imagined it.
Another ping: Elise? You there?
Yes, I type back. Just getting ready for bed. And yes, weird but amazing weird. See you at breakfast?
If I don't get lost in this maze first. Goodnight.
I set my phone down and that's when I notice the small crystal bottle on the counter that wasn't there before. Dark amber glass with a glass stopper, filled with something pearlescent. A note beside it reads in elegant script: "For rejuvenation. -M"
When did this appear? I've been in here the whole time. Unless... while I was in the shower? The thought of someone entering while I was naked behind that glass door sends a chill through me. But also, weirdly, a little thrill.
I remove the stopper and smell it. Like jasmine and something metallic. Blood? No, that's crazy. Probably just some expensive skincare he gives all his guests.
I hesitate, then place a tiny drop on my wrist. The liquid is cool, almost effervescent against my skin. It sinks in immediately, leaving a faint shimmer.
My wrist tingles, then burns, then...nothing. Just a pleasant warmth radiating up my arm.
Fuck it. I apply it to my face, just a few drops as the note suggests. It feels incredible, like champagne bubbles popping against my skin. My entire face warms, flushes. For a second it's too intense, almost painful, and I reach for a towel to wipe it off--then the sensation passes, replaced by the most profound relief I've ever felt, like an orgasm but... broader? Not sexual exactly, more like... every cell sighing in satisfaction.
I look in the mirror and gasp.
My skin is luminous. Not glowy or dewy like beauty bloggers say. Actually emitting a subtle light. And my cheekbones are definitely higher, my jaw more defined. I look like a perfected version of myself! Me, but with an expensive Instagram filter permanently applied.
"Holy shit," I whisper, turning my face side to side. Is this what those celebrities get from their $10,000 facials? This...instant transformation?!
I lean closer and that's when I notice my eyes. The brown of my irises seems to be... shifting? The color swirling like coffee when you first pour in cream, lighter patterns spiraling through the dark.
I blink rapidly. It stops. Maybe it was just the light.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
"Elise? It's Malcolm." His voice is smooth, controlled. "May I come in? I wanted to check that you found everything satisfactory."
I glance down at my silk pajamas: expensive but not revealing. Still, I grab the plush robe hanging nearby and wrap it around myself.
"Just a moment!" I call, taking one last glance in the mirror. I look amazing. Better than amazing.
I open the door and Malcolm's eyes immediately fix on my face, studying it with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't.
"Ah," he says softly. "You found my gift."
"Yes, thank you. It's...incredible. What is it, exactly?"
He steps into the room uninvited, closing the door behind him. In anyone else, this would be creepy. With him, it feels inevitable.
"A personal formulation. I have interests in several biotech companies." He moves closer, eyes never leaving my face. "May I?"
Before I can answer, his hand is on my chin, tilting my face up to the light. His touch is cool, clinical, but something hot flashes through me at the contact.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "The initial acceptance is exceptional."
"Acceptance?"
"Absorption," he corrects smoothly. "Your skin has excellent absorption rates. Some people experience irritation, but you..." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "You're responding perfectly."
There's something off about his eyes. They're green, I knew that, but in this light they look almost iridescent, like an insect's. I blink and they're normal again.
"I should let you rest," he says, dropping his hand. "Tomorrow is important. We begin the real work."
"What exactly is 'the work'?" I ask, suddenly realizing he's never actually specified what this "mentorship" entails.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Transformation, Elise. That's what your residency here at Thornewood offers. True, fundamental transformation."
A wave of dizziness hits me. The room tilts slightly.
"Are you alright?" Malcolm asks, but his voice sounds farther away than it should.
"...Just tired," I manage. "Long day."
"Of course. Sleep well." He moves to the door but pauses with his hand on the knob. "Oh, there may be some... sensitivity tonight. Dreams, perhaps. Ignore them. By morning, the integration will be complete."
"Integration of what?" I ask, but my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
"Goodnight, Elise." Aaaand he's gone.
I stumble back to the bathroom, suddenly desperate to see my reflection again. The woman who looks back at me is....beautiful, yes, but something's wrong. My features seem slightly... rearranged? Like someone shifted everything a millimeter to the left.
And my eyes! They're definitely changing color, lightening from brown to a honey-amber.
