And here is your cliffhanger. ^^ There are some mature themes in this chapter but it's not like a whole lemon or anything. One more part to go now! Thank you for your patience with me taking so long on this. Hopefully it's worth the wait.
identidem - repeatedly; again and again, continually

"In Medias Res"
By Amanda Swiftgold

Part Five - Identidem

Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes.
"It is foolish to fear what you cannot avoid."
--Cicero

He stormed away from the room, trying to hide his emotions, wishing for one moment that he was an android as well, apparently without feeling. Dorothy had finally woken up, but she'd only had to say one word, 'dream' - and he'd, well, lost it. He hadn't been able to stay in the room, given some excuse about being late but he knew the truth.

Roger Smith was scared. He'd felt within himself such a strange worry, such a horrible dread at seeing Dorothy lying there unconscious. Though he'd been angry before when someone tried to harm her, there was no one here like Beck for him to turn his rage upon, nowhere for blame to be placed. And he'd grown scared, worried that these intense feelings for an android didn't belong to him at all, but rather to that man, that mysterious figure of a man named Aaron.

The dreams were coming more often now, and now that he knew Dorothy really was dreaming as well he had a suspicion that his own 'memory attacks' were related to hers. Despite the questions, however, there was one thing Roger was sure of: he did not want to become Aaron. No matter why he was having these memories, where these dreams were coming from - he was no one but himself. He had to believe that. Had to.

But this single remembrance still remained, blazing and intense in his mind: when she'd awoken, he had forgotten she was an android. He'd wanted to reach down and comfort her, make sure she was okay - because she hadn't acted like an android. She'd smiled at him. She'd smiled, when she woke up, with pure recognition in her eyes. He'd known who she was, and she'd known him.

And they'd not been R. Dorothy, or Roger Smith.

*****

She sat perched on a stool in the quiet, austere room, sitting perfectly still as Norman fiddled with the contents of her head. In spite of her outward stillness, inwardly her mind was raging. She was used to simple logic, quick and thorough understanding, not this feeling of puzzlement. It was certain, now, that at least some of the human Dorothy's memories were inside her - but why Roger? What was his connection with the Aaron of her dreams?

When she'd woken, Roger had done his best to pretend he hadn't been worried, but she knew the truth, had been able to see that odd expression in his eyes when she'd opened hers, before he hastily straightened and turned away, coughing into a fist. So many questions, but she didn't know how to answer them, how to bring them up in the first place. He would be willing to listen, she thought; this wouldn't be the first time something strange had happened to them.

Norman shifted positions around her, hemming and hawing to himself thoughtfully as he studied circuits and wires. "Well," he muttered, "there really doesn't seem to be anything out of order that I can tell. I am sorry, but I can't explain why you lost consciousness this morning."

Dorothy nodded slowly. "It is all right," she replied. "Not even my father knew exactly how I function."

"I will continue to search," the older man offered, "though I do not want to risk damaging anything."

Nodding in acquiescence, she continued waiting with her hands folded in her lap, puzzling over what she knew. This paled in comparison, however, to what she didn't know, and it was certain she would never figure anything out with only the information that she alone had. With a slow blink, R. Dorothy finally said, in a quiet voice, "Norman?"

"Why, yes, Dorothy?" he answered promptly, standing straight and removing the magnifier from his good eye.

I'm not sure how to begin - but I must begin somewhere. Speaking in her slow, even voice, the android queried, "Roger has been having odd dreams too, has he not?"

The butler nodded, though raising one bushy eyebrow at her at the same time. "From what he has told me, yes."

The thought in her head grew more insistent, more definite, until she came as close as she ever had to actually blurting something out. "Do you think that maybe, I have been giving him those dreams?"

Norman frowned, rubbing his long white moustache thoughtfully with his fingertips. "It may be possible, yes, but-"

"Search for something that might be capable of that," she said confidently, looking straight ahead as she had been. That might be the answer; maybe I am doing nothing more than broadcasting memories into his head.

As the butler bent once more over her, however, she knew - no, felt; it was something other than logic and reason - that this was not the answer. Even when Norman discovered a strange signal, a circuit or node, going mad inside her head, she still doubted her own sudden idea. After all, wouldn't Norman be dreaming too, if that was it?

