FACELESS

Chapter Eight

Lauren lightly dabs at the Face in her hands with her paintbrush, humming a tune as she works. She's been doing this for almost forty years, creating masks for people to hide behind, free of their personal demons and restraints. It sounds great, in theory, though Lauren has seen firsthand that such things are too good to be true.

Such things Lauren was never able to experience, being denied her own cowardly mask so she could make them instead. A stupid rule fit for a stupid career—but, it has its perks.

She runs her paintbrush along the edge of this new masterpiece she holds in her wrinkled, paling hands, smiling.

"There," she says, setting the brush down on the table to look the Face over. She hovers a shivering finger over one of the several flowers covering the white porcelain, tracing it in the air. "Done."

This Face, doomed to lock another young soul under the government's thumb, is tweaked, just like the one she made for all the other children she's been assigned. A beautiful creation meant to make one love instead of numb, made specifically for a little twelve-year-old girl who she only knows as Ivory Debber. Lord knows that she wishes her, and all the others, a long and fulfilling life that will be filled with wonderful, humbling emotion that the government so foolishly thought she'd just do away with.

But no, no. Lauren is not so spineless to deprive anyone of their free will and emotion, and because of this, she refuses to let these children fall to the hands of the Order.

As she looks over the mask, admiring her handiwork, someone knocks on her front door. She hesitates, squinting up at it.

"Hello?" she calls, though her voice is so frail and raspy, it'd be hard to hear her from the other side of the door. "If it's my biscuits, leave them at the door."

Miraculously, the stranger does hear her, ignoring her strange addition. The person on the other side mutters something (alarming her that there's more than one person waiting outside her room), responding shortly after. "Lauren McKenny," a voice shouts from the other side, "it's the Order. Open up."

Lauren frowns. Of course they're here; no doubt to collect her work—and what important work it is! She can't wait to give it to them, and know just how pleased they'll be to take it.

Setting the Face down, slightly disappointed, she says, "It's unlocked."

The door slams open, the elderly woman jumping at the sound. Two officers barge in, flanking a small, lanky little thing. She's not wearing a mask, so Lauren can safely assume she's one of the lead members of the Order. Her arm is tucked away in a sling, her right eye bandaged and the rest of her face bruised and cut open, and Lauren can tell just by the way she holds herself that something is wrong with her hip, though she's not sure how the poor thing is walking if that's the case.

Lauren frowns at their arrival, scolding, "You do know that it's rude to break down someone's door, yes?"

The woman stops in front of Lauren, her good hand landing on her hip. "So, you're behind this?" she snaps, ignoring the older lady's question.

Lauren stares, disinterested, through the thick lenses of her glasses. "I beg your pardon?" she says.

"You're the one that created the boy's Face, aren't you?" the woman tries, eyes narrowing.

"I've made plenty of Faces. You'll have to be more specific than that."

"I don't think I have to, considering it's hard to confuse just who I'm talking about."

Lauren stiffens, giving the other a stern look as she tilts her head. "I don't believe we've met," she says. "I am Lauren McKinney. I've been making Faces for twelve-year-old children for many years now, all of which were approved by the Order." She says this with such accusation in her voice that the younger woman flinches, backing away. "It's a known fact that I've never—and I do mean never—had any problem with the Order, nor have they had any trouble from me." Sizing the other woman up, she asks, "And who, may I ask, might you be?"