PART 4
There was a light in the window. Angel looked up and narrowed her eyes, trying to make out any shapes that might be visible. But all she saw was a dim light. But there was definitely someone home.
She entered the Wayneright Mansion cautiously, walking very slowly, her footfalls soft and silent. She stopped every dozen feet or so to listen. When she found herself standing before the great portrait of Dorothy Wayneright, the real Dorothy Wayneright, she stopped to examine the face. It did indeed look like that foul tempered android Roger Smith had become so attached to. But there was the distinct difference in the features of the face, the details of the eyes and the smile that implied life. The current Dorothy lacked those. Angel felt a slight twinge of annoyance when she thought about that android. Roger Smith was a handsome, intelligent, and wealthy man; he could have his choice of women to fill that dull mansion of his, and yet he chose one who was not even a real woman. The reasoning behind his thinking escaped her
The sound of footsteps shook her back to reality. They were somewhere nearby. She carefully made her way through the passageways she had encountered on her previous visit to this place. The halls were all aired out, and doors had been left open, implying a recent inhabitant. This was getting better every second.
She found herself standing before a door. Below the door, she could see the lights on. She reached for her gun, but froze when the sounds of music rose to her ears. It was the playing of a violin, soft and sweet. The music rose and filled the emptiness of the great mansion, giving the impressions of life and happiness.
Angel shrugged the music off and readied herself. She threw the door open, and gazed into the large room. In the center, a grand piano sat. And next to the piano was a man. No, not a man, his movements were all wrong; something was not right. He was playing the violin she had heard, but he stopped the instant she entered. He turned and faced her with eyes cold as ice, but the moment they locked on her they filled with a rage she had never imagined.
"Woman, what are you doing here?"
Angel screamed.
Angel snapped awake. Her eyes flicked about and took in the now familiar surroundings of Roger Smith's home. She looked down and remembered her condition; she was seated in a wheelchair, her legs held out straight in front of her, covered in casts. "Well, glad to see you're up and about." Roger Smith's voice drew her attention to the doorway. He stood, leaning against the doorframe, and amused smile playing across his face.
"Thanks for the consideration." Angel said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"She seemed desperate for mobility." Norman explained from behind Roger. "Her legs will need a few more days before they are healed enough to begin any sort of therapy." He set down a tray of food on the nightstand next to the bed and then left them.
"Now that isn't very nice." Roger said as he sat down alongside the bed. "Norman went to great lengths to help you, the least you could do is be nice to him." Roger said. Angel sighed sadly, and looked down at her lap. Roger let her think for a moment before he pressed her for details. "Angel, how did this happen?"
"I heard a rumor..." she said, very hesitantly. "About how Soldeno's..."
"Solderno's ghost is walking at night." Roger cut her off.
"How did you know that?" she said, her surprise registering in her face.
"I have my resources. Go on."
"I went to the Wayneright Mansion, trying to find memories. But when I got there, there was someone else there. He called me a trespasser, and he chased me. I...I can't remember much after that."
"Someone was waiting at the Wayneright Mansion?" Roger said, now feeling even more confused. "Who were they?" he thought aloud.
"His name is Damian." Roger looked at Angel, his eyes large, disbelieving.
"How did you know that?"
"I...I don't know..."
Colonel Dastun sighed and crossed his arms. He looked down at the floor, grumbling to himself. He had hoped to get more information from Roger Smith, but old feelings of loyalty kept him from pressing him for more details. He could just get a warrant and have Roger's home searched, but Roger was a good man, and to do so would simply destroy his chances of getting any further help from him in the future.
Dastun's eyes rose out to gaze at the city. He could not help but feel some frustration at working in this city; this city without memories. When people could not remember who they were, where they came from, how could he ask them to place any trust in him or his people? And what little trust the public had in the Military Police diminished each time the black megadues appeared. It's presence was a constant reminder of the shortcomings of the police, of their weakness. He sometimes despaired of ever being able to truly protect these people the way they needed to. What could he and his people do against these forces that kept coming from parts unknown, wielding such tremendous and terrible power?
He shook his head and determined not to think about that stuff for the rest of the day. He tried to focus on the situation at hand. He knew the wrecked motorcycle belonged to that strange woman who came from outside Paradigm. And he knew that Roger knew who she was, and was probably hiding something, maybe inside that mansion of his. And there was a rumor floating about the streets about the man who had created Dorothy, Roger's live-in android. Somehow those things had to connect. But how?
All of these thoughts drained immediately from Dastun when he saw the man in the cemetery. He was kneeling before one of the graves, seemingly praying. Something about him made Dastun's instincts flare, and he ordered his driver to stop. He leapt from the patrol car, scrambled over the fence, ran between the gravestones, but was too little, too late. The man had already vanished.
"Damn." Dastun growled under his breath, and pulled on the brim of his hat. He looked down at the graves. "What the hell..." he thought aloud. He was staring down at the headstones of Timothy Wayneright and Miguel Solderno. And placed on the ground below Wayneright's headstone was a small picture. Dastun picked it up and examined it.
It was a black and white photograph. In it, a man and woman's bodies were visible, but not their faces, their heads cut out of the picture at the neck. In the woman's lap was a baby, smiling with an infant's joy. Dastun flipped the picture over and read the word penned on it. "Damian..."
