The Omission Index, Ch 21: Face Value Pt. 3

Truman wore Isabella Rossi's face. Had worn it for seventy-two hours now, living her life while the real woman - vibrant Italian heiress, charity darling, famous for her temper - sat drugged in some quiet hole. Reid's surveillance confirmed the switch: Isabella's last genuine sighting had been leaving a private art consultation. Two days ago. Since then, nothing real. Just Truman's performance, flawless and amplified.

The imposter sharpened everything. Bolder at charity poker tournaments she'd never attended before. Bids aggressive. Laughter too bright, too constant - a musical note held a beat too long. She'd made a series of unusually large donations to obscure international foundations. Almost reckless. Reid's digging, frantic and methodical in equal measure, had tracked the unusual biological traces, linked these foundations straight back to the same shadowy money network that had emptied Victor Sterling's accounts weeks earlier. Truman was spending Isabella's fortune while wearing her skin, enjoying the power and attention it brought, pushing past the boundaries of her known personality in ways that were thrilling to watch. Deeply unsettling. The artistry was undeniable - seventy-two hours of flawless deception woven with a shapeshifter's practiced care.

SHEPARD's temporary command post occupied a rented suite overlooking the luxury hotel where "Isabella" was staying. High-rise concrete and glass. Discreet view. The suite was silent save for the low, persistent hum of Reid's equipment - a sound like distant traffic, mechanical and constant. Knopff methodically checked tactical gear in the corner. Magazines sliding home with dull metallic clicks. Straps adjusted with practiced efficiency. Kwan's gaze flickered between psychological profiles spread across the coffee table - the real Isabella, Victor Sterling - a deepening line between his brows as he tried mapping Truman's probable reactions when their carefully built world crumbled. Trying to predict which way a cornered shapeshifter would break.

Hale stood by the window. Atlantic City's lights reflected in tired eyes - neon blues and sharp whites cutting through early evening darkness. The mental signature of the imposter "Isabella" was dizzying from this distance. Complex overlay. Vibrant, passionate essence of the real Isabella - now suppressed, almost smothered - buried beneath Truman's meticulous imitation. And beneath that, deeper still, Truman's core aura. Cold. Envious. Hungry. Tinged with manic triumph that sent uncomfortable echoes through Hale's psychic senses. They were enjoying this role more than any before. Savoring it. The bitter, ongoing negotiations with Susan's lawyer coiled in Hale's gut like spoiled food. Watching this stolen intimacy, this elaborate charade of someone else's life, felt like fresh betrayal. Like watching his own situation played out in someone else's skin.

"Tonight's the night." Reid looked up from a monitor displaying encrypted hotel schedules. "Isabella Rossi is hosting the Orchid Ball - high-profile charity gala. Five grand a plate. Half the city's elite attending. And 'Ms. Rossi' just authorized a seven-figure wire transfer from her foundation to an anonymous beneficiary. Payment confirmed upon successful auction end."

Hale turned from the window. "The auction. Public, high-stakes. Truman will be peaking, basking in adoration. Vulnerable to mental disruption then. The wire transfer goes through during the event. They'll use the chaos as cover."

Knopff nodded, expression grim. "Ballroom's a security nightmare. Too many civilians. We isolate Truman, minimize collateral."

The plan was bold. Risky. Hale and Kwan would attend as invited guests - Reid had conjured credentials representing a fake European arts foundation. Their goal: get close to "Isabella," observe, wait. Knopff and a small tactical unit would position at key perimeter points. Reid would monitor hotel security feeds, disrupt communications, create diversions.

"Kwan." Hale met his partner's gaze. "When this breaks, prioritize civilian safety. Manage the fallout with anyone witnessing the unmasking. Anyone nearby who believes in Rossi's persona - it'll traumatize them."

"Understood, Tom."

"Reid, any A.G.I. involvement around Rossi or her finances?"

"Negative." Reid confirmed. "Purely Truman's operation. Lone wolf. Just exceptionally skilled."

One less complication. Hale looked at the invitation lying on the table - elegant script mocking the dark drama about to unfold. Another gilded cage, this one filled with orchids, champagne, stolen identity. His job was rattling bars, shattering illusion. Even if it meant confronting the illusions in his own life.

