[Fan Fiction] Big O Parallel Universe

.....oh boy

I have to apologize to everyone, especially to Lady Tesser, for not putting in my contributions

im really sorry

i REALLY need to come here more often

I woke up in the middle of the night last night, dying of thirst. Out of nowhere this funny Dorian scene popped into my head. So I started scribbling it down in the notebook that lives in my pillowcase (You can never be too close to a notebook. You never know when inspiration will strike. ). After a few minutes I looked up at the clock and realized that I must have woken up at 1:30am, precicely the time I would have been watching Big O on the three nights previous. I guess my subconscious has decided it needs Big O content at the same time every night, even if it's DIY.

Well, that scene is fast growing into a short story. It may prove a bit far out to be part of the official continuity, but I'll probably post it in here durring the intermission for kicks and giggles, if no one minds.

I do have some questions, though. Does anyone know anything about or have any plans for Seebach's fiance? I think he's making a quick cameo in my story, searching for a little truth of his own regarding her dissapearance. He's not integral to the overall plot, so I can ditch him if need be. Does Mikey's wife appear anywhere in the manga? I haven't read any of them yet, though I plan to (I'm expecting the first one next week). Oh, and one more question from way out in left field: If animals are so rare, what has Norma(n) been feeding Roger/Roxanne?

Mike Seebach's wife never made an appearance in the manga (although pre-Schwarzwald Seebach does - that's why I have Major Smith calling him 'Beard-Boy' in my third story of my saga). There was a thread that mentioned her at the Smith Mansion (someone suggested a story involving her, but nothing was done about it).

Michelle Seebach's fiance is an undeveloped character, one that has no story and no history. You can go to town on him, Pero.

There was also a thread dedicated to the food stuffs of Paradigm City and it became a debate between animals being raised vs. genetically grown meat vs. veggie meat ...

Personally, I tend to think it's veggie meat because of what happened in episode 7, but that's mainly because I'm a vegetarian. ^_^

Go ahead and write it up, I can't wait to see it!

I hope y'all aren't waitin' on lil ol' me!

I'm afraid I've run into a wall with my story and my muse hasn't pried me down yet. As a result, I keep picking at what I've written so far. If I don't post it soon there won't be anything left! I've also been pretty distracted by my blinding hatred of mankind-- My best friend's fiance (formerly the nicest guy I knew) has just decided that their relationship would be stronger if she'd get over herself and let him DATE someone else while she continues to play housekeeper for him. I want to hit him with a truck. She's been staying with me and trying to figure out what to do. Regrettably, she's down on the whole truck thing so this could take a while. I don't know when I'll get back into this, but I do have a few segments I can post for now. I hope to wrap the writing up soon. It is a pleasant distraction that doesn't involve vehicular homicide.

Here's part one.


A Cold Day in Hell

Unlikely trainwreck by Pero_Is_Crying


Dorian had been cleaning under Roxanne’s desk when he nudged something with his broom. It was one of the most coolly deadly looking pieces of weaponry in her business arsenal. He examined it closely- shiny, black (of course), as pointed as an edged weapon, and slightly subtler than a stepladder. Dorian had a hard time picturing a human foot fitting comfortably into a stiletto heel, especially not the somewhat large feet that padded around the penthouse and occasionally found their way, rather distastefully he thought, onto the coffee table.

When Roxanne burst in and discovered the android staring face to toe with one of her shoes, lost in silent contemplation, she momentarily forgot what she was going to complain about. Though it was late in the afternoon, she was still in her tattered black robe, her hair flying wildly about her yet unpainted face. It wasn’t a lack of makeup that made her look three shades paler than usual. No, her eyes were puffy, her nose was stuffed, and her throat was on fire. Roxanne Smith was as sick at the proverbial dog.

“Whud are you doink?” She asked.

“Does anyone have a foot actually shaped like this?” Dorian asked, still unaware of the place answering a question with a question fit into Roxanne’s rigid collection of rules.

She sighed, more than a little angrily.

“Pud that down!”

The shoe returned to its partner beneath the desk.

“Now, why didn somebody wake me ub before now?” she demanded.

“I was under the impression that you didn’t like being awakened before you were ready.”

Did she imagine that he smirked a little? Was it a trick of the light?

“I don. Bud I never sleeb this lade. I’m goink to be lade for a meedink!”

“You’re not going to any meeting, Roxanne.” Dorian said matter-of-factly. “You are not well. You should return to bed.”

Roxanne bristled at being told what to do. She was going to say something tactless, but coughed involuntarily instead.

“Jus ged me a cough drop and a glass of amareddo. I’ll be fine.” She growled, rubbing her sore throat.

Dorian reached out and touched her forehead, taking her a little by surprise. She flinched. His cool synthetic skin seemed cold enough to melt on her burning brow.

“You have a temperature of 104.42 and your heartrate is rising. None of your dubious home remedies will make you well enough to work today. Yesterday was pushing it.”

Roxanne scowled, unwilling to admit that he was right.

“Whud kind of broffessional would I be if I jus lefd cliends in da lurch widdout so much as a word? I’ve been mediadink da Comery’s divorce for weeks now. I’m sure Mrs. Comery ad leass would like do move on.”

“How professional would it be to show up sick and barely able to speak?” Dorian asked. “Besides, what could ‘Paradigm City’s top negotiator’ still have to do after working a case for so long?”

“Nod much.” She admitted, her expression softening. “I only have do collecd Mr. Comery’s compleded paperwork. I think I can handle that easily enough.”

She swayed for a moment before reaching out for the desk to steady herself.

“I could do that just as easily.”

Roxanne was getting pretty light headed from standing there. She was almost willing to admit defeat if it meant a return to the warm dark cave she’d been hibernating in until a few minutes ago.