There was a light in the window. Angel looked up and narrowed her eyes, trying to make out any shapes that might be visible. But all she saw was a dim light. But there was definitely someone home.
She entered the Wayneright Mansion cautiously, walking very slowly, her footfalls soft and silent. She stopped every dozen feet or so to listen. When she found herself standing before the great portrait of Dorothy Wayneright, the real Dorothy Wayneright, she stopped to examine the face. It did indeed look like that foul tempered android Roger Smith had become so attached to. But there was the distinct difference in the features of the face, the details of the eyes and the smile that implied life. The current Dorothy lacked those. Angel felt a slight twinge of annoyance when she thought about that android. Roger Smith was a handsome, intelligent, and wealthy man; he could have his choice of women to fill that dull mansion of his, and yet he chose one who was not even a real woman. The reasoning behind his thinking escaped her
The sound of footsteps shook her back to reality. They were somewhere nearby. She carefully made her way through the passageways she had encountered on her previous visit to this place. The halls were all aired out, and doors had been left open, implying a recent inhabitant. This was getting better every second.
She found herself standing before a door. Below the door, she could see the lights on. She reached for her gun, but froze when the sounds of music rose to her ears. It was the playing of a violin, soft and sweet. The music rose and filled the emptiness of the great mansion, giving the impressions of life and happiness.
Angel shrugged the music off and readied herself. She threw the door open, and gazed into the large room. In the center, a grand piano sat. And next to the piano was a man. No, not a man, his movements were all wrong; something was not right. He was playing the violin she had heard, but he stopped the instant she entered. He turned and faced her with eyes cold as ice, but the moment they locked on her they filled with a rage she had never imagined.
"Woman, what are you doing here?"
Angel screamed.
Angel snapped awake. Her eyes flicked about and took in the now familiar surroundings of Roger Smith's home. She looked down and remembered her condition; she was seated in a wheelchair, her legs held out straight in front of her, covered in casts. "Well, glad to see you're up and about." Roger Smith's voice drew her attention to the doorway. He stood, leaning against the doorframe, and amused smile playing across his face.
"Thanks for the consideration." Angel said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"She seemed desperate for mobility." Norman explained from behind Roger. "Her legs will need a few more days before they are healed enough to begin any sort of therapy." He set down a tray of food on the nightstand next to the bed and then left them.
"Now that isn't very nice." Roger said as he sat down alongside the bed. "Norman went to great lengths to help you, the least you could do is be nice to him." Roger said. Angel sighed sadly, and looked down at her lap. Roger let her think for a moment before he pressed her for details. "Angel, how did this happen?"
"I heard a rumor..." she said, very hesitantly. "About how Soldeno's..."
"Solderno's ghost is walking at night." Roger cut her off.
"How did you know that?" she said, her surprise registering in her face.
"I have my resources. Go on."
"I went to the Wayneright Mansion, trying to find memories. But when I got there, there was someone else there. He called me a trespasser, and he chased me. I...I can't remember much after that."
"Someone was waiting at the Wayneright Mansion?" Roger said, now feeling even more confused. "Who were they?" he thought aloud.
"His name is Damian." Roger looked at Angel, his eyes large, disbelieving.
"How did you know that?"
"I...I don't know..."
Colonel Dastun sighed and crossed his arms. He looked down at the floor, grumbling to himself. He had hoped to get more information from Roger Smith, but old feelings of loyalty kept him from pressing him for more details. He could just get a warrant and have Roger's home searched, but Roger was a good man, and to do so would simply destroy his chances of getting any further help from him in the future.
Dastun's eyes rose out to gaze at the city. He could not help but feel some frustration at working in this city; this city without memories. When people could not remember who they were, where they came from, how could he ask them to place any trust in him or his people? And what little trust the public had in the Military Police diminished each time the black megadues appeared. It's presence was a constant reminder of the shortcomings of the police, of their weakness. He sometimes despaired of ever being able to truly protect these people the way they needed to. What could he and his people do against these forces that kept coming from parts unknown, wielding such tremendous and terrible power?
He shook his head and determined not to think about that stuff for the rest of the day. He tried to focus on the situation at hand. He knew the wrecked motorcycle belonged to that strange woman who came from outside Paradigm. And he knew that Roger knew who she was, and was probably hiding something, maybe inside that mansion of his. And there was a rumor floating about the streets about the man who had created Dorothy, Roger's live-in android. Somehow those things had to connect. But how?
All of these thoughts drained immediately from Dastun when he saw the man in the cemetery. He was kneeling before one of the graves, seemingly praying. Something about him made Dastun's instincts flare, and he ordered his driver to stop. He leapt from the patrol car, scrambled over the fence, ran between the gravestones, but was too little, too late. The man had already vanished.
"Damn." Dastun growled under his breath, and pulled on the brim of his hat. He looked down at the graves. "What the hell..." he thought aloud. He was staring down at the headstones of Timothy Wayneright and Miguel Solderno. And placed on the ground below Wayneright's headstone was a small picture. Dastun picked it up and examined it.
It was a black and white photograph. In it, a man and woman's bodies were visible, but not their faces, their heads cut out of the picture at the neck. In the woman's lap was a baby, smiling with an infant's joy. Dastun flipped the picture over and read the word penned on it. "Damian..."