***

The Grand Ballroom of the Oceanus Hotel dripped over-the-top luxury from every surface. Crystal chandeliers scattered diamond light across designer gowns and custom tuxedos - a sea of silk and tailored wool shifting beneath too-bright illumination. The air tasted of expensive perfume and champagne. Fake laughter hummed through conversations pitched just low enough to seem important. Hushed. Exclusive. An orchestra played forgettable waltzes in the background - cheesy and soft, the perfect soundtrack to Atlantic City's nightly performance of wealth and power. Hale nursed club soda he wouldn't drink, feeling like an anthropologist observing a particularly bizarre tribal ritual. Over-caffeinated. Self-important. The mental noise was unbearable. Greed, ambition, social anxiety, manufactured joy - chaotic blend pressing against his skull like physical pressure. He wanted to leave. Needed to stay.

Kwan, surprisingly at ease in his rented tuxedo, stood near a grotesque ice swan that dripped condensation onto white linen. He appeared to be admiring the sculpture, tilting his head as if genuinely interested in its melting curves. Hale knew better. His partner was subtly scanning the crowd, empathic senses alert for unusual undercurrents, reading the room's emotional temperature with practiced precision. Knopff positioned himself near the main exit - grim shadow in ill-fitting formal wear that strained across his shoulders. Looking like an over-eager bodyguard who'd forgotten to smile. Silent, intimidating deterrent. His presence alone made people nervous. Reid's voice came calm through Hale's earbud, providing steady updates on security patrols, identifying key figures as they circulated through the room like well-dressed sharks.

Then "Isabella Rossi."

She held court near the grand staircase. Emerald silk catching light with every movement. Rich, musical laughter drawing fawning admirers like moths to flame. A circle formed around her - eager faces, raised glasses, desperate attempts at wit. She moved with effortless, regal grace. Gestures lively and precise. Dark eyes sparkling with unnatural brilliance, almost feverish in their intensity. Truman was perfect. Not just wearing Isabella's face - living her very essence. Or at least a dazzling, idealized version. The mental signature of the real Isabella was almost completely hidden beneath the performance. Faint, distressed whisper beneath the imposter's confident, radiant aura. But Hale caught it. That desperate, smothered plea for help that no one else could hear.

Truman's core energy underneath - familiar cold hunger overlaid with giddy, manic triumph. Basking in stolen adoration like sunlight. Drinking power, privilege, the intoxicating thrill of being Isabella Rossi. Celebrated. Beloved. Admired. This was their stage. Their masterpiece. And they knew it.

The charity auction began its tedious parade. Overpriced art pieces that looked like someone had vomited on canvas. Exclusive vacation packages to places most of these people already owned homes. Showy displays of charitable one-upmanship - each bid an attempt to prove wealth, generosity, social status all at once. Hale kept his mental focus narrowed, filtering out the crowd's emotional noise. Waiting for the precise moment. Reid confirmed in his ear that the seven-figure transfer from Rossi's foundation was prepped, coded, awaiting final authorization. That authorization, Hale knew, would likely happen during "Isabella's" keynote address. The emotional peak of the evening. When attention would be lowest, guard dropped, her influence at its strongest. Perfect cover for electronic theft disguised as generosity.

"Isabella" took the stage finally, stepping into spotlight that made her emerald dress glow like something alive. Hush fell over the ballroom. Champagne glasses stopped clinking. Conversations died mid-sentence. She began to speak. Voice captivating - blend of passion and humility that seemed genuine, outlining noble, entirely fabricated goals her foundation supposedly funded. Children in need. Medical research. Clean water initiatives. All lies wrapped in beautiful conviction. She was magnificent, Hale thought with cold detachment. Truly gifted performer. Maybe even believed her own fiction in this moment.

As she reached her speech's high point - eyes shining with unshed, perfectly timed tears that caught the spotlight - Hale acted.

He bypassed direct assault on Truman's strong defenses. Instead introduced mental noise. Targeted disruption. He focused on the raw, terrified mental imprint of the real Isabella Rossi. The one he'd sensed from her initial abduction. From the subtle off-key notes threading through the imposter's current aura. He amplified that fear, confusion, sense of deep violation. Projected it not at Truman directly - they'd block that easily - but into the shimmering artificial construct of the "Isabella" persona they wore like expensive clothing. Then layered it with chilling echoes of Victor Sterling's despair. His bewildered sense of a stolen life. His confusion waking up in his own bed with gaps in memory, bank accounts emptied. Hale wasn't breaking Truman. He was breaking the mask. Poisoning the well from which they drew their power.