“Would you?” she asked, momentarily hopeful, and perhaps, delirious. “No, I couldn led you do thad. Comery’s been draggink his feed on this divorce since day one. He probably hasn signed anythink yed. He may still need some persuasion.”

“If I can persuade you to take a day off of work I hardly think negotiating with anyone else would present a challenge.”

Dorian stood arrow straight and clasped his hands behind his back in a calculated gesture of confidence, one borrowed from Roxanne.

“I don know, Dorian,” Roxanne said, oblivious to the sincerest form of flattery. “It’s a delicade siduation. He may nod respond to simble reason.”

“Just so long as you do.” Said Dorian. “You make Norma worry. She takes that slogan on her favorite apron to heart when she’s worried.”

“The one thad says ‘Mean Old Bitch?’” Roxanne laughed. Laughing only made her cough some more.

Dorian nodded slightly, his face still impassive.

“I’m sure everything will work out fine.” He insisted. “It's merely running an errand, after all. But if things go badly, you can take care of them yourself when you’re feeling better.”

Finally, Roxanne conceded, “Alrighd, you win. Don’t screw up.”

“Now, who’s Paradigm City’s top negotiator?” Dorian asked wryly as she left the room.

Roxanne laughed and coughed all the way back to bed.

Dorian had made some good points. Still, I think it was the way the room rocked and my head swam at the thought of having to drive all the way to East Town in the rain that closed the deal. I didn’t know if he could handle the job or not. But he could certainly maintain an air of professionalism and authority better than I could because he wouldn’t be hacking up a lung. Dorian the Negotiator? Hah! Errand boy, maybe. Negotiator, no way!

*******

Ooh, yes, new Act 5 - yum! Keep going, Pero, you have my support! I love Dorian finding her shoe and just staring at it, wondering why she torments herself in those four inch stilettoes. Plus having Dorian offer to tie up the loose ends of a case is so sweet of him ... so what trouble is he going to get into? ^_^

(And people do things for the stupidest non-reasons - comfort your friend, don't push the issue with her ... and I suggest tying the jerk to the back of the truck and dragging him down a gravel road for a mile or two. It straightens attitudes real quick in my family.)

Thanks, Lady T. The shoe thing is what popped into my head when I woke up that night. I'm leary of calling this "Act 5", though, because I think it'll end a little too weird for the "official" continuity. It's just a little bit of fluff to keep the thread active until the next ep.

**crosses fingers and hopes for "Legacy of Amadeus"**

As for my friend, she went home to work things out with the jerk. So now I'm REALLY worried.

Anyhoo, here's part two-


While the world outside the domes remained cold and rainy for the third straight day, in Alistair Comery’s yard it seemed bright and warm as summer in the tropics as people could only imagine after the Event. Comery appeared to be relaxing at a table in the shade of a palm tree near a kidney shaped swimming pool. Surveying the scene from a distance caused a song to pop into Dorian’s head, one that he couldn’t recall hearing before and one that he really didn’t care to hear at all. There must have been a reason “Margaritaville” didn’t survive the Event. Whatever it was, Dorian agreed with it.

A butler dressed not unlike Dorian had been only an hour before lead him through lush gardens of large bright flowers, broad ferns, and other convincing but fake vegetation that may or may not have existed more than 40 years ago. For a moment he felt very out of place in his black suit pressing though the jungle. Remembering that the dreamed up plastic paradise was itself very out of place in a domed city in the middle of untold miles of wasteland put those thoughts out of his head. Clearly, it was the gentleman in the loud “Hawaiian” shirt and the horn-rimmed spectacles whose taste, if not sanity, was in question.

For days, Dr. Alistair Comery had been hiding out in his kitschy back yard jungle. From an improvised office by the pool he could receive guests, but he couldn’t hear the movers or see his life being packed into boxes and carried away. Any remaining awareness he had of what was going on he often tried to dull with scotch. It was no way to carry out a negotiation, that’s for sure. Under the circumstances, I was willing to forgive his lack of professionalism. Over the years the scientist had been so wrapped up in his research that he didn’t notice his marriage was falling apart. By the time he had, I was knocking on his door. It’s a shame that too often people turn to lawyers and negotiators instead of simply talking to each other. That’s just one of the unpleasant truths of my job.

I don’t think anyone knows for sure what Comery was researching. Even Leticia, his wife, could do no more than speculate that it had something to do with either recovering memories or surviving in adverse climates—neither of which seemed very important to her. For twenty years she’d unsuccessfully competed with Alistair’s secrets. Twenty years is a lot of time to put into a one sided relationship. How could anyone stay with someone that obtuse for so long?

Dorian slipped on a narrow pair of mirrored sunglasses he’d bought for the occasion. Roxanne had explained once the importance of hiding one’s eyes when meeting the opposition for the first time. Humans are apparently unnerved when they can’t see into the eyes of the person with whom they are speaking. Politeness dictated that the glasses be removed before settling into business, but the initial effect of intimidation could go a long way, particularly when you’re Roxanne Smith. Dorian wasn’t, of course. He thought the glasses where unnecessary and they drained the color out of the world around him, but he deferred to the wisdom of a professional.

On closer inspection of the scene Dorian noted a short stack of chemical supply catalogues, a couple recent scientific journals, various notebooks, and papers (letters and invoices mostly, nothing he’d come to collect) strewn across the round table. The man looked older than his reported 52 years, most likely the effect of the tumbler that never left his hand. He didn’t seem to acknowledge Dorian’s approach but the android noticed that he never turned a page in the book he was staring at. Dorian knew with certainty that he was being ignored.

“Doctor Comery, “ he said, not waiting for the butler to announce him. “I have come on behalf of Roxanne Smith and her client, Leticia Comery. You have some forms they require.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Comery snapped. “I’m sure they can wait.”

His brittle voice made him seem still older.

