Their purpose is not their own. Humanity belonged to the governors first. And the governors always have other man-made plans.
After their violent separation, Amelia and Dallas must learn how to navigate their newfound humanity without their partner whom they both believe has been left behind in Michigan. As Amelia begins reconditioning at PictureHouse, an exclusive Beau Monde treatment center in California, she must cooperate under her new Humanoid, Cyrus. Meanwhile, Dallas adjusts to his new life in confinement, awaiting his day of execution. Their paths are separate, but will they manage to find their way without the other?
PictureHouse is the second novel in the Gemini Letters trilogy.
Their purpose is not their own. Humanity belonged to the governors first. And the governors always have other man-made plans.
After their violent separation, Amelia and Dallas must learn how to navigate their newfound humanity without their partner whom they both believe has been left behind in Michigan. As Amelia begins reconditioning at PictureHouse, an exclusive Beau Monde treatment center in California, she must cooperate under her new Humanoid, Cyrus. Meanwhile, Dallas adjusts to his new life in confinement, awaiting his day of execution. Their paths are separate, but will they manage to find their way without the other?
PictureHouse is the second novel in the Gemini Letters trilogy.
Itâs dark, wet, and smells chemical, like this whole box has been hosed down with some type of viscous substance that no one bothered to dry out before shoving me inside. But Iâm silly to think this is just a box on the back of a truck. This is a cage. Iâm their circus monkey gone rogue. Time to go to the zoo.
I reach back in my memory, to the orphanage, when the other kids would do this to rats that shared the spaces beneath our beds. Find a box somewhere and play a game of tag. We would laugh and call it a game, but the rodent would still be shaking once we opened the box and set it free. We would never hold it long enough to really hurt it. However, itâs been hoursâhours stuck in the same freezing darkness, in the same position, breathing the same sterile air. My muscles feel as if theyâre starting to rot.
I wouldnât be surprised to see my own skin peel off with my clothes when I get out. If I ever do.
The van comes to an abrupt stop, flinging wet drops across my face.
My breathing picks up as muffled voices make their way to the back of the van and the sharp sound of chains colliding pierces the air. The wall next to me begins to slide up and I shuffle back, hands over my eyes to block the bright, vulgar light of the sun. It takes a minute to see anything clearlyâonly two figures in a blurry, vague mess. One of them, a Patrol with deep blue eyes and brown hair, grabs my arms and drags me out of the van. My legs are jelly back on solid ground. He takes hold of my monitor and rips it from my wrist. It lands on the ground but is promptly recovered and placed in a small, synthetic bag.
âThere he is,â the other figure says, âour legendary animal.â
I blink a couple times, trying to gain clarity as my hands are bound behind me. A bucket of water splashes across my face and I shake it off with a grunt.
âWalk,â they demand. After a kick to the heels, I drag my feet forward, following the figure in front of me, and things become clearer the further we walk. Thereâs a Patrol behind me with what looks like a Loyalist in front. Her long, black ponytail swings over her shoulder with each glance back at me. Sheâs young. My age, probably, maybe a bit older, but definitely not new. The smell of destruction clings to her.
âWww-whatâs happening?â I ask, my voice practically nonexistent, though no one responds to me. Apparently animals in zoos donât get to ask questions. I keep pressing, regardless. âWhere am I?â
âChicago,â answers the Loyalist, âbut this is just pick up.â
âThen where are you taking me?â
She turns around with a thinning smile on her lips and shaded sunglasses covering her eyes. âNew ride.â
Thatâs when I see it, not much further ahead: a plane as long as a building ready to be loaded. It has slender wings and a body the color of gunmetal.
âKeep up, Ninety Days,â she shouts at me, then looks back at the Patrol who is keeping me pinned. âYou got him?â
âYes, maâam,â the Patrol answers and gives my arms another, tighter squeeze.
Ninety days? What happens in ninety days? Is that how much longer I have left to live? Is that her bet for how long Iâll survive the place sheâs taking me? I canât possibly expect that where Iâm going is anyplace nice. My guess is the prison, somewhere I only know of because of those Palores who were sent there and never came back.
âWhatâs ninety days?â I decide to ask. But the Loyalist only glances at me from over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised at my apparently stupid question. One that leads me to believe itâs only a matter of time before I find out.
Another Loyalist, this one with dry gray hair and a face consumed with more wrinkles than features, waits for us at the head of the plane with his hands clasped behind his back. Two more Patrols guard his sides.
âSergeant,â he greets the Loyalist with an inclination of his head as we approach them. âSpecial Commander.â
âCommander Vogel,â the Loyalist replies, âarenât you glad that we were the state to get the call for him? Big day. Right, Baroque?â
âYes. Big day indeed,â the Patrol holding me answers.
âI agree,â says Vogel. âOur transport is all set, Sergeant.â
âGreat. The goods are ready to go.â She appears pleased with herself.
