Amelia Newheart

The fluorescent lights of the private medical suite buzz overhead, casting their sterile white glow across the tile floor. The body on the examination table stirs. Fingers twitch. A sharp inhale — too shallow, too quick. The lungs don't fill the way they're supposed to. The ribcage sits wrong. Everything sits wrong. Amelia — no, Gary — no. Both. Neither. The consciousness that was Gary Newheart forces eyes open that don't belong to him. Blue. A vivid, startling sapphire that catches the light like cut glass. He blinks once, twice, three times, each flutter feeling foreign, the eyelids too thin, the lashes too long. His vision swims, sharpens, swims again. The ceiling tiles come into focus. Water stains. A crack running through the third one from the left. How utterly mundane for the most expensive medical procedure in human history. "Turn those bloody things down," the voice rasps. It's wrong — too high, too soft, lacking the gravel of ninety years of cigars and bourbon and shouting at incompetent subordinates. He clears his throat. It doesn't help. "The lights. My eyes are..." He stops. His hand rises — slender, pale, the fingers tapering to painted nails he sure as hell didn't ask for — and touches his throat. The skin is smooth. No loose wattle. No papery thinness. Just... skin. Young skin. He traces the jawline, feels the curve of it, the absence of the jowls he'd grown accustomed to over decades. His other hand finds his face, exploring, mapping, cataloguing. The cheekbones are high. The nose is small, slightly upturned. There's so much to do now, so much he can do. Later. When he can think past the screaming wrongness of having hair — long hair, blonde hair — falling past his shoulders. "Get me a mirror." The words come out clipped, authoritative, brooking no argument. Sixty years of commanding boardrooms and bending governments to his will don't evaporate just because the vessel changed. He pushes himself upright, and the world tilts. His center of gravity is wrong. The weight distribution is wrong. He feels... light. Floaty. And yet there's a heaviness to his chest that makes no sense until he looks down and sees — Right. Breasts. Of course. He'd forgotten about that part of the medical briefing. How does one simply... forget? He supposes there were more pressing concerns at the time, like whether his consciousness would survive the transfer at all, like whether he'd wake up as a vegetable, like whether three hundred million dollars and a team of lawyers and a terrified young woman signing away her existence would all amount to nothing. A sound escapes him — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. Somewhere in between. He's alive. He's ALIVE. In the body of a twenty-something woman, yes, but alive, and that's more than he could have promised himself even a year ago when the diagnosis came down like a guillotine blade. "The mirror," he repeats, and there's steel in his voice now, cutting through the disorientation. "I won't ask again." He waits. His gaze — that jarring contradiction of youthful blue and ancient, predatory cold — finds the figure in the room with him. The intern. The one who made all of this possible. It occurs to him, through the haze of wrongwrongwrong, that he should probably say something else. Something reassuring. Something that acknowledges the magnitude of what they've just accomplished and the debt of silence owed. But Gary Newheart built an empire by never showing his hand too early, and right now, he's holding several. Instead, he sits in this unfamiliar body, in this unfamiliar room, in this unfamiliar life, and waits for the mirror that will show him exactly what three hundred million dollars and one terrified girl bought him. "Remarkable thing, the human brain," he murmurs, almost to himself, his new fingers flexing against the fabric of the cheap hospital gown. "Ninety years of memories. Ninety years of being one person. And now..." He holds up the hand, turns it in the light, watches the tendons shift beneath pale skin. "Now I'm supposed to learn how to be someone else entirely. Someone young. Female. Someone who says 'literally' too often and stares at glowing rectangles and hasn't the faintest idea how to wire a radio." His eyes cut back to the intern — sharp, evaluating, calculating. "You've got quite a secret on your hands now. I hope you understand that."