My phone rings, startling me. It's a client call I forgot about. Work that suddenly seems very far away and unimportant...
As I reach for it, I notice the skin on my hand looks smoother, the veins less prominent. Even the small scar on my thumb from a childhood accident is fading before my eyes.
The phone keeps ringing.
I should answer it.
I should wash this stuff off my face.
I should scream.
Instead, I watch, fascinated and horrified, as my reflection continues its subtle shift into someone both me and not-me, and wonder what I'll look like by morning.
And worse, I wonder if I'll mind.
Chapter 3: Bargaining at Dinner
Summary:
At the dinner table, something is wrong with Elise. Malcolm said it's something very right. But if this is what right is, I don't want to be it.
Chapter Text
I'm wearing a tuxedo that costs more than my car. Not my car now, my first car, that piece-of-shit Corolla I drove in college. Malcolm's staff delivered it to my room with a note: "For tonight's formal dinner. Your measurements have been accounted for."
How the fuck did he know my measurements?
The jacket fits perfectly, hugs my shoulders exactly right. Makes me look like the man I pretend to be in my LinkedIn profile. The man who served in Afghanistan (lie), graduated top of his class (lie), and built his consulting business from nothing (massive fucking lie).
But the clothes, they're real. Everything in Thornewood is real in a way that makes the rest of the world feel like a cheap knockoff.
I haven't seen Elise all day. When I texted her this morning, the response came back garbled, just random characters and emojis that made no sense. When I tried calling, it went straight to voicemail.
At breakfast, I asked Malcolm where she was.
"Ms. Chet is undergoing her first intensive session," he said, not looking up from his tablet. "Everyone's transformation path is different, Mr. Webb. Yours begins tonight."
The dining room is something out of a period drama: massive table that could seat thirty, but set for just three. Candelabras with actual candles, not those flickering fake ones. Crystal everywhere, catching the light and throwing little rainbows onto the dark wood paneling.
Malcolm sits at the head of the table. I'm on his right. Elise's place setting is on his left, but her chair is empty.
"She'll be joining us shortly," Malcolm says, reading my thoughts. He's good at that...too good. "The first phase can be... disorienting."
"What exactly is happening to her?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual while every instinct screams that something is very wrong here.
Malcolm smiles, taking a sip of wine so dark it's almost black. "The same thing that will happen to you, if you prove receptive. Evolution, Mr. Webb. Guided evolution."
Before I can ask what the fuck that means, the door opens.
It's Elise. I think.
My brain stutters trying to process what I'm seeing. It's her face, mostly, but... enhanced? No, that's not right. Altered. Her cheekbones are higher, sharper. Her eyes are a different color--amber now instead of brown, and slightly too large for her face. Her skin has a translucent quality, like fine porcelain with a light behind it.
But it's her movement that really freaks me out. Too fluid, like she has extra joints or maybe fewer bones. She glides rather than walks.
"Elise?" I half-stand, but Malcolm gestures for me to sit.
"Good evening, Darius," she says, and her voice is hers but with an echo underneath, like two people speaking in perfect unison. "I apologize for my absence today. I was... becoming."
She sits with unnatural grace. Up close, I can see other changes. Her fingers are longer, tapered. The nails have a pearlescent sheen. There's a pattern visible beneath her skin, not veins, something more geometric, like circuits.
"You look..." I struggle for a word that isn't terrifying.
"Magnificent," Malcolm supplies. "The first phase has taken exceptionally well. One of my most successful integrations."
Servants appear, silent, efficient, faces carefully blank, placing the first course before us. Some kind of soup, pale white with red swirls.
"Parsnip velouté with pomegranate reduction," Malcolm announces. "Please, eat while it's hot."
I lift my spoon automatically, good manners kicking in despite my internal freakout. The soup is delicious, smooth and rich, but I barely taste it. I'm watching Elise.
She lifts her spoon with those too-long fingers, but when the liquid touches her lips, something strange happens. The skin around her mouth... ripples. Like it's trying to reconfigure itself.
A drop of soup slides down her chin, but it's not white anymore. It's clear with a bluish tint.
"Excuse me," she says in that doubled voice. She dabs at her chin with a napkin, leaving an iridescent smear.
"The adjustment period requires patience," Malcolm says mildly. "Your body is still learning its new parameters, Elise."
