PART 9
Dorothy looked up at the high walls of the Wayneright Mansion. She searched herself for any signs of feeling, and found none. She was unsure what had drawn her here. She slowly strode along the outward wall that blocked the property off from the street. She came to the great rested gate. The chains that kept it locked had been cut through, most likely by that strange woman Roger insisted on associating himself with. Dorothy tightened a fist in a movement that could have been annoyance. Roger was a handsome, intelligent, and wealthy man. Why he chose to keep involving himself with that rude, conniving, and manipulative woman.
Dorothy thrust those thoughts aside. She had to focus on the matter at hand: Damian. She did not know who was the person this name belonged to, but somewhere, in the deepest recesses of her memory banks, she knew that he had been here. The name rang inside her computerized mind, like the echo of a person's screams when they are first born. Somehow, she knew this Damian.
Dorothy leapt over the gate, an easy task for her powerful mechanical legs. She walked across the decaying lawn till she stood before the front door. She looked up at the house, trying to summon any of the real Dorothy's memories. In its place, she found strange, exotic sensations; she desired to know who this Damian was, she was about to enter the place where the real Dorothy had been born, lived, and died, she was walking into a portal into the life she had been made to mirror. She wondered for a moment...was this excitement? Fear perhaps? Or just curiosity? Or perhaps a combination of all those things, and some other, unnamable feelings.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound that slowly came to her on the wind. She focused on her internal machinery for a moment, and enhanced her hearing. Yes, it was there, quite distinct.
It was a violin being played.
Roger slowly applied each stroke of the brush. The paints smeared onto the canvas, taking shape with each touch. He smiled to himself, admiring his handiwork, and then looked at his subject.
Angel was indeed a marvelous sight to behold in the fading daylight. The shadows of the vanishing sun crawled along the flawless skin of her back, which was nude to him, as she was wearing nothing from the waist up. She sat with her back to him, though seated slightly at an angle, allowing him to view just enough of her delicate breasts to permit decency. Her glorious hair seemed to sparkle in the blazing light of the setting sun, and when she occasionally brushed it back from her face shoulder it tumbled through the air, grabbing Roger's total attention.
"I must admit, I was flattered when you asked if you could paint me" she said over her shoulder, shaking him from his admiration of her. He smiled and resumed his brushwork.
"Well, I figure I won't get a chance like this again; you're perfect figure in the perfect sunset."
"Flattery will get you nowhere" she chuckled. "How much longer will you be? I'm cold." She giggled slightly. Roger found himself unable to not watch the slight motion of her bared breasts as her body trembled with her laughter.
"Just a little more shading should be enough for today" he said with a touch of brush to canvas. "If you're cold, I'll turn up the heat."
"Hmm, that would be nice" she sighed over her shoulder, her voice lowering to a sexy baritone, "But there are other ways of staying warm." She threw Roger a gaze over her shoulder that sent chills through his body, causing him to nearly drop the paint covered brush he clutched in his hand. She allowed herself a cunning smirk and then decided to talk business. "Besides, don't you think we should be out looking for more clues about Damian?"
"We've worked hard enough for today, now I just want to relax" he said as he made some final touches, "Besides, if anything, I have a feeling he will come find us soon enough." He stepped back for a moment to admire his own work, and then set down his pallet. "There. You can dress now." He turned around to untie his smock while Angel pulled her bra and shirt back on.
She came over to him to look at the painting. She smiled, more than a little self satisfied; it was much better than the portrait he had made of Dorothy, and she herself was nowhere near as able to hold a pose as well. Surely this as a sign of some sort of favor.
"Angel..." Roger said, and she turned to face him. His eyes were serious, and she felt her heart sink slightly, hoping there was not some sort of message to the contrary coming. "Why did you come to me for help?" he said, and she gave a tiny sigh of relief, her small fantasy undisturbed. "I know you have contacts elsewhere in the city...so why did you come to me?"
"Well, Roger..." she said, stepping closer, "Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure myself. I guess I just felt I would be safe with you." She wrapped her arms around his torso and nuzzled her head against his chest. He slowly began to coil his arms around her when Norman spoke up.