When Roger dreamed, did he dream from her point of view, as he must if he were merely seeing her memory or was he seeing it through Aaron's eyes, an unexplainable thing? There was only one way to know.

"I am sorry, Dorothy," Norman apologized once more, startling her though she didn't jerk suddenly in response. "I cannot tell you what happened, except that the suspicious node might indeed be at fault. I do not dare tinker with it, however."

She felt him step back, closing her panels up again, making her human once more. "It is all right, Norman," she assuaged calmly, straightening her skirt as she slid off the stool. "Once Roger returns from his job, I will go speak with him." Dorothy looked up into the older man's sympathetic eyes, trying to let her words do for her what her carved-statue expression could not and give him some reassurance. "Together we should be able to find some answers."

*****

Dorothy stood outside his door, staring at its wooden outline in the barely-lit shadows of the hallway. Something was not right. No, it hadn't been all right all day; she hadn't been herself, had been feeling odd. Neither she nor Roger had said a word over dinner - it would have been a perfect time to talk, but she hadn't brought it up.

Why didn't I? she asked herself, continuing to look at the door. She'd been nervous - her; it was preposterous to even think of herself as capable of that emotion - and then frightened of her own nervousness. It hadn't started until she'd seen him, though; she'd been fine with just Norman around. And then Roger had then gone to bed, and she hadn't done a thing to stop him, call him back

Because every time she began to open her mouth to address him, the name that threatened to come out was Aaron. Because every time she moved, from the corner of her eye she thought she was home again. Dorothy's home. Because she felt her rationality, her own self, slipping away, because the memories were becoming more intense and controlling.

Her pale-white hand shot out before she was aware of telling it to, turning the knob of his door and opening it to reveal even deeper darkness, shadows upon shadows, a pale splotch upon navy sheets giving away the bed where Roger lay.
He was not asleep, however, for he sat up halfway as she entered, blinking in the faint light shining from the hall fixtures.

What, Dorothy?" he spat out in an aggrieved, irritated voice. "You know better than to-"

"Roger!" she gasped, her voice a strange slur that made him choke off his tirade.

What's wrong now? This morning was enough; can't I ever stop worrying about her? His eyes scanned her body unconsciously as she drifted toward him, her movements imprecise and very human. The android shook her head as if to clear it before coming to the edge of his bed and sitting down there. "What is the meaning-"

Once again, the tall man found his voice being cut off as the smaller figure leaned down above him, her hands on his broad shoulders firmly pushing him back down against the mattress. She looked questioning, nervous, what was probably a mirror of his own face. "Please, help me," she whispered, her hair falling forward to hide her features from view momentarily.

"How?" he asked, trying in vain to push her up; he'd been so relaxed a moment ago his muscles were protesting the sudden strain. Her head swung down to rest near his shoulder, her hand searching across his opposite arm. "What's wrong with you?"

Her lips trembled near his ear, her eyes mirror-like, so that he himself was all he could see in them. The chilliness of her fingertips drifted to the corner of his mouth, her face pleading, almost scared. He couldn't move, couldn't jerk away from the closeness of her touch the way his instinct was telling him to. He was caught in the soft sounds of his own unsteady breathing in the darkness, in wonder and fear and maybe even the wrongness of such desire as this.

"Aaron," she whispered against his skin, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from those eyes, something inside him reacting to the glowing flash within the dark reflective pupils. Like sparks shining in rhythm, speaking to his subconscious. Aaron - no, Roger - I'm... "Losing myself I'm losing myself" Her and who she was... I... "Help me - Roger-"

"How? Dorothy," he returned again in a hitching kind of gasp, feeling the weight of her head laying down upon his chest, almost as if she was trying to discern a heartbeat. Such comforting, anchoring heaviness, her red hair spread like a fan across the dark fabric of his pajamas. Heartbeat, memories those irregular flashes in her eyes, like a key turning in a lock. He knew then that he had lost himself too-

*****

The fire roared up brightly before her eyes, the inferno so huge that even from this distance she could feel the heat, see the red glow it cast onto her pale skin and diaphanous white nightdress. She felt a tightness in her throat as she leaned against the frame of the double doors leading out onto the balcony, her arms crossed tightly in front of her. No turning back now, is there, Father?