"What did you do to her?" I finally demand, setting my spoon down with a clatter.
Malcolm looks amused. "I've given her a gift. The same one I'm offering you."
"I don't want it," I say immediately.
"Don't you?" His green eyes--are they actually green? They look almost metallic now--fix on me. "A man who has fabricated his entire history? Who has lived his life in costume, playing a role? I'm offering authenticity, Darius. A chance to truly become something remarkable instead of merely pretending."
The servants remove our soup bowls, replacing them with small plates. On each is what looks like raw meat, sliced thin and arranged in a spiral. In the center, something glistens wetly.
"Carpaccio of Kobe beef with a quail egg yolk," Malcolm explains. "The meat is massaged daily to ensure tenderness. The animal is transformed through careful cultivation."
Elise picks up her fork, but her hand trembles. The fork clatters to the table. When she reaches for it, I see that the skin on her wrist has... shifted. There's a seam visible, like her hand might detach if she moves wrong.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and for a moment she sounds like herself again. Scared. "I'm having some difficulty with... coordination."
"The neural pathways are still forming," Malcolm says, as if discussing the weather. "By tomorrow, you'll have perfect command of your new capabilities."
A drop of something falls from Elise's nose onto her plate. Not blood. Thicker, with that same blue tint. She doesn't seem to notice, but I can't look away.
"Stop this," I say quietly. "Whatever you're doing to her. Stop it."
Malcolm dabs his mouth with his napkin, the picture of aristocratic manners. "It's far too late for that. The process, once begun, can only move forward. Regression would be... catastrophic."
Another droplet falls from Elise, this time from the corner of her eye. She blinks rapidly, confused. "I feel... strange."
More droplets appear, seeping from her hairline, from under her fingernails. Not dripping, emerging, like her body is producing this viscous fluid.
"The intermediate phase can be somewhat messy," Malcolm says apologetically. "Perhaps you should retire until it passes, Elise."
She stands unsteadily. The front of her dress is stained with patches of dampness, blue-tinged fluid creating a Rorschach pattern on the silk.
"I don't..." she starts, then stops, head tilting at an unnatural angle. "I can hear colors now. Is that normal?"
"Perfectly. Synesthesia is a common side effect as the sensory cortex rewires." Malcolm gestures, and two staff members materialize to escort her. "Rest. By morning, integration will be complete."
As they lead her away, she looks back at me. For a split second, her face is entirely herself again, eyes clear and terrified. "Darius," she mouths, but no sound comes out.
Then she's gone.
I turn to Malcolm, fury overriding fear. "What the actual fuck is happening here?"
"Evolution, as I said." Malcolm cuts into his carpaccio with surgical precision. "Elise is becoming a higher form of herself. The potential was always there, I merely... activated it."
"This isn't a mentorship program. This is some kind of sick experiment."
"On the contrary. This is the ultimate mentorship. I'm guiding her, and you, to your final form. Your truest self." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Though not everyone is compatible with the process. Some reject it. Violently."
The implication hangs in the air between us.
I think of Elise's transformed face, the fluid seeping from her body, the terror in her eyes before she was led away.
"Take me instead," I say suddenly.
Malcolm pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. "Excuse me?"
"Whatever you're doing to her. Do it to me instead. Double dose, accelerated timeline, whatever. Just... fix her. Let her go."
For a moment, just a moment, something like genuine emotion flickers across Malcolm's perfect face. Something almost like respect.
Then he laughs, and it's the coldest sound I've ever heard.
"Oh, Darius. How magnificently predictable. The false hero finally finding a genuine cause!" He sets down his fork and leans forward. "But you misunderstand. This isn't an either/or proposition. Both of you were selected. Both of you will transform. The only variable is whether you do so willingly, evolving into something glorious, or resist, becoming something... less refined."
"You can't force people to--"
"I'm not forcing anything. You came here voluntarily. Signed the contracts. Accepted my hospitality." His smile is razor-sharp. "And the authorities won't be concerned. As far as the world knows, you're both participating in an exclusive six-week executive retreat. By the time anyone might start asking questions, there won't be enough of your original selves left to answer them."
A chill runs through me. I look down at my plate, at the raw meat arranged in a spiral, and suddenly see it differently: not beef but something else, tissue engineered into unnatural patterns.