"Master Roger, I am so sorry to interrupt you and Miss Angel, but Colonel Dastun is on the phone. He says he needs to speak to you immediately."
Roger and Angel both restrained glares of annoyance, and Roger excused himself. Angel looked at the painting as he left the room.
"This better be important Dastun..." Roger said, his irritation clear in his voice as he held the phone to his face.
"I'm at the cemetery Roger. How soon can you be here?"
"The where?"
"You better get down here now, Roger. There is something I think you need to see."
Dorothy walked as quietly as she could through the dusty recesses of the mansion. The music was louder now, more clear. It flowed through the emptiness of the building, and she stopped every few minutes just to listen to it. It was very masterfully played, and the piece itself was one that she herself admired.
She stepped into the large living-room, and stood before the portrait of the real Dorothy. She looked into its eyes, trying to see if she could perhaps find any piece of herself in them. Was she any different than the real Dorothy had been? She had been made to fill Dorothy's place in the world, but had she herself not assumed a unique role of her own? For a moment, she found herself conjuring up a slightly altered version of a question she had once asked Roger Smith: she wondered, if the real Dorothy had met Roger, would they have fallen in love?
The music drew her out of these thoughts, and she continued to follow it. She slowly made her way up the winding staircase, stepping far more lightly and gracefully than a human being could, keeping her approach masked in silence.
"What is it Dastun?" Roger snarled after stepping out of his car.
"I can't quite explain it myself, Roger. You better just follow me and see for yourself." They started through the cemetery, winding through the rows of headstones, their heads bowed slightly in respect for the dead.
Roger hesitated when they passed the graves of Timothy Wayneright and Miguel Solderno. He wondered if Damian had been the man Dastun had seen here. For a moment, his memory conjured the image of Dorothy kneeling to pray here, between the graves of her creators. But then his memory brought the image of the eyes that had gazed at him from under that red hood, and he shivered.
"Roger?"
"I'm fine Dastun. Just lead the way." They resumed their walk through the cemetery. They walked and walked, and Roger was almost beginning to wonder if they were ever going to reach their destination. They seemed to be going further and further back into the graveyard, back to where the graves of those who died shortly after The Event were buried. They stopped several feet from a group of headstones that were covered by ivy vines.
"There" Dastun said, pointing, "The last stone on the right. Go look at it." Roger eyed his friend skeptically, but then did as instructed. He knelt before the marker, running his fingers over its smooth stone for a moment. He then began to yank determinedly at the vines that obscured the engraving from view. As he pulled them away, he felt his heartbeat starting to pound harder and harder, till he read the inscription, when his heart froze in his chest.
"Damian!"
Dorothy stood before the closed door, waiting, listening. The music was loudest now; clearly the musician was inside. She pushed the door open only a small crack, looking in.
It was a large room, resembling Roger Smith's great living-room. There were some pieces of furniture, all in good condition, a fireplace, and windows covered by large drapes.
And in the center of the room was a piano, so much like the one she played every morning to rouse Roger. It glistened, polished and smooth. The ivory keys seemed to almost glow in the dim light, and her finger twitched in an involuntary action.
Bu demanding her full attention was the figure who stood next to the piano. He had the violin tucked against his shoulder. He played it like a master the music flawless. Dorothy found herself mesmerized by that music. She forgot herself, and took a few steps into the room. If the player noticed her presence he gave no indication of it. He kept on playing till he brought the melody to a heart-aching finish, the final chords echoing through the house just as they echoed through Dorothy. He set the violin into its case, resting on the piano, and closed it. He then turned, acknowledging Dorothy for the first time. He locked her with his eyes, so shockingly like her own. His face was unmoving, showing not the slightest hint of emotion. He strode across the great room till he stood directly in front of Dorothy.
"Welcome home Dorothy" he spoke in a voice that would have made Dorothy's heart skip a beat if she had one, "I have been waiting for you."
"Who are you?" Dorothy asked, her voice now holding more emotion than she had ever displayed in her artificial life up to this point.
"I am R. Damian Wayneright. I am your brother."