The imposter faltered. Just for a microsecond. Tiny catch in her voice - barely noticeable unless you were listening for it. Flicker of something other than charitable passion in her eyes. Fear? Confusion? The confident smile wavered at its edges. She pressed a hand to her temple. Gesture of sudden, unexpected pain that didn't match her narrative of hope and generosity.

"And so," she continued, voice fractionally less sure, "it is with... with profound... gratitude..."

Hale pushed harder. Sent wave of Victor Sterling's raw, uncomprehending terror at finding himself robbed, abandoned. His bank accounts emptied overnight. Security footage showing him doing things he didn't remember. Layered with the cheap motel room where Sarah Miller had awakened weeks earlier. Sickly-sweet smell of industrial cleaner failing to mask cigarette smoke and mildew. Taste of betrayal bitter and metallic. Crushing weight of lost time she'd never recover. Days stolen. Identity borrowed without permission.

"Isabella" stumbled badly. Hand gripped the podium for support, knuckles white against dark wood. The crowd murmured louder. Ripple of genuine concern spreading from front tables to back. Her face - moments before radiant, perfectly composed - paled visibly. Makeup too stark suddenly against draining color. Features subtly, almost unnoticeably, began losing their sharp, defined elegance. Like watching someone fade. The meticulously crafted illusion was fraying at every edge. Starting to come apart.

"I... I seem to have..." she stammered, struggling for words. Voice losing its musical quality. Becoming thinner, strained, almost metallic. Wrong somehow. Discordant against the elegant backdrop.

An older gentleman at a front table looked up. "Isabella, my dear? Are you quite well?"

The imposter tried regaining control, pushing past the overwhelming wave of mental disharmony. Hale was relentless. Flooding the "Isabella" persona with raw, undiluted pain from Truman's previous victims. The terrifying emptiness of stolen lives.

The mental backlash was sharp. Vicious. Truman, fantasy under direct assault, lashed out with desperate, unfocused burst of pure concentrated emotional energy. Blinding envy. Desperate, cornered rage. Deep narcissistic injury. The ballroom's light shattered into painful fragments behind Hale's eyes. He staggered, bracing against a pillar. Sour heat flooded his throat.

Damage to Truman's persona was done. Isabella Rossi's mask visibly cracked. Features shimmered. Blurred. Her voice - when she tried speaking again - was strange, jarring mixture of Isabella's refined tones and something harsher, less defined. Raw panic flashed in her eyes.

Knopff was already moving. Silent, purposeful shadow detaching from the wall. Closing on the stage. Kwan was on his feet - expression mixing concern for Hale with grim readiness. Moving to assist bystanders caught in mental fallout or the imposter's desperate flight attempts. Reid's voice came calm through Hale's ear: "Subject's biological signature destabilizing. Rapid polymorphic fluctuations detected. Containment protocols active."

Chaotic energy bursting from Truman was wild, unfocused scream. Mental shriek of something trapped and terrified. Knopff, moving with speed and precision mismatched to his size, had them pinned against the fallen podium before they could run or lash out further. Elegant ballroom guests were stunned silence, confused murmurs, a few outright shrieks. Kwan was already among them, voice low and calming, preventing full-blown panic.

Reid, from his position near the orchestra, triggered a local audio dampener planted earlier. Targeted white noise wave, just enough to muddle immediate takedown sounds for those further away. Bought them precious seconds before hotel security or press arrived. He also activated a portable short-range bio-signature neutralizer - something SHEPARD was testing. Designed to interfere with a shapeshifter's ability to keep stable transformation under stress.

Under combined pressure of Hale's mental assault, exposure stress, and Reid's technological interference, Truman's borrowed form began truly, catastrophically, unraveling. Grotesque. Fascinating. Deeply unsettling. Isabella Rossi's elegant features didn't just blur. They melted. Rippled like wax too close to flame. Her emerald silk gown - moments ago perfectly fitted - hung oddly. Too large in places, too tight in others as underlying structure shifted. Flashes of other faces, other forms flickered across their features. Brief, startling echo of Victor Sterling's high-class nose. A hint of some forgotten plain face from a previous, unrecorded life. Then nothing. Then Isabella again, distorted like a bad drawing.

Then, with a final shuddering sigh seeming to come from their very cells, the copying collapsed entirely. The figure Knopff now held was... nothing. Or rather, a profoundly unsettling version of nothingness. Smaller than Isabella. Smaller even than Sterling. Features bland to the point of featureless - sculptor's unfinished clay model. Pale, indistinct skin. Lanky, mousy hair. Eyes washed-out plain hazel, now wide with terror so deep it swallowed all other expression. The living embodiment of anonymity. Blank slate upon which any identity could be, had been, written. This was Truman stripped bare. True face - or lack of one - exposed to harsh, unforgiving ballroom lights.

The mental signature coming from them now was raw, unfiltered pain of exposure. Envy still there, bitter corrosive undercurrent, overwhelmed by crushing despair, utter loneliness, terrifying almost childlike fear of being seen for what they truly were. Empty vessel. Creature defined only by stolen lives.

Hale knelt, ignoring Knopff's warning grunt. Extended his senses for a final, deep mental read. He needed understanding - the core of this being, origin of this monstrous, tragic urge.

Engulfed. A lifetime of shadows. Watching. Wanting. Cold glass of a windowpane, breath fogging it as someone else laughed inside. Scent of another's perfume - expensive, warm. Hands that weren't hands learning gestures. How she tilted her head. How he smiled with only half his mouth. Painstaking study. Weeks of it. The ache of being no one while memorizing someone.

Then the rush of becoming. Skin settling into new contours. Voice box shifting. Throat learning new sounds. First time someone said the stolen name with recognition. With warmth. Adoration borrowed and bright, flooding through borrowed veins. The intoxicating wholeness of it. Being seen. Being loved. Being real.

Underneath, always underneath - the hollowness. Cracks appearing in the borrowed mask. Fading applause. Mirror showing a face wrong anymore, exhaustion of maintaining someone else's soul. Then crushing return: the blankness, the nothing, terrible weight of being ordinary.

Ache for a self never there. Hunger for the next face, next life. Again. Always again.

Hale pulled back. Mental weight of Truman's lifelong despair pressed down on him. He looked at the small, trembling figure Reid had discreetly scanned, thumbprint against a deep SHEPARD database: "Subject 734: Kine-Morph, Unstable Identity Syndrome, Codename: Truman." No real name. No fixed identity. Just a label. Flicker in the system. Name assigned to an absence.

A collection of stolen lives, now empty. Grotesque artistry to their deceptions. Beneath it, only vast echoing void.

***

The sterile, anonymous SHEPARD temporary processing facility - hastily taken-over wing of a discreet Atlantic City hotel - contrasted sharply with the Orchid Ball's opulent, perfumed chaos. Fluorescent lights instead of chandeliers. Grey carpet instead of polished marble. The smell of stale coffee and industrial cleaning products instead of expensive perfume. Kwan sat across from Isabella Rossi. Or rather, the shell-shocked woman slowly, painfully beginning to re-inhabit that name. Wrapped in a thick SHEPARD blanket despite the room's warmth. Shivering anyway. Dark eyes wide and haunted. Fixed on nothing. Regal composure completely gone. Flaked away. Leaving raw, trembling woman in its place. Smaller somehow than she should be. Diminished.

"He... it... it wore my face," she whispered, voice hoarse and damaged. Hands trembling as she clutched lukewarm tea Kwan had pressed into them. The ceramic mug rattled softly against its saucer. Constant, nervous tremor. "Used my voice. Touched... touched people as me. Made decisions. Signed documents. Kissed cheeks. All as me." She paused, breathing shallow and quick. "While I was... while I was..."

The violation was profound. Mental defilement that went far beyond theft of money or brief drug-induced incapacitation. Far beyond. Truman hadn't just stolen her identity. They'd twisted it. Inhabited it. Lived out a garish, amplified version of her life while she was helpless somewhere. Prisoner in her own skin. Or worse, entirely absent from it. Watching from somewhere dark and confined. Unable to scream. Unable to stop them.

Kwan listened. His empathy a quiet, steady presence filling the small room. Grounding presence. He'd seen this before. This profound disorientation. This struggle to reclaim a self that had been so intimately, so expertly taken over. Violated at the deepest level. Victor Sterling, whom Kwan had spoken with earlier in a similar grey room, was grappling with similar horror. Maybe worse. His confidence was shattered. Decades of self-assurance gone overnight. Trust in his own perceptions, his own memories, irreversibly damaged. How could you trust yourself when someone had been you better than you were? When they'd convinced your own friends, your own colleagues? The financial ruin was almost secondary. Footnote. The psychological devastation was complete. Fundamental. He'd looked at Kwan with eyes that didn't recognize reality anymore.

Hale entered the small debriefing room. Grey. Utterly depleted. Moving like someone twice his age. Mental dive into Truman's core had clearly taken significant toll. Heavy price for the information he'd extracted. He didn't speak. Just nodded tiredly at Kwan, the gesture requiring visible effort, and sank into a corner chair. Gaze distant. Lost somewhere in unsettling echoes of the case. Of his own parallels. His own stolen life. Different kind of theft, but theft nonetheless.

Knopff and Reid were in the adjoining communications room. Voices low, efficient as they finalized reports. Bureaucratic language. Sanitized descriptions. Knopff had overseen Truman's secure transport to a specialized SHEPARD shapeshifter containment unit at Blackwood Sanction. Three layers of security. Psionic dampeners. Biometric locks. Another anomaly cataloged. Another threat neutralized. For now. Until the next escape attempt, the next breakdown, the next impossible decision about what to do with beings that shouldn't exist. Reid was meticulously compiling data logs, financial traces, biological analyses - building the official SHEPARD record that would transform Truman's bizarre reality into manageable, classifiable threat. Reduce complex horror to checkbox and form. The narrative was already being shaped, refined, prepared for local authorities and prying media: highly sophisticated ring of international con artists, using advanced disguise techniques and psychological manipulation. Prosthetics. Makeup. Hypnosis. Anything but the truth. No mention of shapeshifters. No mention of stolen souls. The truth, as always, was too outlandish, too disturbing for the mundane world. People needed sleep at night.

"What... what happens now?" Isabella Rossi asked, voice barely a breath. Fragile as tissue paper. "To me? To... to it?"

"You'll be given the best care, Ms. Rossi," Kwan said gently, leaning forward slightly, making eye contact. Trying to offer human connection. Anchor to reality. "Support to help you process this. Specialized trauma counseling. And Subject Truman will be contained, studied. They won't harm anyone else. That I can promise you." Standard SHEPARD line. Cold comfort, he knew, for a wound so deep. But all he had to offer.

Full team debriefed later that morning. Weary, routine affair. Grey light coming through venetian blinds. Coffee that tasted like burnt rubber. Hale was quiet throughout. Contributions to discussion short, analytical, mechanical. Usual dry wit entirely absent. Kwan recognized the signs immediately. Mental backlash. Emotional numbing that often followed deep, traumatic immersion into another consciousness. Protective shutdown. He also sensed, beneath Hale's professional detachment, lingering disquiet. Personal connection with the case's themes of deception and fractured trust that went beyond usual job difficulties. Went deeper. The calls from Hale's lawyer had been more frequent, more strained, throughout their Atlantic City time. Voice messages piling up. Settlement offers. Threats. Deadlines. All ignored.

As they prepared to leave, the city's glittering, indifferent facade already receding into background of another completed mission, another file closed, Kwan found himself looking out at the endless, restless ocean. Grey-green water under grey-white sky. Waves constant and uncaring. Cold Atlantic stretching to horizon.

Atlantic City. Place built on dreams. Built on illusions. On desperate hope of a winning hand, a lucky spin, a jackpot that would change everything. City of performance and pretense where everyone wore masks. Just not literal ones like Truman. The unseen desperation fueling such a place, fueling such beings, left invisible scars on everyone it touched. Tourists. Dealers. Cocktail waitresses. Security guards. All performing. All pretending. All hoping for something better while serving the fantasy. The irony wasn't lost on him. They'd just taken down a shapeshifter in a city where everyone shapeshifted daily. Just slower. Just less literal.

Hale joined him at the transport window after several long minutes of silence. Expression unreadable. Carefully blank. He pulled out his SHEPARD-issue satellite phone - bulky, encrypted, completely secure. Thumb hovering over the call button like it weighed ten pounds. Hesitating. Finally pressing down. "Just... one more thing before we leave this charming resort town." Voice flat, devoid of inflection. Dead tone. He punched in a number he clearly had memorized. Waited through three rings. "Yes, this is Thomas Hale. Regarding the settlement offer... tell my wife's attorney it's unacceptable. We'll see them in court." He disconnected without waiting for response. Jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

Kwan said nothing.

He understood.