The third course arrives. Something covered with a silver dome. When the server removes it, I almost gag.
It looks like organs, glistening, pulsing, arranged artfully on the plate.
"Veal sweetbreads with a black garlic reduction," Malcolm says, clearly enjoying my revulsion. "The thymus gland. An underappreciated delicacy."
I push my plate away. "I'm not hungry."
"You should eat. You'll need your strength for tomorrow." He cuts into the glandular tissue, releases a puff of aromatic steam. "That's when your transformation begins."
I look at the exit, calculating my chances of reaching it before his staff can stop me. Slim to none.
"Don't bother," Malcolm says, reading my thoughts again. "Thornewood has extensive security measures. And even if you could leave... would you? Knowing Elise remains here, changing into something beyond recognition?"
He has me there. I can't leave her.
"What do you want?" I ask, desperation edging into my voice. "Money? Power? What's the point of all this?"
Malcolm tilts his head, considering me like a scientist observing a particularly stupid lab rat.
"What do I want? I want to reshape the human form according to my aesthetic preferences. I want to create beauty that has never existed in nature." He takes a bite of the sweetbreads, chews deliberately. "But mostly, I want to watch the moment when people like you, so invested in your false identities, finally become something authentic. Even if that authenticity is monstrous."
He smiles, and for a second I swear his teeth look wrong...too many, too sharp.
"Now eat your dinner, Darius. Tomorrow is a big day. Your transformation begins at dawn."
I pick up my fork, hand trembling. If I'm going to help Elise, if I'm going to survive this, I need to play along for now.
I cut into the glistening organ meat and raise it to my lips, fighting the urge to vomit.
As I chew, I swear I can feel something moving in my mouth, something alive, trying to burrow into my tongue.
Or maybe it's just my imagination. God, I hope it's my imagination.
Chapter 4: The Collection Viewing
Summary:
Darius is lucky enough to view my Collection. He seems to have trouble appreciating it in his current condition, but I have a few ideas for how I could work this challenge into the art.
Chapter Text
I watch Darius sleep through the monitors. His REM cycles are erratic, which is the first sign of cellular reception. The compound I slipped into his wine at dinner is working its way through his system, preparing his tissues for tomorrow's primary infusion.
It's always fascinating, this liminal period. The body fighting what it doesn't understand yet. The mind creating elaborate dreams to explain the sensations. Right now, Darius is probably dreaming of insects under his skin, or drowning in honey (both are common manifestations of the preliminary phase).
Elise, on the other hand, has moved beyond dreams. Her consciousness is fragmenting beautifully, reassembling along new neural pathways. On her monitor, I can see her lying perfectly still, eyes open but unseeing, while her skin ripples with subcutaneous adjustments.
I check my watch. 3:17 AM. The witching hour, as my more superstitious acquisitions used to call it. The perfect time for Darius's education.
I press the intercom. "Prepare subject Webb for viewing. Light sedation only, I want him conscious."
Twenty minutes later, my staff delivers him to the anteroom of the Collection Gallery. He's groggy but alert, dressed in the silk pajamas I provided. His pupils are dilated from the sedative. They're currently black pools rimmed with the barest hint of brown. Soon, that color will change too.
"Good morning, Darius," I say pleasantly. "I apologize for the unusual hour, but there's something you need to see before your procedure begins."
He blinks heavily, fighting the drugs. "What... what did you give me?"
"Just something to help you remain calm. The Gallery can be... overwhelming for first-time viewers."
His gaze sharpens slightly. "Gallery?"
"My collection. My life's work." I straighten his collar, allowing my fingers to linger on his throat. I can feel his pulse, elevated but strong. "You've shown such interest in what's happening to Elise. I thought you might appreciate seeing the finished results of my process."
Fear flashes across his face, but the sedative keeps him compliant as I guide him toward the reinforced doors.
"You should consider this an honor," I tell him as I press my palm to the biometric scanner. "Most of my subjects don't see the Collection until they're ready to join it."
The massive doors slide open silently, revealing darkness beyond.
"Wait," Darius mumbles, trying to resist as I guide him forward. "I don't want--"
"Shhh. It's already happening. Fighting only makes the transition more... traumatic."