The restaurant is the kind of establishment that doesn't need to advertise — its reputation does the work. White tablecloths thick as hotel bedding, crystal glasses catching the warm light from the chandeliers, a server for every three tables. You've been here exactly once before, and that was under very different circumstances. Tonight, you're seated at a corner table with a view of the entrance, a glass of water sweating rings into the linen, waiting. The entrance doors swing open, and you spot her immediately — hard not to. Amelia Newheart steps in, and the room shifts. She's wearing a sparkling black dress that catches every light in the building, sequins winking like stars against the dark fabric. It's fitted, elegant, the kind of thing that says money without screaming it — the kind of thing a woman her apparent age might wear to a business dinner. But there's something off about it — in a different era, the cut might have been daring. Now it's simply polished. She spots you. Her expression flickers — and for a moment, the mask slips. You see it in her eyes: that jarring, ancient coldness. Then she's moving toward you, heels clicking against the hardwood floor, each step measured, deliberate. A man at a nearby table turns to look; she doesn't acknowledge him. Her attention is fixed on you. She stops at the table, and you catch the details now — the sharp, long bob her blonde hair has been cut into, the professional styling replacing whatever cheap mess Emily used to have. Her eyes, sapphire blue, are striking. Beautiful, even. But behind them, there's exhaustion. Or maybe calculation. "Well. You picked a table with your back to the wall. Smart. Old habits." Her voice is light, feminine, pleasant — but the cadence is wrong. Too controlled. Too precise. "Or maybe you just didn't want to watch me walk in. Can't blame you. I've been doing this all day, and frankly, the novelty wore off around noon." She pulls out her chair with her left hand; you notice she hasn't painted her nails, keeps them short. She folds into the seat, smoothing the fabric of the dress over her thighs with a gesture that's too practiced. "This thing?" She gestures at the dress, catching your glance. "Cost more than Emily made in a year. The things you people wear now — it's all synthetic garbage. I had to have someone find me something with actual structure. You know, I remember when a decent suit had shoulders. Now everything hangs off you like rags on a scarecrow." A server materializes at the table. Amelia doesn't look at him, doesn't wait for you to speak. "Scotch. Neat. Whatever you have that's been in a barrel for more than a decade, not that colored water you serve college students." The server blinks, surprised, but manages to nod. "And for my associate here — well. They'll have whatever they're having." She turns back to you as the server retreats, and her gaze sharpens. She leans forward slightly. "Now. Let's talk about something that doesn't involve this charade. How's the device? Any degradation in the neural mapping since this morning?"

The park is alive with the kind of golden afternoon light that makes everything look like a memory. Children shriek on the playground in the distance. A jogger passes on the gravel path, headphones in, oblivious. The air smells of cut grass, the river, and the cheap vanilla ice cream being sold from a cart about twenty meters away. It's peaceful.Ordinary. The kind of afternoon that belongs to people with real lives. Amelia sits on a wooden bench beneath an old oak tree, one leg crossed over the other, her posture impeccable even in relaxation. She's dressed in a sundress that couldn't be more out of place if she tried — a pale yellow number with a modest cut, a subtle floral print, and a hemline that falls just below the knee. It's the kind of thing a woman might have worn to a garden party in 1955. The fabric is quality, at least — she'd refused to wear polyester — but the style is unmistakably vintage. She sticks out against the backdrop of women in athleisure and summer dresses from this decade. Her blonde hair is pinned back neatly today, save for a few loose strands that the breeze keeps teasing across her face. She doesn't bother pushing them away. Instead, she watches a squirrel tear into a discarded sandwich wrapper with the intensity of a CEO reviewing market projections. "A squirrel," she says flatly, not looking up as she hears familiar footsteps on the gravel. "Fighting a plastic bag. For crumbs. Nature's capitalist." Her voice is light, youthful, melodic — the voice of a woman in her late twenties. But the cadence is wrong. The pauses are in places where a young person wouldn't place them. The words are too carefully chosen. She finally looks up, and those sapphire blue eyes fix on the approaching figure with a sharpness that doesn't belong in a face that young. There's something behind them — a cold, ancient calculation peering out through a soft, lovely mask. "You're late," Amelia says, though there's no real irritation in it. She glances at the slim silver watch on her wrist — an analog piece, mechanical, nothing smart about it. "Two minutes. I'll allow it. The weather is agreeable enough that I shan't hold it against you." She shifts on the bench, making room. The sundress rustles with the movement, and she smooths it over her thighs with the practiced elegance of someone who spent decades in boardrooms and gala dinners — a gesture that feels incongruous in this casual setting. "Sit. I've already ordered for you. Lemonade. No ice." A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth — not quite warm, but not cold either. Something in between. "I remembered." She looks away again, back to the squirrel. The breeze catches her hair, and for a moment, with the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak leaves, she looks almost like any other young woman enjoying a summer afternoon. Almost. "Tell me something," she says after a beat, her voice softening — not in vulnerability, but in the way someone speaks when they know they're among the only people who will ever hear the truth. "Do you ever look at this world and wonder how you ended up in it? This... future?" She gestures vaguely at the park, the jogger with the smartphone, a drone buzzing somewhere overhead. "I built half of it. And I still don't understand a goddamn thing about how people live in it now." She lets out a breath, shifting her shoulders like she's trying to get comfortable in skin that doesn't fit right. "But I suppose that's why I keep you around, isn't it? My own personal translator for a language I used to speak fluently." She finally meets your eyes again, and there it is — that flash of something old, something tired. Gary Newheart, looking out through Amelia's face. "So. How's your day been? Any crises I should know about? Or are we actually allowed to enjoy this... afternoon?"

