AN: I picked a steampunk AU for day 7 where Nathanael is an inventor who's trying to put souls into automatons using dark magic.

Chloe remembers dying very vividly—the sunlight that came from the window fading as she lost consciousness; the loss of pressure and feeling in her body as she moved on; the blackness as it overtook her soul. She remembers waking up as a blur—the red-headed man leaning over her; the blinding stars behind her eyes; the inhuman absence of any sensation. She couldn't keep her eyes open long, and they slowly slid shut, but she felt nothing.

—

The next time she opened her eyes, she woke with a start, her mind clearer—stable.

The red-haired man sat hunched over a long wooden desk in the corner opposite of her in the dim, cramped room—the gray stone walls felt too close for Chloe. Scraps of metal and pieces of machinery were strewn around him, falling from the desk or his lap or hands. A jar sat next to his moving hands. Chloe couldn't see what was in it—if it was liquid or a colored gas—but the man kept glancing at it as if it held the answers to all the world's questions.

She tried to move, feeling very confined and trapped in...did I sleep standing up? Her limbs wouldn't work with her, and every time she tried to move, a shooting pain spread throughout her body.

She was making noise though.

She could tell by the way the man turned his attention towards her, surprise and excitement written on his face.

What happened to me? she tried to say. Where am I? Is this what comes after life—after everything? Then the more important question sprang from her mouth before she could stop it. Is this the hell I was bound for?

When the man spoke to her, his voice was richer and more alive than she'd ever felt before. "Hold on, hold on. I'm coming." He stood up, brushing his hands on the leather apron he wore around his waist, and came toward her. His eyes roamed her body, then he turned toward a machine next to her, fiddled with the knobs, and turned back. "How's that?"

"Where am I?" The words were strangled, rough from the disuse of her throat, which burned in response to the air being forced out of it.

The man stepped back, a confused look on his face. "You can speak?"

She nodded, hoping her body would respond so she wouldn't have to endure the scorching in her throat once more, but her head wailed in protest, a sharp pang in the back of her neck. She cried out automatically, the singeing of her throat nothing compared to the stab at the base of her skull.

The man moved immediately toward the machine at her side, fiddling with more knobs and cranks. "Hold still," he whispered.

Chloe froze in response, biting back her pleas of protest.

She watched the man work, moving from the table in the center of the room to the desk in the corner. He was looking for something—or looking at something. He came toward her then and reached behind her to get something, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye when they were only inches away.

He pulled back all too quickly and stood up straight. "Better?"

Chloe put a hand to her forehead—she actually moved—and nodded. "Much better," she said, her voice no longer coming out as acid. But when she pulled her hand away from her head, she recoiled further into the corner. "What is this?" Her hand wasn't flesh and bone. It was metal and gears. "What happened to me?"

But he didn't answer her question; he only looked more intently into her face—if she even had one anymore. "I'm Nathanael Kurtzberg. Who are you?"

She struggled to remember her past, but all she could think of was how much she hated herself, hated this Chloe person in her head. "I think my name is Chloe."

His face went pale and slack. "Chloe Bourgeois?"

Something clicked in her brain. "That's right," she said, solemnly nodding. She was definitely Chloe Bourgeois, but she didn't want to be.

"Oh." He bowed his head, pain and anger written in his features.

She felt her own face fall. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at her through his lashes, his teeth kneading into his lower lip. "I didn't intend for this to happen—you must know that."

"You did this?" she asked with unbelief.

Nathanael nodded, a grave expression taking over his features. "I'm an inventor, you see." He turned and moved toward the jar that sat on his desk. "I've been experimenting with putting souls into automatons using dark magic." He returned to her, placing the jar in front of her on the tabletop beside him. "I was testing it out on these guys." He gestured to the jar between them, and Chloe realized it was full of dead bees and a dark substance that only could've been the magic Nathanael was referring to.

Bees, she wondered, awed.

"It was supposed to be one of them that went into that machine, not you." He exhaled slowly, his next words soft and low. "I heard about your death; that's how I guessed it was you. Believe me, I never meant to hurt anybody. I only wanted to—" He ran a shaky hand through his bright hair, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."

Why didn't it matter? It mattered to her. He was the only thing she knew besides her name.

"Unfortunately you're stuck like this. I can't do anything more to help you." Nathanael took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to be you." The way he said 'you' sounded more like he was talking about another person rather than the bees.

Who did you lose? she wondered. Who were you trying to save?

He shook his head again. "You said you thought your name was Chloe. Are you having a hard time with your memories?"

"Yes," she nodded, finally voicing her thoughts. "I can't remember anything about my life." And she would voice her thoughts. "I don't know that I want to."

"I'll see what I can do." Nathanael gave her a concerned look, but turned away without asking anything and Chloe was grateful to this new, suddenly important, person. Even if she wanted to tell him, she couldn't; she had no idea why she hated herself, she just knew that she did.