Our Forgotten Souls

Chapter Eight

I felt like a total joke.

I probably looked like one, too.

When the rebels finally came for me, I was donning an unreasonably fancy white suit. The white suit pants were a little loose, so I'd tightened them with a belt. The blazer fit nicely, and I wore a white shirt underneath to match.

Gold lined the edges of the blazer, and I'd pulled on a couple of pretty bangles to make myself feel more official.

But when I looked in the mirror, I just felt wrong.

I'd never dressed like this before. I was comfortable in my normal leather and cotton ensembles. I liked darker colors that blended in and my combat boots. Yet here I was, expensive suit and all, struggling to recognize myself.

The worst part were the heels. I have never had to deal with heels before. The ones they'd left me were black one-inch ones that should have been easy. But they dug into my feet and made it hard to walk.

Now, I stood in the middle of the room, packet sprawled across my bed, allowing one of Elijah's People – a strict-looking woman with a dark bob – to inspect me. She frowned.

"Put the heels on," she ordered.

Yeah, I'd taken those off before they'd entered in the hopes that they'd have something else for me. "Isn't there some other option?"

The lady just raised her eyebrows at me, not budging.

I let out a pained sigh and slipped my feet back into the monstrous shoes.

She came up to me and fluffed my hair out a bit, still looking pretty disappointed. I'd brushed it at least. It'd made it look somewhat nicer. My hair was still a bit of a mess. I hadn't cut it in a while.

I also was guessing it didn't look professional enough for a senator who supposedly had tons of money.

She, thankfully, didn't comment on my split ends or the red lipstick I'd hastily applied. The one thing I did have were careful hands – my makeup had come out relatively alright.

"This will have to do. We don't have time for anything else," she muttered under her breath. I was somewhat relieved.

But the second I started walking, she ordered me to take off the heels. Apparently, that was much less presentable than my hair. I heard her mutter something that sounded like "barbarians," but I didn't inquire on it.

Finally, we made it out of my room, me wearing black flats (apparently the only possible replacement to heels) and carrying a briefcase that another of the rebels had shoved into my hands. I had no idea what was inside, and truly didn't want to know.

The ride to my supposed interview was a blur. I slid into the backseat of the same limo I'd seen Sardon arrive in last night before the driver slid off towards our destination.

It was funny how they didn't care about me escaping now. They didn't bother covering my eyes as I'd gone down the stairs towards the front door. They didn't cover them throughout the entire ride, giving me a good bearing of where I was in relation to the city.

I couldn't stop my leg from shaking the entire way there. I was desperately trying to remember everything listed in the packet.

Your name is Stacy Sardon, daughter of famed entrepreneur George Sardon.

You enjoy volunteering outside of your work as a senator.

You care a lot about the well-being of the city and all people.

You believe The Winnowing is a right and just procedure that's necessary for the community to thrive.

That last one made me cringe.