"Aaron, did you see?" Dorothy said aloud upon hearing the slight creak of the door's hinges, not needing to turn around to know who had just slipped into the bedroom behind her. For several days her boyfriend had been secretively living in the mansion, using the subway tunnel to bring his things and move around quietly. Her father had been too occupied with his plan to notice anything, even the android's disappearance. The reasons for that were obvious now; things were starting, and they could not be stopped.

"No, see what?" he asked, locking the door before sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his shoes. "You can smell something, that's for sure," Aaron noted in a forced cheerful tone, moving to stand next to her in the doorway, the fire's glow tainting the emerald-green color of his button-down shirt. "What is it they're burning down there?"

Dorothy was silent for a while, deliberately inhaling the acrid scent wafting through the air. "Books. They're burning books in the street, Aaron. They're burning the libraries-"

"What?" he spat, taking a step out toward the balcony, though her hand shot out and twisted itself into his sleeve to stop him going any further. "Why are they doing that? How? The police-"

"Have been controlled or bought," she finished for him. "Don't you see? They have to get rid of any evidence of the way things were before they wipe out the people's memories." Her brow furrowed. "Then only those left with memories will rule rule the flock," she muttered bitterly.

It was a long while before he spoke again, thinking over what she'd just told him. So, then, it's really happening. He sighed, shaking his head slightly, before softly stating, "It looks like it might rain. That'd help, at least."

"But it won't be enough," she stated quietly, her voice even and steady. "This is it. Once they've prepared, the Chariots will move into position. They will destroy the world and create a new one in its place."

Aaron frowned deeply, shaking her gently from where he stood. His movements grew steadily stronger, his eyes widening substantially. "No, I don't want to hear any more about it! Please," the tall man began, speaking forcefully. "Please, can you forget for one moment? Can you put aside your fear for just a while?" The pilot was feeling close to frantic now, helpless and scared and wondering what the future would bring - if it would bring anything at all.

He turned her to face him, almost desperately brushing the tears from her cheeks, trailing wet smears across her paleness. She slowly grabbed hold of his hands, squeezing them tightly, though her smile was ghost-like and not at all encouraging. "I - I would try, but-"

"Seeing you afraid just makes it worse. Let's forget," he said, gathering her close against him, feeling her arms come up around his back suddenly like an immovable anchor. He ducked his head, kissing her almost furiously, her ear, her cheek, the side of her neck. Dorothy didn't protest as he picked her up and carried her back into her bedroom, laying her down on the rumpled sheets of the bed.

There they made love with the streets on fire below them, the past burning to ash and the people wondering why as they themselves tried to forget the reason. With only desperation did their bodies move together, hands and legs and lips and the slickness of sweat-dotted skin only a distraction from the working of the mind. The pleasure, the release together an escape from grief, or perhaps an expression of grief, tongues tasting life and speaking in low murmured cries only of the senses.

He pulled from her body, arms still tight around her, cradling her amidst the disheveled mass of pillows and sheets. Dorothy reached up to brush the strands of his black hair that lay on his forehead, whispering clearly into the quiet bedroom draped in shadows, "But of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you may not take; for on the day when you take of it, death will certainly come to you"

"No, Dorothy," the man replied plainly, his grip tightening almost to the point of pain. He hid his face in her shoulder, his breath hot on her bare skin.

She said nothing more, simply laying there, eyes open, tangled with his limbs. Soon she became aware that Aaron was sleeping, retreating into unconsciousness like a last defense against what was happening outside the glass door to the world. Though she wanted nothing more than to join him, to leave it all behind, Dorothy knew sleep was only a temporary escape. Thanks to her father, she was to be a shepherd. She would not wake up to a new life, a new existence, like the others.

No - she would not wake up at all.

Slowly, so as not to disturb the man next to her, she slid out of bed, grabbing up her nightgown from where it had been thrown on the floor. Sliding it down over her head and shaking her short hair free of the collar, she moved silently over to the glass door leading to the balcony, her hand resting on its handle. This is the last day of the world as we know it...

The sky outside had turned an angry red, dotted with black specks that reminded her of birds, a swarm of insects, a pestilence. Megadeii, flying into the city. The Chariots were moving now. It had started.

She opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony, alone.