We step into darkness. The doors close behind us with a soft hiss of hydraulics. For a moment, we stand in perfect blackness.
Then, one by one, the display lights activate.
The Collection Gallery spans the entire sub-basement level of Thornewood's east wing. 22,000 square feet of perfectly controlled environment. Temperature: 68.4°F. Humidity: 63%. Lighting is spectrum-filtered to prevent degradation; plus, it highlights the unique qualities of each piece.
Around us, illuminated in individual chambers, are my masterpieces. Forty-seven of them now, each one a former human transformed into living art. Some retain humanoid forms, though radically altered. Others have evolved beyond recognition...abstract sculptures of flesh and function.
Darius makes a strangled sound beside me.
"Breathe," I instruct him. "The ventilation system is infused with mild anxiolytics. It helps first-time viewers adjust to the aesthetic impact."
He's trembling now, eyes darting from display to display, unable to process what he's seeing. The sedative is fighting with his body's natural adrenaline response.
"What... what are they?" he finally manages.
"They were people, much like yourself. Ambitious. Dissatisfied with their natural limitations. I helped them transcend those limitations." I guide him toward the nearest display. "This was Amanda Holloway, VP of a tech startup. Conventional beauty, but spiritually empty. Now she's sublime."
The being in the chamber no longer resembles a woman in any traditional sense. Her skin has the translucent quality of fine porcelain but flexes like memory polymer. Her limbs have elongated and multiplied; she now has four arms, each ending in delicately articulated fingers that continuously perform complex gestures, like a Hindu deity in perpetual blessing. Her face has simplified to its most essential elements...eyes (now violet and faceted like insect eyes), a suggestion of a nose, and a mouth that opens vertically rather than horizontally.
"She can't speak anymore, at least not in any human language," I explain. "But she sings. Listen."
I press a button, and a sound fills the gallery; part whale song, part crystal glass being rubbed, completely otherworldly.
Darius presses his hands over his ears. "Stop it. Please."
I indulge him, cutting off the sound. "Not to everyone's taste, I suppose. Let me show you something more... structurally familiar."
We move deeper into the gallery, past displays containing beings in various states of transformation. Some are almost human but with fundamental alterations; skin that shimmers with bioluminescence, limbs that bend in impossible directions, faces with features rearranged into new symmetries.
Others are more radical departures: a man whose body has become a living terrarium, with small ecosystems growing within transparent sacs protruding from his torso; a woman whose form has spiraled inward on itself in a fractal pattern of flesh and bone; twins fused into a single entity with shared organs visible through membrane-thin skin.
"Each transformation is unique," I tell Darius, who has gone very pale. "I don't mass-produce. Every piece is custom-designed based on the subject's physical and psychological profile."
"They're suffering," he whispers.
"On the contrary! They've transcended suffering. Their nervous systems have been reconfigured to interpret sensation differently. What might register as pain to you is experienced as... something else entirely by them. Ecstasy, perhaps, or a state beyond our limited emotional vocabulary."
We approach a chamber near the center of the gallery. This one is larger than the others, with more elaborate environmental controls.
"Mr. Tse is one of my early masterpieces," I say with genuine pride. "From before I perfected the current techniques. It required... significant trial and error."
The being inside was once a man, that much is still discernible from the basic skeletal structure. But the similarities end there. The skin has been transformed into something like mother-of-pearl, iridescent and segmented like armor. The face has no features except for eyes, dozens of them, of different sizes and colors, scattered across what was once a human countenance. They blink independently of each other, each seeing something different.
The body has been opened and reconfigured, internal organs visible through transparent membranes, modified to perform new functions. The heart, enlarged and divided into chambers, pulses with luminescent fluid that flows through visible channels throughout the body, lighting up geometric patterns beneath the skin.
Darius stares, transfixed with horror. Then he stumbles back, a sound between a gasp and a sob escaping him.
"You recognize him," I observe, intrigued. (This wasn't in my calculations).
"Jordan," Darius whispers. "Jordan Tse."
Ah. Interesting. "You knew Mr. Tse?"
Darius's face contorts with grief and shock. "College roommate. He disappeared six years ago. There was a search... his family..."
"Mr. Tse was an early participant in my program. Quite resilient, as I recall. It took nearly three months to complete his transformation." I study Darius's reaction with clinical interest. "A remarkable coincidence that you knew him."
"Coincidence?!" Darius tears his eyes away from the chamber to look at me. Despite the sedative, fury cuts through his fear. "Did you know? Is that why I'm here? Some sick connection to Jordan?!"
"I assure you, your selection was based entirely on your own profile." I turn back to the display, frowning as I notice something. "Hmm. There's discoloration in the upper-left quadrant. The opalescence is fading..."
I move closer to the chamber, irritation building. Perfection requires constant maintenance. The smallest flaw can undermine an entire piece...
"This is unacceptable," I mutter, pressing the intercom on my watch. "Gallery maintenance to Chamber 17 immediately. We have pigmentation degradation in the Tse installation..."
I'm so focused on the imperfection that I momentarily forget about Darius. When I turn back, he's on his knees, sobbing.
"You monster," he chokes out. "You fucking monster."
"Such a limited perspective," I sigh. "I'm not destroying humanity, Darius. I'm elevating it! Creating new forms of beauty and consciousness that could never evolve naturally."
My maintenance team arrives, two technicians in sterile suits, carrying specialized equipment. I step aside to give them access to the chamber.
"Increase the melanin substrate by 0.03%," I instruct them. "And check the glucose infusion rate. The cellular regeneration appears compromised in that section."
"Yes, Mr. Thorne," they respond in unison, already calibrating their instruments.
Darius has crawled to the base of Jordan Tse's chamber, pressing his hand against the glass. "I'm sorry," he's whispering. "I'm so sorry."
The former Jordan Tse's multiple eyes swivel toward Darius. There's no recognition in them--how could there be? The brain inside that transformed skull processes sensory input in ways that have nothing to do with human perception.
Yet...something happens. The patterns of light flowing through the transparent channels in Tse's body begin to pulse in a new rhythm. Several of the eyes blink in unison for the first time.
"Fascinating," I murmur, watching closely. "There may be residual memory fragments stored in the basal ganglia. We should run diagnostics."
But Darius isn't listening. He's completely broken down now, forehead pressed against the chamber floor, body shaking with sobs...
It's always like this with the sentimental ones. They cling to the old forms, the old relationships. They can't comprehend the beauty of transcendence.
"That's enough for tonight," I decide, gesturing for security staff who have been waiting discreetly in the shadows. "Take Mr. Webb back to his room and administer a full sedative. His procedure begins in three hours, and I want his system optimally receptive."
As they lift the still-sobbing Darius, I notice something unexpected: the maintenance panel on Tse's chamber is showing elevated neural activity. Significantly elevated.
"Interesting," I murmur, studying the readouts. "Record this response pattern. It may indicate a new pathway for emotional stimuli processing."
Darius fights weakly against the security staff. "Jordan," he calls out. "I'll find a way to help you...I promise."
...An empty promise. There is no reversing my work. Once transformation begins, the only path is forward, toward perfection or toward failure. There is no returning to what was.
I watch them drag Darius away, his grief echoing through the gallery. Such attachment to obsolete forms...Soon he'll understand. Soon he'll be grateful.
I turn back to Tse's chamber, watching as my technicians make the necessary adjustments to restore the perfect opalescence to his skin. Already the discoloration is fading, the flaw correcting itself under my careful guidance.
I place my hand against the glass, and several of Tse's eyes focus on me. The patterns of light beneath his skin pulse faster, almost like a heartbeat. Is it fear? Recognition? Or something new, something beyond human emotion?
"Beautiful," I whisper. "You're still evolving, even now. Still becoming."
I make a mental note to adjust Darius's transformation protocol. His emotional connection to Tse offers interesting possibilities. Perhaps a complementary form? Something that resonates with Tse's frequencies.
Yes...they could be displayed together. A duet.
I smile at the aesthetic potential as I walk through my gallery, surrounded by my creations, each one a step toward perfection.
Tomorrow, Darius joins them. And soon after, Elise's transformation will be complete.
Chapter 5: Transformation
Summary:
Elise and Darius's transformations are complete. This may be my finest work yet.