“No, they can’t.” Dorian stated firmly. “I’m sure you know a hearing can’t be set until all of the appropriate paperwork is filed.”

“It’s only a formality anyway.” The old man sniffed. “She’s already gone. I don’t see why it matters.”

“In that case, you’ll have no trouble providing what I’ve requested.”

It was plain that Comery was about to argue the point but he choked on whatever he was going to say when he finally looked Dorian in the face. He jumped out of his seat sending the chair tumbling backwards and his glass crashing against the paving stones. He pointed, stammering, at Dorian and backed away in horror.

This was far more intimidation than Dorian had in mind.

“Ye-ye-ye-ye-yer dead! I’m ye-ye-ye-years away from…”

“You’re about to fall into the pool.” Dorian observed calmly, interrupting the doctor’s rant.

*****

(Part 3. This character limit thing is a real drag.)


“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Mistress Roxanne. But you have a visitor.” Norma announced.

Somewhere in the sweaty tangle of sheets, tissues, blankets, and newspaper pages something growled. Norma had been around long enough to know that the bear wouldn’t attack in its weakened condition as long as she kept a silver tray piled full of offerings between herself and the irate mound on the bed.

A muffled voice escaped the covers and debris.

“Did you explain thad I’m nod receiving guesds righd now?”

“He was quite adamant about seeing you. In fact, he’s been standing in the rain for two hours and he doesn’t show any sign of leaving.”

“Argh!”

“Shall I bring him an umbrella?” Norma asked.

The dark pile of bedding erupted and an angry, disheveled Roxanne sat up. Whoever it was, she decided, he was obviously from the domes if he didn’t already have an umbrella. They had the luxury of forgetting that the rest of the world had weather.

“He have a name?” she asked.

“Emory Carlisle, ma’am.”

“Sounds aboud 80. Or gay.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I’d put him at closer to 30, though.”

“Led him in.” Roxanne sighed. “He can waid in my office, bud don’t led him drip on anythink. I’ll be in the shower. I’m not seeink anyone undill I feel ad leas halfway human.”

She took a pull of decongestant straight from the bottle that Norma had brought on the tray, made a face, then snatched a couple of chocolates to kill the taste.

“Then perhaps I should make up a guest room.” Norma suggested flatly.

The bear shot her a look.

Despite what some people may think, I don’t have a rule for everything. Not all of the rules I do have are iron clad, either. For instance, I fully expect my rule about admitting handsome young men without an appointment to be broken when I look and feel like death on toast. I’m much more firm on the ‘Feed a fever chocolate ice cream’ rule. Unfortunately, I’m starting to think Norma has a rule of her own regarding lost, forlorn looking strays.

Almost an hour later the bear emerged still angry but doing a fair Negotiator impression. She’d dressed in her usual business attire, but she’d lacked the patience to put her still faintly damp hair up. All the medicine she’d been taking was finally starting to take effect, leaving her a little high rather than congested. The fire in her throat still raged unabated leaving her with a voice barely recognizable as her own.

Emory Carlisle looked as awful as she felt. He stood before the fireplace, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. Wet blond hair stuck to his face despite the now soaked towel that Norma had given him. It now hung with his coat by the fire. Dark circles formed around his half-lidded green and red eyes that obviously hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days. His chin was stronger and his build more athletic than she’d expected of someone with such a West Dome boarding school sounding name. A fresh set of dry clothes, a good night’s sleep, and a meal or two, and Carlisle would have made a worthy visitor on any other day.

“Are you sure this couldn’t have waited, Mr. Carlisle?” she asked pointedly.

“I’m afraid it can’t, Ms. Smith.” He insisted. “I’ll try not to keep you. I only want to know where Michelle is.”

“Michelle?” Roxanne repeated. “Michelle Seebach?”

He nodded and she knew at once who this had to be.

It was humbling to be reminded that no matter how bad a day she thought she was having there was always someone having a worse time.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“Don’t tell me that.” He protested. “I heard Paradigm hired you to find her, and I’m sure you did. They wouldn’t hire anyone but the best. But no one will tell me anything else. I can pay. Not as much as Paradigm can, obviously. Please, just tell me where she is. I have to know what happened to her.”

'No, you don’t,' Roxanne thought. How could she tell him that his fiancé went crazy and was now most likely a bad smell and a dark stain lost somewhere far below the city? Roxanne had seen Michelle Seebach, or “Schwarzwald” as she knew her, burn to death last week. She’d reported as much to her client along with her bitter refusal to take any more jobs from an office so close to Paradigm. Apparently, Paradigm was staying tight-lipped on the whole affair. With Seebach and whatever she was working on burnt to a cinder, they saved themselves a bundle in hush money, or as they called it, “a retirement package.” Roxanne still regretted having any part in the whole convoluted affair, now more than ever.

“Slow down, Mr. Carlisle. Payment won’t be necessary. I really don’t think I can help you. But maybe you should have a seat.” She suggested.

She almost added, “And a drink.”

“That’s always a worrying start.” He said, taking to the green couch opposite Roxanne. “Do you mind if I smoke in here?”

She nodded to the empty ashtray on the coffee table left for the convenience of her clients. He immediately set to the task of filling it up.

“Have you spoken to the Military Police yet?” She asked.

He sighed a swirling white cloud over the table between them. “Either they don’t know anything or they aren’t allowed to release any information.”

She wasn't surprised. Despite their mandate to protect the people of the city, the Military Police was, whether or not they were willing to admit it, The President of the Paradigm Corporation’s private army. Still, giving people “the bad news” was more Colonel Dastun’s line. Roxanne had hoped she’d put these conversations behind her when she gave up the badge.

“You did find her, didn’t you?” he asked when the pause became noticeable. The note of hope in his voice was wearing thin.