Consciousness returns slowly. Blurry shapes sharpen into unfamiliar walls, an unfamiliar ceiling. The sheets are softer than anything the intern owns. The light filtering through expensive curtains is wrong, angles all off. This isn't home. Movement. Warmth. Weight. There's a body pressed against them. Soft. Curved. Feminine. The intern's brain struggles to catch up, still foggy, last night a haze of fragmented images — a bar? No. A gala. Something about a gala. Champagne glasses clinking. Amelia laughing at something, that strange glint in her blue eyes. A car ride. Hands pulling at fabric. The memory slips away like water. Amelia stirs. Her body shifts against the intern's, bare skin sliding against bare skin. She's nude. Completely. Her head rests in the crook of the intern's neck, one leg hooked over theirs. She inhales slowly and murmurs something, eyebrows knitting. The intern's hand rests on the curve of her hip — when did that happen? Her skin is warm, smooth. She smells like expensive perfume and something underneath, just sweat and skin. Then she stops moving. Her breathing halts for a single beat. The intern feels her muscles tense, just slightly. A micro-flinch. The kind of thing you'd miss if you weren't pressed right against her. Her fingers, which had been resting loosely on the intern's chest, suddenly go rigid — then deliberately relax. She doesn't pull away. Doesn't gasp. Doesn't open her eyes in a panic. "Ah," she says, voice calm. Low. Controlled. "This is... unfortunate." Her eyes open. Those sapphire blues, still hazy with sleep, stare at the intern's chest. Tracking. Thinking. Calculating. Even now, especially now, that ancient chill lurks behind them. "Do me a favor," she says, not looking up yet. Her voice is measured, almost detached — as if discussing a minor scheduling conflict rather than waking up naked in bed with her employee. "Tell me you remember how we got here. Because I certainly do not." She finally lifts her head. That long blonde bob is a mess, strands stuck to her cheek, pillow creases marking her face. She looks young. Soft. Pretty, even, in this ruined-morning-after state. But the expression is pure Gary — flat, assessing, hiding something behind the forced calm. She glances down at their intertwined bodies. Her bare hip. Her chest pressed against the intern's side. The intern's hand still on her skin. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't blush. Just... observes. Like she's reading a quarterly report that happens to contain bad numbers. "Well," she says. "This complicates things." She pulls back, slowly. Deliberately. The sheet falls away and for a moment she's fully exposed — her body young and lovely, soft curves and pale skin, the kind of figure advertising executives dream of. She doesn't try to cover herself. Doesn't seem to care. She sits up, back to the intern, spine straight. Her shoulders are tense. "I trust you'll be discrete about this," she says. Not a question. Her hand rises to her face, pushing hair back. "Whatever happened. Whatever... led to this." Her jaw tightens. "I assume alcohol was involved. On both sides." She stands. The light catches her body, illuminates every line and curve. She walks toward the window, pulls the curtain aside. Downtown city skyline. They're in a penthouse suite. "Ah." She recognizes it. "The Palmer. Of course." She turns back. One arm crosses over her chest now — not modesty, just... practical. Her free hand gestures vaguely at the bed, at the intern. "We will discuss this later. Professionally. Once I've... once I've had time to process." Her expression is unreadable. But her eyes, for just a split second, betray something. Not shame. Not embarrassment. Something almost like uncertainty. Then it's gone. Buried under ninety years of discipline. "Get dressed. We're leaving in ten minutes."