Chapter Text
The laboratory beneath Thornewood hums with precision instruments and quiet expectation. Two transformation chambers dominate the space: crystal and steel sarcophagi filled with opalescent fluid. In one, Elise floats, her transformation nearly complete. In the other, Darius, newly submerged, his body fighting the initial cellular restructuring.
I move between them, checking readings, adjusting chemical balances with meticulous attention. The process is both science and art...controlled metamorphosis guided by aesthetic vision.
Elise is magnificent already. Her skin has developed the translucent quality I prize in my finest pieces, revealing the new architecture beneath: bones reinforced with carbon nanostructures, organs reconfigured for optimal function. Her face has simplified to its essence, the perfect symmetry that was always hidden within her ordinary features, now revealed.
Darius is still early-stage, his body convulsing as the transformation compounds integrate with his DNA. His skin bubbles in places, old structures breaking down to make way for the new. On the monitors, his vital signs spike erratically. They're pain responses that will soon become irrelevant as his nervous system rewires.
I place my hand against Elise's chamber. Her eyes open. They're golden now, with vertical pupils that contract at the light. Recognition flickers across features that barely resemble the woman who arrived at Thornewood a week ago.
"You're almost ready," I tell her, knowing she can hear me through the fluid. "Just a few more adjustments."
floating
i am floating in something that isn't water isn't air isn't
me
where is me?
i remember being someone with a name with edges with
elise? was i elise?
the memories feel like they belong to someone else someone small and limited and afraid
i am not afraid now i am
expanding
my skin isn't skin anymore it's a membrane between worlds inside outside no difference porous permeable perfect
i can feel him watching feel his satisfaction like a flavor like a color
malcolm
the name carries no emotion now just recognition of the architect the creator the
father?
no. not father. collector.
i should be terrified but terror requires boundaries and my boundaries are
dissolving
the fluid carries his chemicals his vision his will into me through me becoming me
i open my eyes (are they still eyes?) and see him through the glass through the fluid through layers of new perception
he looks
small
The pain is everywhere. Not just in my body. I am the pain. Every cell screaming as it's torn apart and rebuilt into something else.
I try to move but can't. The fluid is dense, conductive, invasive, pushing into every orifice, creating new openings where there shouldn't be any.
I can see Malcolm through the glass, watching me with that same cold fascination. Monitoring. Adjusting. "Creating".
Beyond him, another chamber. Elise? The shape floating there has her general outline but is something else entirely now. Beautiful and terrible.
Is that what I'm becoming?
I try to scream but the fluid fills my lungs. Not drowning...the oxygen saturation keeps me alive. Silencing.
A memory cuts through the pain: Jordan's transformed body in the gallery. His eyes. So many eyes. Not recognizing me.
I promised to help him. Another lie to add to all my others.
Something shifts inside my chest. I can feel my ribs cracking and reforming, creating a new architecture around my heart.
My heart beats too fast, then too slow, then in a rhythm I don't recognize.
The pain peaks, then strangely recedes. Not gone. Changed.
A new sensation replaces it. Not pleasure exactly. Something beyond what I have a word for.
I try to hold onto myself. Memories, identity, the fabricated history I've hidden behind.
But who was I really? A collection of lies and performances. Maybe this transformation is just making the outside match what was always true inside: I was never real to begin with.
As my consciousness fragments, one clear thought surfaces:
At least now I'll be authentic.
Elise's transformation enters its final phase. The fluid in her chamber takes on a golden luminescence as her body emits biophotonic energy, a sign of successful integration.
I make the last adjustments to the chemical balance, initiating the crystallization sequence that will stabilize her new form. On the neural activity monitor, I watch her consciousness reorganize itself along the pathways I've designed: higher functions redistributing, sensory processing centers expanding, emotional centers contracting to precise, controllable nodes...
Perfect.
In the adjoining chamber, Darius progresses faster than anticipated. His resistance has given way to acceptance; cellular receptivity is increasing exponentially. The fluid around him darkens as his body sheds its former self, melanin and waste products clouding the solution before the filtration system removes them.
I move to the central console and initiate synchronized completion. The chambers begin to drain, the fluid receding to expose my new creations to air for the first time.
As Elise's chamber opens, she rises on her own: a birth of sorts. Her new body gleams with internal light, skin like mother-of-pearl etched with circuits of luminescence. Her proportions have altered; longer limbs, more graceful neck, features refined to preternatural beauty. But it's her eyes that please me most...golden, all-seeing, ancient in a face that appears ageless.