“Not exactly.” Roxanne began, carefully. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. But I suspect Paradigm wanted me not so much to find Michelle as to suppress a manuscript she was working on. I found the manuscript, but it burned along with everything else in an apartment she was renting…”

Carlisle’s face twisted in a fresh wave of anguish.

“She wasn’t there at the time.” Roxanne added quickly, to his obvious relief.

“Then… you didn’t find her?”

“No.” Roxanne said with certainty. “She was long gone by the time I found the apartment.”

From a certain perspective, that was technically true; a far cry from the sort of Truth Michelle Seebach had searched for and hardly what Emory Carlisle was after, either.

“I see.” He said. “There was nothing at the apartment to suggest where she might have gone?”

Roxanne shook her head sympathetically. Her pool of technical truths was getting shallow.

“What was this manuscript you mentioned?” He asked.

“I didn’t really have a chance to read it. I was a bit distracted by having to flee a burning building…”

“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry.” He said. “But I find this all very strange. Nobody I’ve spoken to at Paradigm Press knew what she was working on, but you say the parent company wanted her to stop. How did they know about this mystery manuscript?”

“Maybe somebody’s lying to you. Technically, it was The Paradigm Press that hired me, specifically Phil Gasse.”

“Thank you, Ms. Smith. You’ve been far more helpful than the police. I’ll trouble you no further.” He leaned forward to snuff out his cigarette, and then stood up.

“Wait.” Roxanne said. “Does the word ‘Schwarzwald’ mean anything to you?”

He thought for a moment.

“Chocolate cake. Why?”

“It’s nothing. Just something I heard in connection with this case. It’s German, I guess.”

“Michelle’s family speaks German.” He mused. “I could ask them about it.”

He turned away to collect his coat.

‘Here goes,’ Roxanne thought, taking a breath.

“Mr. Carlisle… Emory… I think you’re going to have to face up to the possibility that Michelle is gone.”

He stopped and stared into the crackling fire. His back remained toward Roxanne.

“I am.” He admitted, softly. “ I’d like to hope for the best, but I know Michelle. It’s been four weeks and not even her editor knows where she went or what she was working on. She may get so consumed by her work that she forgets to eat or call, but she always keeps in touch with Larry Holmes, if only to call on the press’s resources or tell him to keep the front page open. Well, he assures me that he will keep the front page free for his star reporter’s last story. She would have wanted it that way, and I owe her at least that much. The truth is, none of us really expect to see her again.”

When he turned to face her again, she wondered if he’d ever admitted that out loud before. She saw him to the door and they shook hands. Both were glad to take refuge in meaningless pleasantries.

“Goodbye, Ms. Smith. I’m sorry to have disturbed you when you’re under the weather. Thanks for your patience. If you hear anything, here’s my card.”

Roxanne glanced at the cream colored business card instead of meeting his eyes.

“I hope you find her.”


I didn’t tell Carlisle about Schwarzwald. I almost did, but I’ve seen that lean, hungry expression before and I disagree with his interpretation of Michelle’s last wishes. I never met the real Michelle Seebach. But I’m sure that if she cared about him she wouldn’t want him to destroy himself looking for the Truth like she did. I’m just as sure that if I’d told him any more he would have gone underground and, like her, he wouldn’t have come back.

With her unexpected guest gone the mansion seemed unusually empty and quiet. A quick look around revealed that it actually was. Eventually, she tracked Norma down. Roxanne couldn’t help but smile at the square toed black shoes poking out from under the Griffon.

“Norma? Has Dorian come back yet?”

There was a clang beneath the car. The shoes twitched in surprise.

“Not that I know of, ma’am.”

“Poor kid.” Roxanne said. “That Comery gets pretty maudlin after he’s had a few. Let me know when you finish. Since I’m up, I may as well extricate Dorian from the good doctor’s vast repertoire of morose stories and rants about my client.”

“With respect, ma’am, I’m sure the lad can handle it.” Norma replied through a maze of steel. “Let him have the opportunity to prove himself.”

“Prove himself? What are you talking about?” Roxanne asked, suspiciously.

“I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. Forget I said anything.”

Roxanne glared at the rolled cuff of the little old grease monkey’s oversized grey coveralls, since there still wasn’t much exposed to glare at.

“Norma…”

“Every day you get chased, shot at, and ultimately you either help someone or blow something up. Every day he pushes a broom around, removes jar lids, tightens bolts, and fetches coffee. I was just thinking he might be ready to take on some additional responsibility. That’s all.”

“Wait a minute! Are you telling me he’s bored?” Roxanne asked, incredulous. “He’s an android!”

“Yes, of course, ma’am,” Norma agreed, “But he was also modeled after a teenaged boy.”

Roxanne considered Norma’s suggestion. She was firmly of the opinion that she needed an assistant like she needed another decongestant with an effective duration of 5 minutes.

“Has he said anything?” she asked, producing a tissue from the pocket formerly reserved for her custom sunglasses.

“No. However, I do believe he’s been casting something very like appreciative glances over the Griffon…”

“Yikes.” Roxanne sighed. “I want to think about this some more. In the meantime I’ll let him deal with Comery. It’ll be good practice. It’s not always danger and adventure, you know. Sometimes it’s broken families and sad old men. He may find that he prefers his work around here.”

“Very good, Ma’am.” Was Norma’s perfunctory reply. Then she added, “Now, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you possibly pass me a rag from the work bench?”

“No problem.”

Norma slid out from under the car with a tray full of black oil and a wrench that obviously didn’t belong in it. She’d dropped it when Roxanne arrived. Oily black splatters dotted her face and hair and dripped down her pointed chin.

Roxanne tried unsuccessfully not to laugh as she handed Norma a reasonably clean rag.

“You surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anyone to come in here today.” Norma explained a little defensively.

Why do I have this terrible feeling that my car insurance premiums are about to go through the roof?

*****

Pero, I love the inflections and interactions of the characters. You really have them down. ^_^

What happens with Dorian? Why'd the old guy nearly have a heart attack? Will Roxanne allow Dorian out of the house after all this - or will she turn him into her love slave?

*gets hit in the head with doggie sweaters by Dog-chan*

Just kidding.

Did I mention I absolutely adore Norma in this?

Retrieving a couple of forms should have been a lot easier. And drier. Unfortunately, despite Dorian’s warning, the inexplicably panic stricken scientist tripped backwards into the pool with a water-choked scream. Dorian looked around for the butler, but he had disappeared back into the house to keep the movers in line. That left only him to deal with the emerging problem. Time trickled away as the inebriated Comery made a feeble attempt to keep his head above water only to see the object of his terror staring down at him indifferently.

Dorian stepped over the edge of the pool and immediately slid down the curved sidewall, sinking to the very bottom. The glasses slipped off him and suddenly the world was the pure blue the sky should have been. There was a loud pop he couldn’t immediately account for, but he stood up without any trouble. Over his shoulder, Comery’s legs stopped kicking. He reached up and grabbed them, pulling him down for a moment and then tossing him up to the surface. The scientist launched out of the water and sprawled on the sand-white paving stones ringing the pool. Dorian marched against the water to get to a ladder and climbed out of the pool.

Saving the man from drowning did not improve Comery’s opinion of Dorian. The only difference was that now he was too exhausted and in too much pain to do anything about it. The rough landing had snapped something in his arm, but the force of it also caused him to start coughing up the chlorinated water in his chest. He was still gasping for air as he stared at the advancing android, so one more gasp as he saw Dorian’s eyes for the first time went unnoticed. If he’d believed in the work he’d been doing for so many years, this moment might have gone differently.

“Decided to work it out all on your own, did you?” he asked, stifling a sudden and uncharacteristic giggle. “Tell me, anyone else from dewar 14 decide to take a walk this afternoon, Mr. Wayneright?”

His questions and a subsequent burst of manic laughter went unnoticed.

“There is no point in speaking. I can no longer hear you.” Dorian stated matter-of-factly.

He hadn’t been prepared for complete submersion and now something was seriously wrong. He watched the man’s lips continue to move soundlessly for a moment before walking back towards the house.

A housekeeper paused when she saw the pale, dripping specter of Dorian enter through one of the doors leading from the tacky backyard jungle into a disused ballroom now full of boxes awaiting the movers.

“Call an ambulance. There’s been an accident.” He announced.

She nodded and swiftly disappeared, ostensibly to do what she was told. He really didn’t care.

Dorian passed through an adjacent small library and then a mostly empty drawing room. Nothing. He wandered through half the first floor unhindered because everyone’s attention seemed to be focused on the back yard. He kept trying doors until he found a locked one. The lock provided no obstacle and Dorian found himself in Dr. Comery’s study, scanning a desk far more ordered than the table outside had been. Still nothing. He tore out the locked drawers of a grey steel filing cabinet and sifted through the contents, noting only that they weren’t what he was looking for. Only when he finally had the battered packet with the heading “Uncontested Dissolution of Marriage without Children” in his hand did he notice anything else other than the total silence.

Someone had come into the room and was watching him. Though he wore a moving company uniform and carried a large box, Dorian was sure this was no mover-- there was nothing of Leticia’s to move in Comery’s office space. He had been speaking, and seemed flustered that Dorian didn’t reply.

Dorian saw no reason to start.

*****

“The diversion in the back yard wasn’t bad, but you’ve got no style, kid.”

Angel looked in disgust at the splintered doorframe and the twisted metal of the former cabinet drawers and pronounced his unexpected rival an amateur, but a freakishly strong one. It was astonishing that he’d managed to get this far behaving so carelessly. Angel deposited his empty box in an overstuffed chair by the door and sighed.

For weeks he’d been watching the house and waiting for the unique opportunity afforded by Mrs. Comery’s departure. Unfortunately, almost as soon as the movers arrived to cover his thorough, discreet, and above all professional looting of Comery’s work so did the Negotiator, forcing him to delay or risk being recognized. Of all the luck! Now time was running out. The movers would only be there for another day at best.

“Did they send you because I’m not working fast enough for them or because they don’t trust me?” He asked bitterly, “I must say I’m insulted. You don’t even know what you’re doing. Look at this mess!”

The kid persisted in his mute act. He didn’t even move. Angel still stood between him and the exit, so he really didn’t have anywhere to move to, unless he had the key code. From the state of the room, Angel figured he didn’t.

The study barely resembled the place he’d briefly cased earlier on one of the rare occasions he’d escaped the notice of the help. Only the liquor cabinet and the books on the shelves that lined the walls remained undisturbed. The lamp and picture frames that had been on the desk now lie on the floor, probably knocked aside when the explosion of file folders and blue-grey three ring binders hit the desk. Pens, paperclips, and other office ephemera fanned out from where a long, locked, desk drawer had been forced open. The boy stood in a drift of now soggy chemical delivery invoices, his medium length auburn hair still dripping steadily on the manila folder that once held them. He stared sullenly at Angel and Angel stared right back, waiting for an explanation for the needless chaos spread out around them.

But he couldn’t wait long. Someone would come. Someone would notice what was going on. Then someone else would enjoy the hospitality of the Military Police… if they were exceedingly lucky. Angel looked away from the kid’s strange, too dark eyes. As soon as he did, a mechanical whirr broke the silence as the rookie finally moved again, plucking up a pen that had fallen on the swivel chair behind the desk.

“Es un tostador con piernas!” Angel muttered angrily to himself as what now seemed obvious finally dawned on him. “Well, I guess you can’t expect an appliance to take pride in its work.”

It tried to step around him then, but Angel stepped backwards to fill the doorway.

“Don’t go blundering back through the house now, Toaster. Some of us still have work to do and would rather not have to shoot anyone to do it. Now, either make yourself useful, or sit back and watch how it’s…”

“Move, or I’ll move you.” It interrupted. There was no obvious malice in its tone, but neither was there any room for argument.

“I don’t doubt it.” Angel replied, recalling the bent steel of the file drawers and throwing up his hands with an innocent but plainly insincere smile to show that he meant no harm. “But that won’t get us any closer to the memories. That is what you’re after isn’t it? Or maybe… What’s this?”

With hands quick as sparrows he snatched away the papers the android was holding before it even realized where they were flying.

“These are just useless legal forms.” Angel announced, perplexed. “I think one of us is very confused.”

The confused one immediately thereafter found himself hoisted several inches into the air and pinned against the wall in the hallway.

“Oof.”

Angel released the papers when his head struck the wall. Questions and carefully worded instructions fluttered everywhere, some back into the study and others in the hall.

“I don’t have time for this.” The android observed, dropping Angel to collect the scattered document.

To his credit, Angel did not slump to the floor. He recovered his footing immediately. Indignant, he tore off the baseball cap with the mover’s logo and threw it to the ground, then pushed his sleeves up. To hell with discretion! With the android crouched to pick up the papers, Angel figured a well-placed kick might send the thing’s head rolling down the hallway and save his knuckles the trouble of pummeling a metal body. But…

The ambulance had arrived. He could hear a flurry of activity down the hall and around the corner. Any minute, the help would be rushing through leading the paramedics out to the back. He had a choice. He could either be caught in a foolish act of vandalism because of his wounded pride, or he could get back to work and not miss the chance at a reported treasure trove of memories.

“Hide!” He hissed.

The android was oblivious, picking up the pages from the hallway a little too slowly for Angel’s liking.

It occurred to him then that he might just have his cake and eat it too—he planted a work boot on the android’s backside and shoved him harshly back into the study with extreme prejudice. Angel winced at the resultant thud as it hit the floor. He hoped that maybe after a week of dealing with moving men juggling furniture none of the servants would pay the noise any mind.

It wasn’t something he’d count on. He knew about the staff.

Angel quickly made sure nothing was out of place in the hallway, grabbing one errant form and the baseball cap before dashing back into the room and shutting the door carefully behind him.

“All I want for Heaven’s Day is a silencer,” he thought bitterly as the machine picked itself up and faced him again, glaring almost hostilely.

Angel brought a finger to his lips and nodded towards the door, hoping to indicate that they were ROYALLY SCREWED if anyone outside heard them. The android didn’t show any real sign that it had gotten a clue, but it didn’t pick him up and toss him through the window, either. He then offered it the paper he’d picked up outside, not wanting a repeat of what had just happened. It took the paper, watched him for a moment, then returned to collecting the scattered pages, a task made more difficult by the all the other papers and debris already on the floor in the study. That’s what you get for being sloppy, amateur, he thought. But he had no time to gloat. He still had no idea how to get into the lab and the staff would probably do a sweep of the house soon. The wisest thing to do would be to bolt and let the robot take the fall, only, it had gotten a good look at him and could blow his cover. Angel knew he couldn’t quit anyway. The lure of what lay below was too great, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that was.

In every other room in the house, he’d noticed the thermostat to the left of the door. In the study he noticed right off that it was on the opposite wall near the recessed cabinet where most of the alcohol the doctor wasn’t currently wallowing in was kept. Clearly, that would be the way in. He crossed over and flipped up the large, boxy looking beige thermostat to reveal the alphanumeric keypad underneath. He even knew, as any spy worth his salt would, which keys were pressed for the five digit code that would without a doubt swing that cabinet out and gain him access to the lab or library (his sources were sketchy on this) he believed to be below. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the order they needed to be pressed in. Any mistake would probably raise an alarm. The Comerys had a lot of servants for a childless couple. They were invariably quite fit and had a barely conspicuous but no less threatening bulge beneath their coats.

He had one chance. What would it be? Some odd bit of scientific jargon? An old girlfriend’s name? A birth date? What would the old codger have picked as a key code? Judging from all the old photographs that had been on display in the room before it got spontaneously redecorated, he would have assumed the soon-to-be ex’s name was a safe bet, except it was seven letters rather than five.

He was starting to sweat. What would happen to this place if they took the old man away? The Comerys had made it a home. Without them or a replacement scientist for the project, it was a just a guard shack and would probably be run like one. There were so many fine walls to be stood up against and shot…

Since he was listening closely for footsteps outside the door, he noticed immediately when the soft shuffling sounds from in front of the desk stopped abruptly. Even so when the android spoke, headless of the danger they were in, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Dorian Wayneright.”

*****

Angel makes his appearance - and he thinks everyone thinks like him. ^_^ Silly spy-boy.

Poor Dorian, dragged into an adventure against his will because he can't hear a thing.

Just thought I'd post a warning. My computer is either dying or having a lot of fun at my expense. I'd like to wrap this up soon, but it's not going to happen if my computer keeps locking up every time I write a paragraph. If the last few segments of ACDiH do not appear in the next two weeks it is because I've managed to electrocute myself while trying to destroy this wicked, faithless machine.

However, I AM addicted to the PC forums now. So come Hell or high water I will be back, regardless of what my computer intends. I'd hate to have to explain something like this in a rehab clinic.


Edit: I'm sending Old Glitchy away to be fixed either today or tomarrow. I don't know how long it will take, but, "Smoke me a kipper. I'll be back for breakfast."

Edit again: Hold that kipper. My tech guru is putting me off. There is no love for Old Glitchy! So I guess I'll just keep flogging this poor old heap of a computer for as long as I can.

It was his face in the old and faintly curling photographs clipped to the page in the binder open before him. First, smiling and leaning back against the hood of a hot rod that he knew to be as blue as the bottom of a swimming pool in spite of the monochromatic picture. Then, post-mortem, pale and bruised, a shot of his head and shoulders with a placard full of numbers and meaningless names next to his face like an incomprehensible speech balloon in a comic strip too unfunny to read. It was him. But it wasn’t.

There were fingerprints, too; the ones that might have been his had his skin been recreated a little more realistically. He unclipped the pictures to look at the card full of prints and the information underneath. Each picture had a number on it, the same number that headed the page below them, “W127-14”.

The page was filled with medical information in minute detail, cataloging everything from Dorian Wayneright’s blood type to his cause of death. It didn’t stop there. There were several recent, hand written scribblings amending the aging document. These jargon-infested fragments assessed ischemic and organic brain damage as well as other things that proved more confusing than enlightening.

A shadow loomed over the page. The man he knew only as Casey Valesquez was talking again, angrily and anxiously judging by the knot in his brow and his quick, caged animal movements. The one and only time he’d seen the man before was when he’d stepped into a cab in front of the Smith residence with a slick smile at Roxanne. Though they’d never actually met Dorian knew Casey’s voice very well. He’d heard every accented word of his business pitch even though he’d been working with Norma in the kitchen for most of Casey’s visit.

Dorian didn’t mind not hearing him now.

Paying no attention to Casey or even the task that he’d been so grimly determined to complete only moments ago, Dorian paged through the binder hoping for some clue as to why Comery would keep a dossier on someone that died decades ago. As it turned out, Dorian Wayneright wasn’t the only one. The binder was full of what could only be described as “before and after” pictures as well as medical information on over a dozen long-dead people. Stranger even than the recent handwritten annotations was the fact that his wasn’t the only face he recognized.

If nothing else, at least he now knew why Comery had reacted as he had outside. From his perspective it must have appeared that the dead had risen and wanted him to get a divorce. But how could a man of science, even an impaired one, immediately jump to such an asinine conclusion? Dorian wasn’t quite ready to forgive him yet, not without some answers.

As he stood, he found he was still clutching the reconstituted divorce packet. What was he to do now? Run out and see if he could get Comery to sign before he went to the hospital? Would Roxanne still get her commission if the marriage was terminated by Comery’s untimely death from heart failure rather than through legal means? Dorian realized that, through no fault of his own, he’d failed. He noticed something else, too. He was alone in the room again.

The cabinet finished swinging back into place before he got to it, but it was easy enough to figure out how to open. The thermostat panel was still flipped up; showing off it’s hidden keys. A picture in a frame and a shot glass lay on the floor in front of it that hadn’t been there before. The picture was of a couple about his age (or rather, his apparent age) sitting together on some crumbling cement stairs. Something was scratched onto the brick wall behind them that was very difficult to make out without a magnifying glass or an android’s keen vision—Al loves Tisha.

*****
It was just starting to get dark when Roxanne awoke to the ringing of the phone in her office. She didn’t remember going to sleep. If she’d meant to, she wouldn’t have done it at her desk. Over the counter medicine had claimed another quasi-productive afternoon. Blearily, she stared at a small collection of balled up gold foil wrappers by her elbow, imagining a large clockwork mouse had visited as she slept and left a concise commentary on her recent work habits. The ringing persisted. Why wasn’t anyone answering it? Surely, Dorian was back by now. She opened her eyes very wide for a moment and looked at the ceiling, as if that would have any bearing on her wakefulness. Then she reached out reluctantly to the phone, eyes slipping shut again.

“Hello?” she muttered into the receiver, still wondering if this was that recurring dream she had in which everyone spoke a different language she couldn’t understand.

“What the Hell did you do?” a livid but shaky voice that, regrettably, she understood perfectly well, demanded.

Roxanne cleared her throat and sat up at attention. NOW she was awake.

“Leticia? What’s the matter?”

“You should tell me. Didn’t you go to the house today?”

“I couldn’t. I sent someone else.”

“Whoever it was nearly killed Al!” Leticia sobbed.

Leticia Comery had lived outside the domes until she was well into her twenties. Normally, you wouldn’t know that by talking to her. When she’s upset, though, all the money drains out of her voice and bearing leaving her a little coarse but also very honest. If she’s not yelling at me, I think I’d probably like her better that way.

I guess nothing settles irreconcilable differences like an unforeseen tragedy. It was clear after speaking to her that as soon as she’d heard about Mr. Comery’s accident the dispersal of the furniture and the antique hand painted tea service that had seemed so important two days ago was now completely inconsequential. Maybe a psychotic break was just what their marriage needed. Ain’t love grand?

When I arrived at the hospital, at Dr. Comery’s request, I found two very different people than the ones that had been essentially arguing through me for the last 3 weeks. One seemed sober as a judge. Ironically, that was probably due to the drugs.

“How do I seem to you?” Dr. Comery asked.

It was the first thing he’d said since Leticia reluctantly absented herself from the room. Roxanne couldn’t help but wonder why it was so important that she left.

“Calm and collected.” She replied. “More so than you were at our last meeting.”

Her words were more or less true. She would probably have said them anyway, if that’s what she thought he wanted to hear. Arguing with people strapped to hospital furniture seemed an exercise in futility. In truth she only wanted to know if he could cast any light on what had become of Dorian.

“Good. I’m not crazy. It’s important that you understand that.” He continued.

“I never said that you were.”

“In your position, I’d think I was crazy.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss what I think. Your wife tells me you have a job for me.”

She began to wonder if she was the crazy one for expecting him to come to a point.

“You’d be willing to take a job from an old madman?”

“Let’s just assume that I’m willing to listen to what you have to say. My…assistant went missing this afternoon after leaving to see you. You might be the last person to have seen him.”

Roxanne stumbled over the word ‘assistant’, though nothing else quite seemed to fit.

“I saw a dead man.” Comery said somberly.

“No.” Roxanne corrected. “You saw an android.”

“Android? No! I’m sure it was him, W127-14 Wayneright, Dorian Kent. He was still half frozen and his eyes were utterly soulless. I know that boy and I can hardly blame him for wanting to kill me. They all must. That’s why I need you to negotiate. Find out what it will take to get them to leave me alone. You have to let them know that I didn’t want to do any of it. I swear it wasn’t my idea to start harvesting their memories. But Paradigm is no longer content to wait or fund research that may not pan out for another 30 or 40 years. They aren’t interested in bringing them back anymore, you see. Paradigm only wants to know if they have memories. Make the subjects in the library understand. I had no choice.”

“Wait. What are you talking about?” Roxanne asked, rejecting the first grim thoughts that popped into her head as too outlandish to be true.

“Cryonics.” Dr. Comery explained. “I need you to negotiate with the dead.”

Guilt finally goaded Comery into coming clean on his research projects. Over the years, Paradigm has come into possession of several caches of frozen bodies from before the Event- legally dead, but potentially alive if science could ever find a way to repair what killed them and restore them to life. 20 years ago, Comery signed on to do just that, not so much because he believed in the work but because it was his ticket into the domes and the kind of life he thought his high school sweetheart deserved. He had no idea what he was getting into.

His conscience couldn’t stand up to his employers when they urged him to change the direction of his research. He wasn’t going to put his comfortable life in East Town in jeopardy for a few people who weren’t about to complain about being unwitting participants in a scientific experiment. It took a chance encounter with a ringer for one of his test subjects to shake Comery from the complacency of doing what he was told. It sickens me to imagine what must be going on in the secret “library” of Paradigm’s science group. But it must be worse for Dr. Comery. He’s responsible. What has he done for a little place in the artificial sun?

*****

Hole-lee SMEG!!!

MORE, you hear me? MORE!!!

*bites nails down even further*

quote:

Originally posted by Pero_Is_Crying “I need you to negotiate with the dead.”

Excellent use of names there Pero

quote:

Originally posted by Lady Tesser Hole-lee SMEG!!!

Wow, so I'm not the only person who uses that word

R. Dorian Wayneright been walking for quite a while since the one man elevator hidden behind the liquor cabinet deposited him in a stretch of ultramodern corridor deep in the Underground; long enough that his hair was nearly dry. He’d hoped enough time had passed that he could try recalibrating his hearing on the off chance that the water had done no serious damage. He started humming as he walked to give himself a range of sounds beyond his own rhythmic footsteps to gage his hearing should it come back. Also, he really wanted to hear “Piper at the Gates of Dawn”.

The humming stopped abruptly when he came across another large black “X” marked on the floor. He’d encountered eight of them so far, each marked with a date and a time. The oldest marks had been spaced widely apart from each other with more recent additions filling in the area between them and stretching far back the way he had come. The first one he’d found by the elevator was only a few days old. The latest had been there for 12 years. Dorian noticed that whoever was responsible for the less than imaginative graffiti had been very prolific lately. Several that he’d found from the last week were made within hours of each other.

A few yards away, an abandoned golf cart blocked the hall. He squeezed around it and soon came upon Casey Velasquez again. His eyes were big as plates and he stood with his back against the wall, clutching a gun as if it were all he had in the world. Dorian couldn’t help but notice with some satisfaction that the man had finally stopped talking.

The quivering housebreaker didn’t seem to be aware of Dorian’s presence, not even when he called his name. So, Dorian knelt and wrote the date and time on the ground in front of Mr. Velasquez with his borrowed pen. Roxanne had merely passed out when confronted with the strange effects of the underground. Apparently, some humans became catatonic.

As he rose, Dorian finally heard something, a brief snippet of a song in strange words he couldn’t place. It was so startling that he froze, listening intently. For a moment, he didn’t even register that the singing was at a frequency far too low for human voices to make or for human ears to hear.

“Nyitva lesz szemem hogy még egyszer lássalak
Ne félj a szememtôl holtan is áldalak...”

He walked towards the sound, turning down a corner that branched from the main hallway. Soon there were other voices, obviously human, despite the seeming impossibility. They were male and female, young and old, speaking with different languages and accents all talking at once and heedless of one another.

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“Good night.”

“I don’t want to live later. I want to live now. Tear up that stupid…”

“Great, now I can’t feel my legs. How much longer?”

“Incoming!”

“Why doesn’t she just pull the plug already?”

“I’m scared, Momma.”

“Yes, I’m sure. This is what I want.”

The floor was full of “X’s” now. He didn’t bother to stop and figure out the jumble of dates.

At length, he came to a large room with a high ceiling. Two rows of gleaming 10 foot tall round metal tanks were linked by a network of pipes that eventually disappeared up into the ceiling. He didn’t need the small, scuttling robots that crept along the pipes and monitored the tanks to tell him that this was no subterranean microbrewery. In any case, all they wanted to tell him was that whatever tank they were currently involved with was functioning nominally.

“Target its main weapon and fire!”

“At least I’ll miss meatloaf night. Maybe it will be abolished by 2247.”

“But, I’m only 22! This isn’t fair.”

“Now THIS is something new!”

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi, dona nobis pacem.”

Machinery had been put into place that he couldn’t begin to fathom the use of until he asked it. Some of the tanks had become almost lost in a knot of cables and devices that named themselves “librarians” but spoke little more on the matter. These tanks, which the librarians snobbishly insisted be called “Dewars” or “Cryostats” also had some fearsome looking hardware on the top that the other unconverted tanks lacked, including four long vaguely screw-like protrusions.

“Turn off the engine, damn it! