How 'bout them apples, Phant0m?! Thought I wouldn't get it done, huh? Lol... XD Anyways... here's chapter 4 where I tried to work in some humor. Let me know if it works.


Chapter 4: Tabula Rasa

Hailey raked a hand through her curly blonde locks. She looked at the man across from her, who was now standing at the window. He gazed out of the window only getting a good view of a lower rooftop and the parking lot below with the main road just beyond that. Hailey decided to ask the patient, "Do you know where you are?"

"A hospital," he chuckled with a grin creeping across his features. "I just don't know where." She instantly fell in love with his smile. Well, at least he wasn't delusional. He didn't seem as upset about the fact that he couldn't remember who he was, but the nurse keeping him company until a doctor arrived, had suspected that there was something freeing that came with amnesia. To have a fresh start... she was a little envious about it. He ran a hand through his disheveled snowy hair, which came with his week long sleep and sat on the gurney.

"What do you remember," Hailey asked. Sure she wanted to get to the bottom of the enigma before her. Every fiber of her being just wanted to get to know the man. Were her colleagues right? Had she really fallen in love? She tried to resist, because doing this wasn't right. First of all, he was a patient and she felt that she would be taking advantage of him. Second, his situation was complicated. After all, he couldn't remember who he was. He could be someone's son, brother, lover. The possibilities were endless. He must have someone. Keep it professional, she reminded herself.

"I remember falling in the field and waking up here," he said, keeping his answer short. Hailey heard his answers, but she really wasn't listening. She took in his ethereal, otherworldly eyes and hair. The way the thin, loose cotton hospital gown draped across his body as he sat on the bed, showcased small portions of his perfectly toned physique, leaving room for imagination. She could have drooled at that very moment as she eyed the gorgeous man. His attention turned to the low-volume television suspended from the ceiling.

"Texas," he finally said after a long silence, "I'm in Texas."

"Yeah, we're in DeSoto," she said with no sarcasm at all, "How'd you figure?"

"You have an accent," he replied, picking up on her speech patterns, "And that." He pointed at the TV where there was a newscast of the local weather. She marveled at how he was able to astutely observe his surroundings despite having just been in a coma moments ago.

"Where's DeSoto?"

"In Dallas County, a little ways south of the City." Hailey turned to see two doctors and the Sheriff standing just inside of the doorway. "I got to go," she excused herself from the room, "but I suppose these three are going to want to talk to you." With that, she returned to her post at the nurse's station.

"Good morning, hon," a female doctor said, approaching the man, "We just want to ask you a few questions and maybe take a small test."

"Why," he asked, peeling his attention from the television screen, "I feel fine."

"I'm sure you do," she replied, "but it is not everyday that someone wakes from a coma, without diminished cognitive abilities. We want to run some test to make sure that you are okay." He glanced from her to the wheelchair the male doctor brought in and back to her again. "Better to be safe than sorry," she said realizing that he was going to be a bit stubborn.

"Fine," he sighed, "but, I'm not going in that."

"Sorry," the male doctor chimed in, "hospital policy."

The female doctor went through a cabinet and produced a pair of disposable slippers. "Put these on," she said firmly, "we wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

The man reluctantly obeyed, putting on the slippers and taking a seat in the wheelchair. They left the room, with the male doctor wheeling him into a vacant lounge area. Once inside the room, the sheriff began setting up some audio equipment and let the stranger know that his interview was to be recorded. He cooperated.

"State your name for the record," Sheriff Donovan said.

"I don't remember," the man answered honestly.

"Where are you from, son?"

"I don't know," slightly agitated from having to repeat himself again.

The man spotted an unused pencil on the table. He picked it up and began twirling it between his fingers like a seasoned band drummer. The female doctor noted the muscle memory and the possibility of his old self – whatever that was, peeking through. "Did you used to play in a band?" He looked up at her through pale bangs.

"I don't know... it just seems natural."

"Let me level with you kid," the sheriff said, "we waited a week for you to regain consciousness and we are glad that you did. Now if it were me, I'd like to know what happened while I was out. I gotta warn you that some of the things you may hear, maybe a little upsetting. Do you still want to know?"

"Yes."

"About a week ago, a group of kids found you in an open field. At first, no one knew if you were dead or alive... and that was judging by the sheer amount of blood at the scene alone. Hell, I would have never thought that in a million that all of that came from one person. By the time you were brought to the Emergency Room, the doctors had found a few broken ribs and very deep cuts, and some other near fatal wounds. As they decided to bring you up to the ICU, they noticed that those injuries had disappeared. When you were found, we realized that you had not succumbed to an 'accident,' there was possibly foul play. We know this because you were found clutching a gun and it had been recently fired. We have reason to believe that you were in a firefight for your life. We just want to know with whom?"

The man didn't say anything.

"I have some items of yours that may jog your memory," Donovan said placing a small duffle bag on the table. From there, he pulled out a chrome handgun and another of obsidian. The man only listened to the sheriff as he traced his fingers over the engravings on the handgun. Ebony & Ivory. For Tony Redgrave ... By .45 Art Warks. Suddenly, a name popped into his head, Nell. He didn't know why it came to mind. The name had been long forgotten. The only motherly figure he had from when began his young teenage life as a mercenary. He could vaguely picture he old woman. Her wrinkled face lighly illuminated by the fire that sourroud them, the blood trickling from her mouth.

Dovonvan noticed the man returning his deep thoughts and continued, "We saw this and considered it to be your name." He then brought out a stack of IDs. "Then we found these." He arranged them so the man and the two doctors may see; it was almost as if he was dealing out a deck of playing cards, "California, Florida, New York, New Jersey, Nevada, Ohio, Maryland... the list goes on and on. I suppose that I'll never know why you have so many aliases. But now that you don't remember a thing... I think that you are like a blank slate, if you will. I have no idea who your are, where you are from, what you've done, but I believe that everyone deserves a fresh start. You're in my town now and I want to welcome you." Donovan reached across the table and shook the hand of the white-haired starnger, saying "Welcome to DeSoto, Tony."