The commander looks past her to me and purses his lips in a grumble, sending her a wink of approval. He whistles for the Patrols on either side of him. âMask him and get him on board, troopers.â
The Patrols clamp a mask over my mouth and tighten it enough to keep me from talking, but loose enough so I can breathe properly, then take me up the ramp. Water still drips down my face, making the mask cling to me like an extra layer of skin. Iâm strapped into a seat and shut off from the rest of the crew, near a cluster of boxes of bundled other goods and shipments that surround me: guns, gas cans, more uniforms, and chargers. Thereâs also a box of helmets. All pitch black and completely opaque; theyâre shiny, untouched and definitely brand new. Patrols have never worn helmets before, and by the looks of the ones outside who dragged me in here, these are on their way to becoming a part of the new uniform.
The entire plane starts to shake as it lifts in the air, accelerating forward. The engine roars so loud the helmets rattle out of boxes. My ears go numb and my stomach drops. Keeping my eyes closed and head back, I try to focus on my breathing. But itâs difficult when piles of gas cans are rolling around on the ground next to me. Their fading stench, probably too hazardous to even be on the plane, smells more explosive than just compressed air. The engine lulls while in the air and the plane starts to level off. Finally, the plane stabilizes and the ringing in my ears subsides.
Hours pass; the sun sets. The plane feels as if itâs falling out of the sky and my arms wrap around my body as my stomach flips inward. My seat first and then the whole plane starts rocking at an uncontrollable rate. Clutter grows around me as more and more cans spill out across the ground. I struggle to pick up my feet around them until I feel the jolt of the wheels hitting the ground again. They all roll forward and my head slams back against the wall while the plane comes to a complete stop.
The door flies open. My ankle slams into a helmet as Baroque drags me out of my seat and forces my shaken body back on its feet. The air breathes warm on my skin. He forces me around the plane where I see another van, white this time, with the engine running and a door already opened for me. Itâs at the head of a long, straight road leading to a silhouette of a building so far off I canât tell the actual size of it, though it seems to be guarded by large towering posts at the corners of the building. The word âVexâ is in bold red letters across one side of it.
Before Iâm able to get a better look, a hand shoves me forward. I stumble and fall head first into the bumper of the van. Straight to black.
Last year, I read and reviewed The Gemini Letters by Madison Klophaus. Being an avid fan of dystopian thrillers, the provided synopsis immediately piqued my interest. I set aside a day (perhaps it was two) to really dig into the story.
Genres follow certain formulas, or they wouldnât be considered genres. And in The Gemini Letters one can intuit the desire on the part of the author to distinguish this work from the numerous YA dystopian-based novels that have come before it. In many ways, Madison Klophaus succeeds in this endeavour. The story most certainly held my interest. Yet, at the same time, it left me with a feeling of untapped potential. A gnawing awareness of something missing; a thread. Something that could elevate a good story into something even better. I looked forward to the continuation of this highly provocative story, with the hope that it would grow and strengthen in its character and plot development.
So that overly drawn-out preface leads us to now, and my genuine excitement with the release of Part 2 of the series, PictureHouse. This second installment begins right where its predecessor left off. Amelia Vanderbilt and Dallas Summers, partnered by fate and circumstance, find themselves separated after a failed yet exceedingly dramatic escape attempt. Amelia is transported to a Beau Monde rehabilitation facility called PictureHouse. Here, Amelia is subjected to treatments that are as baffling as they are cruel. Many of these treatments are administered by Ameliaâs assigned humanoid, Cyrus. Part man, part high-tech machine, Cyrus acts as an emotional support and sounding board, while simultaneously storing recorded sessions in his internal mainframe. Although Cyrusâ role is that of therapist, when it comes to his patient, Amelia, the boundaries quickly become blurred.
Meanwhile, Dallas is sent to a place referred to as The Vex. A prison containing a multitude of Palores, men and women, accused of various sexual crimes. After the separation from Amelia, the atmosphere in The Vex further destabilizes Dallasâ grasp on reality. He canât trust anyone, not even himself. He tries to keep his head down; focusing on physical exercise. But the demons never go away. The introduction of a candy-obsessed cellmate, Drix, and the arrival of an old friend bring Dallas a modicum of comfort. But with an execution date weighing heavily on his shoulders, Dallas finds little relief in the day-to-day of prison life.
PictureHouse, is a worthy sequel. Itâs action-packed and generates tension from multiple sources. I appreciate Amelia and Dallas as narrators, even when I lack trust in what theyâre narrating (particularly, in the case of Dallas). The protagonists as narrators adds to the emotion and level of investment. It allows one to see deeper into the character; witnessing their struggles up close. I would also praise the addition of the character, Cyrus. Heâs a mysterious âguy,â and through no fault of his own, completely untrustable. Yet because of his unusual circumstances, Cyrus warrants a measure of sympathy. His presence creates an interesting conflict within the story, affecting the dynamic between Amelia and Dallas. A scarily attractive cyborg acting as the third component in a love triangle? I like it.
There were some misses for me. The long awaited introduction of an important person in one of the main characterâs lives falls flat. A clear explanation of Adderleyâs âdestroy the system from the insideâ plan has yet to be fully illuminated. And the ending of this second installment did feel slightly abrupt. But honestly, these are minor complaints. PictureHouse manages, in spite of its dark themes, to be hugely entertaining and readable. Amelia and Dallas struggle after their separation but in time theyâre able to tap into hidden personal strengths. Madison Klophausâ storytelling shows similar growth and strength.
~G
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