Dorothy looked up at the high walls of the Wayneright Mansion. She searched herself for any signs of feeling, and found none. She was unsure what had drawn her here. She slowly strode along the outward wall that blocked the property off from the street. She came to the great rested gate. The chains that kept it locked had been cut through, most likely by that strange woman Roger insisted on associating himself with. Dorothy tightened a fist in a movement that could have been annoyance. Roger was a handsome, intelligent, and wealthy man. Why he chose to keep involving himself with that rude, conniving, and manipulative woman.
Dorothy thrust those thoughts aside. She had to focus on the matter at hand: Damian. She did not know who was the person this name belonged to, but somewhere, in the deepest recesses of her memory banks, she knew that he had been here. The name rang inside her computerized mind, like the echo of a person's screams when they are first born. Somehow, she knew this Damian.
Dorothy leapt over the gate, an easy task for her powerful mechanical legs. She walked across the decaying lawn till she stood before the front door. She looked up at the house, trying to summon any of the real Dorothy's memories. In its place, she found strange, exotic sensations; she desired to know who this Damian was, she was about to enter the place where the real Dorothy had been born, lived, and died, she was walking into a portal into the life she had been made to mirror. She wondered for a moment...was this excitement? Fear perhaps? Or just curiosity? Or perhaps a combination of all those things, and some other, unnamable feelings.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound that slowly came to her on the wind. She focused on her internal machinery for a moment, and enhanced her hearing. Yes, it was there, quite distinct.
It was a violin being played.
Roger slowly applied each stroke of the brush. The paints smeared onto the canvas, taking shape with each touch. He smiled to himself, admiring his handiwork, and then looked at his subject.
Angel was indeed a marvelous sight to behold in the fading daylight. The shadows of the vanishing sun crawled along the flawless skin of her back, which was nude to him, as she was wearing nothing from the waist up. She sat with her back to him, though seated slightly at an angle, allowing him to view just enough of her delicate breasts to permit decency. Her glorious hair seemed to sparkle in the blazing light of the setting sun, and when she occasionally brushed it back from her face shoulder it tumbled through the air, grabbing Roger's total attention.
"I must admit, I was flattered when you asked if you could paint me" she said over her shoulder, shaking him from his admiration of her. He smiled and resumed his brushwork.
"Well, I figure I won't get a chance like this again; you're perfect figure in the perfect sunset."
"Flattery will get you nowhere" she chuckled. "How much longer will you be? I'm cold." She giggled slightly. Roger found himself unable to not watch the slight motion of her bared breasts as her body trembled with her laughter.
"Just a little more shading should be enough for today" he said with a touch of brush to canvas. "If you're cold, I'll turn up the heat."
"Hmm, that would be nice" she sighed over her shoulder, her voice lowering to a sexy baritone, "But there are other ways of staying warm." She threw Roger a gaze over her shoulder that sent chills through his body, causing him to nearly drop the paint covered brush he clutched in his hand. She allowed herself a cunning smirk and then decided to talk business. "Besides, don't you think we should be out looking for more clues about Damian?"
"We've worked hard enough for today, now I just want to relax" he said as he made some final touches, "Besides, if anything, I have a feeling he will come find us soon enough." He stepped back for a moment to admire his own work, and then set down his pallet. "There. You can dress now." He turned around to untie his smock while Angel pulled her bra and shirt back on.
She came over to him to look at the painting. She smiled, more than a little self satisfied; it was much better than the portrait he had made of Dorothy, and she herself was nowhere near as able to hold a pose as well. Surely this as a sign of some sort of favor.
"Angel..." Roger said, and she turned to face him. His eyes were serious, and she felt her heart sink slightly, hoping there was not some sort of message to the contrary coming. "Why did you come to me for help?" he said, and she gave a tiny sigh of relief, her small fantasy undisturbed. "I know you have contacts elsewhere in the city...so why did you come to me?"
"Well, Roger..." she said, stepping closer, "Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure myself. I guess I just felt I would be safe with you." She wrapped her arms around his torso and nuzzled her head against his chest. He slowly began to coil his arms around her when Norman spoke up.