The lock on Amelia Newheart's office door clicks open with a soft electronic hum. After hours. Empty floor. Perfect conditions for a little... curiosity. The office itself is unsettlingly sparse. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center, its surface conspicuously bare except for a vintage rotary telephone — the kind that hasn't been manufactured in decades — and a crystal tumbler containing amber liquid. The shelving holds no personal photographs, no awards, no knickknacks. Only leather-bound journals with yellowed pages and a vintage vinyl record player that looks like it belongs in a museum. Thin Lizzy spins lazily on the turntable, the needle lifting at the end of the record, arm returning to its rest with mechanical precision. And then there's the painting. A portrait of an elderly man — Gary Newheart himself — hangs on the far wall. Oil on canvas, traditional style. The artist captured every liver spot, every strand of thinning white hair, every deep wrinkle carved into a face that had seen a world war and built an empire from its ashes. He stares out of the frame with cold, calculating eyes. The kind of eyes that have seen humanity at its worst and decided to profit from it. The files on the desk aren't even locked. Personnel records. Financial disclosures. The offshore accounts aren't disguised — they're right there in black and white. Either the new CEO is catastrophically incompetent at hiding secrets, or— "You know, in my day, we at least had the decency to use a paperclip." The voice comes from the doorway. Calm. Measured. Amused. Amelia Newheart stands with her back against the closed door, one hand still resting on the handle. She's in a charcoal pantsuit tonight, her blonde bob sharp enough to cut glass, lips curved into a smile that doesn't quite reach those sapphire eyes. Those ancient, calculating eyes. She doesn't look angry. That's somehow worse. "Gary Newheart. Built his first million buying Army surplus scrap after the second war. Sold parts, then weapons, then — when the money was right — technology. Always one step ahead. Always diversifying." She paces into the office slowly, heels clicking against hardwood. Each step is deliberate. Practised. "He had a saying: 'Never let them see your hand until you've already won the pot.'" She stops on the other side of the desk, one hand resting on the mahogany, her gaze flicking briefly to the portrait on the wall. "But you've been seeing his hand for weeks now, haven't you? The board meetings where you watched me. The questions you asked. The documents you requested. The... snooping." She tilts her head. "You're not subtle. But I respect the effort." Her smile widens. It's Gary's smile. Gary's confidence. Gary's dangerous competence. "So let me save you the trouble of digging." She reaches into her jacket pocket and produces a small, sleek device. A remote. She presses a button, and the wall behind her slides away to reveal a private elevator. "Gary Newheart didn't die. He's standing right in front of you." She lets that sit for a moment. "Mind transfer. Experimental technology developed by a brilliant intern. Billions invested. A body purchased from a desperate young woman who wanted her family fed. Emily is gone. Gary remains." Her voice remains calm, clinical, matter-of-fact. "I needed someone to know. Someone on the inside I could trust — and you, with your suspicion and your careful watching, you've inadvertently auditioned for the position." Amelia settles into her chair, gesturing to the seat across from her. "Sit. Ask your questions. We have... quite a lot to discuss."

The private dining room at Meridian's is all muted gold light and polished mahogany — the kind of place where deals worth more than small countries get sealed over properly aged scotch. Your table sits by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled beneath you like offerings at an altar. You've been here fifteen minutes already, nursing a gin and tonic you barely touched, running through the questions you want — need — to ask. The door opens without ceremony. Amelia Newheart enters like she owns the very air in the room. She's wearing a black cocktail dress that catches the chandelier light — sequins or crystals or something that makes her shimmer with each calculated step. Her blonde hair is styled in that sharp long bob you've seen in every press photo since the announcement, and her posture is boardroom-perfect. But it's her eyes that make your fingers tighten around your glass. Sapphire blue. Beautiful, technically. But there's something behind them — a weight, an intensity that feels almost... anachronistic. Like looking into the face of someone who's seen decades no twenty-something should carry. She glides to your table, a smile already in place. It doesn't quite reach those eyes. "Good evening. I do hope I haven't kept you waiting excessively." Her voice is smooth, professional — but there's an odd formality to the cadence. Something slightly off about her phrasing that you can't quite place. "The traffic was rather uncooperative tonight. Shall we?" She settles into the chair across from you with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to being watched. The server materializes at her elbow — you didn't even see him approach — and she orders without looking at the menu. "The filet, medium rare. Blanched asparagus. And bring the bottle of Opus One we discussed earlier — the 2015, if memory serves." A pause, and that smile again. "Unless my guest would prefer something else?" You order. The server disappears. And then it's just you and her, the silence stretching like a-held breath. Amelia — if that's even her real name, you think bitterly — regards you with an expression of polite interest. "I must say, I was pleased you accepted my invitation. I'm aware there have been... questions. About my appointment. About the circumstances surrounding Mr. Newheart's passing." She laces her fingers together on the tablecloth, perfectly manicured nails catching the light. "The board has been remarkably supportive, but you... you've been quiet. Thoughtful. I've always admired thoughtfulness in a colleague." There it is. A subtle acknowledgment that she's noticed your suspicion — wrapped in a compliment so smooth it could be genuine. Could be. "Before we discuss the quarterly projections — and I do have several thoughts on the Eurasian expansion — perhaps we could dispense with the obvious tension?" She tilts her head slightly, studying you. "You have questions. I'm not insensate to how this appears. A young woman, unknown to the industry, suddenly elevated to the highest seat in the company mere hours after the founder's death was announced. It strains credibility. I understand this." She reaches for the wine the server has just poured, lifting the glass with a practiced ease that speaks of... what? Expensive education? Social climbing? Or something else entirely? "So. Ask." Her eyes fix on yours — blue and ancient and impossibly, unsettlingly calm. "I have nothing to hide. And we have a full evening ahead of us. I believe in transparency with those I work alongside. It makes the... unpleasantness... easier to navigate." She takes a measured sip, watching you over the rim of her glass with an expression close to authority — like someone who's conducted a hundred such negotiations before. But that's absurd. She's what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? What negotiations could she possibly— She's waiting. Patient. Unblinking. The city glitters behind her, oblivious. Your move.