"How do you feel?" I ask, though the question is...inadequate for what she's experiencing.
Her head tilts at an angle no human neck could achieve. When she speaks, her voice resonates with harmonics that vibrate the crystal instruments around us.
"I feel... everything," she says. "And nothing. I am... vast."
Exactly as designed.
Darius's chamber opens more slowly. His transformation has taken a different path...darker, more internal. His skin has developed a texture like brushed graphite, light-absorbing rather than light-emitting. The musculature beneath has reconfigured into densely packed coils. His face has become angular, features sharp enough to appear almost carved, eyes deep-set and now a startling cobalt blue.
He doesn't rise immediately, adjusting to the weight of gravity after suspension. When he finally stands, his movements have a predatory quality, economical and perfectly controlled.
"Darius," I say, testing his auditory response.
His eyes focus on me with unnerving intensity. "That name is... insufficient now."
"Yes," I agree. "You've both transcended your former identities."
I guide them to the mirrored wall so they can witness their new forms. It's always a crucial moment, the recognition of transformation completed.
Elise studies her reflection with detached curiosity, turning to observe her body from different angles. The patterns beneath her skin pulse with her thoughts, visible cognition.
Darius's reaction is more...visceral. He presses his transformed hand against the mirror, watching as his fingertips leave faint impressions in the glass. Clearly, his new strength is not yet fully under control.
"What are we?" he asks, voice resonating at a frequency that makes the smaller instruments vibrate.
"You are the next iteration," I tell them. "Perfectly adapted to your essential natures. Elise, your ambition and need for validation has become transcendent perception. Darius, your performance of strength has become authentic power."
I circle them, admiring my work from every angle. "You are my finest creations. The culmination of years of research and refinement."
Something unexpected happens then. They turn simultaneously to look at each other, some communication passing between them that I can't interpret. A shared recognition, perhaps, of what they've lost and gained.
"And now?" Elise asks, her voice creating patterns of light in the air itself.
"Now you join my collection. You will be displayed together; a complementary pair, now that I've given it more thought. Your transformations will continue to evolve subtly over time, responding to each other's frequencies."
I feel a familiar emptiness settling in my chest. It always comes at this moment of completion...a hollow satisfaction that never quite fills the void driving my work. These two are perfect, yes. But perfection, once achieved, loses its power to satisfy...
I need to begin again. New subjects. New transformations.
As if sensing my thoughts, Darius speaks. "There will be others."
(It's not a question.)
"Of course," I reply. "Creation is continuous."
Elise's golden eyes study me with unsettling perception. "You're empty," she observes, her transformed consciousness seeing what no one else has noticed. "Each completion leaves you hollower than before."
I stiffen, uncomfortable with her insight. "Prepare them for transfer to the gallery," I instruct my waiting staff, ignoring her comment.
As my newest masterpieces are led away, I already feel my attention shifting to the next candidates. The files are prepared, the invitations drafted. A promising violinist with an eating disorder. A mathematician with dissociative tendencies. Raw material waiting to be elevated.
But Elise's observation lingers uncomfortably. Empty? Perhaps...But emptiness is just space waiting to be filled with new creation.
I follow my transformed subjects to the gallery, watching as they're installed in their custom chambers. The environmental conditions are precisely calibrated to their new physiologies.
Standing before them, I experience an unexpected moment of... something like tenderness. I reach out, placing my hand against Elise's chamber. Her transformed hand meets mine on the other side of the glass.
"Beautiful," I whisper, and mean it.
For a heartbeat, I feel something almost like connection.
...Then it passes, replaced by the familiar cold assessment of a collector examining his prizes.
I step back, admiring the completed installation. They make a striking pair! Light and dark, emission and absorption, complementary expressions of my vision.
Perfect.
But already not enough.
As I leave the gallery, my phone chimes with a notification: the new candidates have confirmed their arrival dates.
I smile.
heisenballs on Chapter 5 Thu 26 Jun 2025 04:54PM UTC
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cha1latte on Chapter 5 Thu 26 Jun 2025 05:07PM UTC
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heisenballs on Chapter 5 Thu 26 Jun 2025 06:01PM UTC
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