Paradigm Shift - Act 1: Paradise City|
"Oh, no. Every time you show up, something monumental and terrible happens."
With a lighthearted shrug and slight grin, Roger answered, "I’ll take that as a compliment."
"What are you negotiating for, anyway?" Major Dastun sighed, surveying the wrecked workspace he had only came to see a few minutes ago.
"The owners," Roger answered. Peering around at the trashed room and the detectives, he found this to be an extremely boring case. The room was cold and dingy, unused in years, decades, perhaps before the Event. Ancient electronic equipment lay on tables and ran through disused consoles, all of it degraded beyond repair. On one wall, a ceiling-height glass capsule stood shattered at the middle, its liquid contents puddle on the floor. "Turns out they didn’t know they owned the place until the military police inquired about the, ah, accident. So the insurance company’s trying to get out of paying for a coverage plan they didn’t know they had with them. Thought I’d survey the damage."
"You don’t think it was an accident?" Dastun raised an eyebrow.
Roger could tell he had gone into game mode. Dastun knew the answer to his question before asking it and likely agreed, but being social with one another was always an amusing diversion for Roger. "Oh, I dunno..."
In fact, it had been the first thing Roger had noticed. The glass from the capsule-thing was lying around in shards in the room, not lining the capsule’s bottom. Something had broken out of it from the inside.
Moreover, there was a dent in one wall, and the fine vertical lines made the obvious pattern of a clenched fist. Though what Roger couldn’t figure out was why someone would or could inflict such a blow on a metal wall, likely breaking every bone in their hand in the process.
This city was incredible. Incredible and...different. New, but only new to a man born before its construction, woken long after its completion. Paradigm City. The city of change. The city where humanity prospered at its finest.
The city where one man, wandering around aimlessly and taking in the sights, was completely lost. His eyes were a bit twitchy as if he were paranoid, the frayed bellbottoms and blue jacket over a red T-shirt combined into a fashion sense like nothing anyone had seen after the amnesia, and he found himself oddly without a place to go.
Stopping dead in his tracks, the man turned to see the speaker standing on a set of stairs leading to a building’s door, a fellow of medium height with blonde hair, a goofy grin, and with the worst goatee in existence.
"You look lost. What’s your name?"
Holding onto his jacket by the lapels as if physical activity was important for his thought process, he answered, "Jiro..."
"Well Jiro," the man with the goatee answered, "the lost usually take comfort in the arts. Maybe you should head over thata’way."
Jiro watched as the man jabbed his thumb in the direction of another street at the next intersection before he hopped off of the stairs and bounded away. "Strange man..."
‘The arts,’ he had said. Wasn’t music an art? Jiro really wanted to find a guitar.
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