Tony, he thought to himself, I can live with that.

--

Hundreds of miles of away, the other twin son of Sparda was recovering from his own injuries. Vergil stirred quietly from where he was lain. He opened his eyes slowly only to shut his eyes again to block out the migraines still pounding at his head like an errant jackhammer. "Trish," he croaked.

"Yeah," she answered, "I'm here." He heard the clack of her high-heel boots against the hardwood floor as she approached. "It's nice to see that you're alive."

"And Dante?" She gave no reply. Despite his eyes being closed he could tell that she was probably shaking her head gravely. He sucked in a breath and opened his azure eyes once again. "What about Lady?"

"She's understandably torn up about him being gone," Trish bluntly put it.

"Where is she? I want to talk to her."

"I wouldn't if I were you. She needs some time alone to cope."

Vergil shook his head in agreement and began to get up from the couch. "I'm going to take a walk."

"You're in no condition to go anywhere," Trish said pointing out the still prominent bruising.

"I'm okay." She looked at him, with an almost incredulous stare.

"What?"

"When have you last eaten?"

"I'm fine. I do not need you to play nurse maid or mommy for me. Save that for Dante when he gets back." The turnaround on the insult stunned Trish. The man really knew how to rally people when they needed it.

Vergil stalked off Dante's desk, shuffling through the drawers.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking to see if he left anything behind from when he went to find me."

"When does Dante ever come up with a plan? He broke into an occult shop, stole a crystal, and went about finding a 'spiritual nexus'. He did a little spell and threw you out of a closing portal," she summed up.

"Okaaay," Vergil blinked at her frankness, "So, how did he find it?"

"Lady did." Vergil tilted his head slightly in confusion.

"What? Didn't you know? She comes from a long lineage of priestesses. Maybe we should go back to the last nexus," she tapped her chin in thought.

"That won't work, they move around far too often to track and they never show up in the same place twice. But I know one thing; Dante isn't anything if not a survivor. I didn't feel a spirit passing on, so he's alive. The question is where?"

--

From Dante's upstairs bedroom, Lady lay in the bed they shared, gripping the pillow, as if for now, it was a descent substitute for him. Her eyes were red and puffy from the recent flow of tears. She had no more tears to expel only the short, choked back sobs. From her position she could hear the conversation Vergil and Trish were having downstairs. Strange. If she closed her eyes and listened hard enough, the brothers almost sounded the same.

She found it odd that the more she heard his voice, less angry she got. She would have thought that hearing Vergil's regal tones through the air vents would have made her blood boil, but it didn't. Why did Dante have to sacrifice his life for Vergil's? The same man who promised to rein destruction on all of mankind. Why had he been so willing to bring him back? But, Lady wasn't mad. Had her love for Dante been so great that she would have done anything in his support? Maybe she had grown. Trusting in his judgment, no matter how crazy it seemed at the time. Could she trust him now? Well, he always did have good instincts.

--

"Tony," the man questioned.

"Yes," the female doctor chimed, "It suits you and it beats being called John Doe."

He glanced at the Sheriff with concern in his eyes, "How do you know I'm not someone else? That I didn't kill the real Tony Redgrave and rip it off of his corpse? How do any of you know that I'm not some horrible criminal that deserved to die in that field?"

"Did you," Donovan asked. Tony shook his head, 'no'. "Then, why should I be concerned? I trust you kid. And if you did, this is your chance to begin anew." The Sheriff stopped the record and stood from his chair. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card handing in to the silver haired man. "Now, you contact me if you need me." He then left, leaving Tony with the two doctors.

"Well, Tony," the male doctor began, "Judging from the answers you gave in the interview, you seem to be cognitively intact. We would like you to stay so that we may run more tests to make sure that you're physically okay."

"Near as we can see, Tony" the female continued, "You have a form of dissociative amnesia. You seem to remember some things before your discovery. You are also able to perform basic and complex thought functions and make rational decisions and presumptions. This proves this isn't a byproduct of regression. The main question we want answered is whether the damage that caused this is either neurological or psychological."

"What she means to say," the male doctor cut in, "is that knowing everything but your own past is extremely rare... stuff that only happens in the soaps. And with your help we'll figure out why. Now, we don't know long the condition lasts. It varies from person to person. It can either be temporary or permanent. But we have found that keeping familiar items around helps to draw out some memories."

"We've talked enough, Dr. Kline," the female doctor, "Mr. Redgrave, we need to get you upstairs for an MRI."

"Say wha—?"

"Just some tests to make sure you're well."

--

"There's no way I'm going in there," Tony said taking a look at the machine the doctors were going to stuff him in. The thing was huge and it took up almost half the space of the room, but the opening that they would put him was so tiny. In the way he would describe it, the machine was like a white plastic coffin.

"We thought you'd say that," the female doctor said injecting a mild sedative into Tony. After some resistance, a couple of orderlies had him on the table that slid into the machine.

"Please stay still, Mr. Redgrave. You're doing great," a voice over a speaker said. He wanted to jump out before claustrophobia had its chance to set in, but the sedatives wouldn't allow it and as a nurse advised, moving a single muscle would mess up the images and the test would have to be started over again. The more restarts, the longer he'd be there; all the more reason to cooperate. Tony let the hum of the machine lull him into dreaming. Lulling him to the moment he tumbled from that archway.


MRIs are the worst. For those who don't even even bother with Latin (like me), Tabula Rasa means blank slate.

Short... and not a whole lot of action here, but I did try to set mood. Did I do a half-way descent job?