A/N: Metropolis still doesn't belong to me. How unfair.
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The hall seemed to sway for a moment as I knocked on Duke Red's doors, and I steadied myself on the frame. I shook my head- Something was getting to me, possibly the lack of sleep.
Duke Red stood at the window, surveying the sprawling city. He had an altogether strange expression on his face, and I was suddenly seized by the urge to confess to my murder if only he'd accept me... But without turning, he cut off my train of thought.
"Rock," he said, his voice heavy with some undecipherable emotion, "you have no doubt heard by now of the arsonist's attack last night?"
The nervous part of me seizes up and I jerk faintly, but my cool facade is already slipping into place.
"Yes," I said, lying smoothly, "a warehouse in Zone one, wasn't it? Not really our concern."
He scrutinized me for a moment, and I felt a cold sweat break out along my spine. /This is not good definitely not good-/
"Yes," he said, turning back, and I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Are you familiar with the area?"
I sensed danger, but sidestepped. "Yes..." I said, "I've heard reports of some sort of mad scientist living in the area. We've had complaints of children disappearing in the area as well." I took a chance- "Hmm... I wonder if the two are connected?" I watched my father carefully, rewarded with a sudden tension in his shoulders. "Well," I continued indifferently, "If it was the mad scientist's lab- Laughton, I think his name was? He's no big loss. He was wanted on several counts in at least seven countries."
Duke Red shuddered almost imperceptibly, leaning forward. I decided to press the point.
"You..." I hazarded, innocent, "didn't have dealings with him, did you, Father?"
I saw the anger in him as he turned to me. "Shut up," he growled coldly, "shut up and get out. You are not my son."
Knowing that tone all too well, I leave sadly. That's the voice that usually precedes a beating, usually after I've antagonized him like this... But he loves me, I know it. The pain is just a focus for my improvement. I half-turn, looking at my father with the understanding and sympathy I know he so rarely gets and dearly needs.
It is wasted. He does not look back.
As I leave, he puts his hands on the glass in a gesture of frustration and sadness. I wonder, wistfully, whether he mourns for my sister or myself, dead on the inside.