"Master Roger, I am so sorry to interrupt you and Miss Angel, but Colonel Dastun is on the phone. He says he needs to speak to you immediately."
Roger and Angel both restrained glares of annoyance, and Roger excused himself. Angel looked at the painting as he left the room.
"This better be important Dastun..." Roger said, his irritation clear in his voice as he held the phone to his face.
"I'm at the cemetery Roger. How soon can you be here?"
"The where?"
"You better get down here now, Roger. There is something I think you need to see."
Dorothy walked as quietly as she could through the dusty recesses of the mansion. The music was louder now, more clear. It flowed through the emptiness of the building, and she stopped every few minutes just to listen to it. It was very masterfully played, and the piece itself was one that she herself admired.
She stepped into the large living-room, and stood before the portrait of the real Dorothy. She looked into its eyes, trying to see if she could perhaps find any piece of herself in them. Was she any different than the real Dorothy had been? She had been made to fill Dorothy's place in the world, but had she herself not assumed a unique role of her own? For a moment, she found herself conjuring up a slightly altered version of a question she had once asked Roger Smith: she wondered, if the real Dorothy had met Roger, would they have fallen in love?
The music drew her out of these thoughts, and she continued to follow it. She slowly made her way up the winding staircase, stepping far more lightly and gracefully than a human being could, keeping her approach masked in silence.
"What is it Dastun?" Roger snarled after stepping out of his car.
"I can't quite explain it myself, Roger. You better just follow me and see for yourself." They started through the cemetery, winding through the rows of headstones, their heads bowed slightly in respect for the dead.
Roger hesitated when they passed the graves of Timothy Wayneright and Miguel Solderno. He wondered if Damian had been the man Dastun had seen here. For a moment, his memory conjured the image of Dorothy kneeling to pray here, between the graves of her creators. But then his memory brought the image of the eyes that had gazed at him from under that red hood, and he shivered.
"Roger?"
"I'm fine Dastun. Just lead the way." They resumed their walk through the cemetery. They walked and walked, and Roger was almost beginning to wonder if they were ever going to reach their destination. They seemed to be going further and further back into the graveyard, back to where the graves of those who died shortly after The Event were buried. They stopped several feet from a group of headstones that were covered by ivy vines.
"There" Dastun said, pointing, "The last stone on the right. Go look at it." Roger eyed his friend skeptically, but then did as instructed. He knelt before the marker, running his fingers over its smooth stone for a moment. He then began to yank determinedly at the vines that obscured the engraving from view. As he pulled them away, he felt his heartbeat starting to pound harder and harder, till he read the inscription, when his heart froze in his chest.
"Damian!"
Dorothy stood before the closed door, waiting, listening. The music was loudest now; clearly the musician was inside. She pushed the door open only a small crack, looking in.
It was a large room, resembling Roger Smith's great living-room. There were some pieces of furniture, all in good condition, a fireplace, and windows covered by large drapes.
And in the center of the room was a piano, so much like the one she played every morning to rouse Roger. It glistened, polished and smooth. The ivory keys seemed to almost glow in the dim light, and her finger twitched in an involuntary action.
Bu demanding her full attention was the figure who stood next to the piano. He had the violin tucked against his shoulder. He played it like a master the music flawless. Dorothy found herself mesmerized by that music. She forgot herself, and took a few steps into the room. If the player noticed her presence he gave no indication of it. He kept on playing till he brought the melody to a heart-aching finish, the final chords echoing through the house just as they echoed through Dorothy. He set the violin into its case, resting on the piano, and closed it. He then turned, acknowledging Dorothy for the first time. He locked her with his eyes, so shockingly like her own. His face was unmoving, showing not the slightest hint of emotion. He strode across the great room till he stood directly in front of Dorothy.
"Welcome home Dorothy" he spoke in a voice that would have made Dorothy's heart skip a beat if she had one, "I have been waiting for you."
"Who are you?" Dorothy asked, her voice now holding more emotion than she had ever displayed in her artificial life up to this point.
"I am R. Damian Wayneright. I am your brother."