*****

He struggled briefly against the weight holding him down before feeling it suddenly fly away on its own. Roger immediately sat up straight, staring into the darkness momentarily before his gaze caught on the small pale figure sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of his mattress. She looked up at him, eyes wide and stunned, and he stared back in return, remembering her kiss, her touch but wasn't she an android?

"Gah!" he cried without thinking, rolling quickly to the other side of the bed and onto the floor, pulling up to his knees. Dorothy's face had still not resumed its mask, and with a choked cry she sprang up and ran, a streak of quicksilver, outside onto the balcony.

That dream - what was that? What the hell was that? he thought, severely unsettled by what he'd just experienced. I dreamed I... slept with Dorothy! But it wasn't her - and it wasn't me! It was him again! He shook his head violently, fingers closing tightly into the mass of sheets and blankets on top of the mattress. "No, this can't be!" he said aloud. "It can't be a memory, it's impossible!"

But what about Dorothy? Why had she been there? He remembered then, realized that she'd come into his room with a problem, had looked into his eyes so deep, and reflective, and-

Hands braced on the bed, Roger nearly exploded into a standing position. "She had it too!" he realized. The way she'd run after he'd noticed her, after she'd seen the shocked look on his face; it had to be true. I have to talk with her, he thought, frowning firmly and reaching for his robe on the chair nearby.

The thought that his reaction had hurt her feelings somehow nagged in the back of his mind, though he wasn't sure how to contend with that idea at the moment. At any rate, if she's giving me these memories, there has to be some way to make it stop, and now!

Confident that it could be done somehow, he slid his feet into his slippers and followed her path toward the glass door, still standing open and letting a chill breeze wail its way into his bedroom. The tall man stepped out onto the stones, her name on his lips, and then froze with his heart in his throat as he saw her standing on the balcony railing, facing the house. The sun was rising behind her, giving the sky a reddish glow.

No! he told himself sternly, stalking up to her and crossing his arms. "Dorothy, come down from there why did you run out here?" he asked finally.

"Roger," she said softly in response, making no move to come down; she no longer showed any emotion whatsoever, the wind tossing her red hair around her face. "I have been dreaming, Roger. I have been dreaming I was a human, that I was the real Dorothy, who lived forty years ago."

"But they're just dreams," he tried to say, though the explanation sounded even weaker once he'd said it aloud.

She shook her head once, a precise gesture that warred strongly with the increasing emotion in her voice. "No, they are memories. They are the memories of a daughter who was killed by her own father. And my - no, her father, guilty over what he had done, remembered her death even after losing his own memories. He remembered her enough to make me as a replacement."

Roger shook his head, running his hands though his sleep-mussed hair in frustration. "You don't know that, Dorothy. We don't know anything about what's going on."

"Who am I, Roger Smith?" she asked, holding out her hand toward him, though he was not close enough to take it. "What happens to my own memories, my own experiences? Am I a vessel for the human Dorothy? Do I have a soul of my own?"

"Dorothy," he said strongly, eyes blazing in assurance and a part of him aching at her understated despair, "you are your own person. I don't understand what's happening, but I know that much for sure. It's like I said before your own memories make you who you are." The man sighed, staring down at his slippers upon the stone. "Remember, the song you hum? It's-"

"Dorothy's favorite song," she finished simply, her black skirt fluttering wildly around her stocking-covered legs.

He waved his hands in a 'stop' gesture, trying frantically to figure out a way to reassure her enough to get her back to normal. There was something about this situation that was giving him a sense of alarm, of trying to hold sand in his fist. No, he needed control, and soon. "No, no! You are R. Dorothy Wayneright - you are yourself!" he told her, unsure of how better to say it.

She shook her head slowly, giving him a look filled with sorrow. "No, Aaron. I am losing myself. She will return, as my father wished her to, and I will be no more."

"I won't let it happen!" Roger cried out. "And I'm not him! I'm not Aaron, and you're not her! I don't want her, Dorothy, I don't want you to be her - all she is to me is a stranger with your face! Don't you see I-" he began, but his voice vanished in his throat, torn away by a stifled cry of horror.

Her eyes remaining firmly, unnaturally open, the android had rocked back on her heels, her outstretched hand falling away from him as she toppled backward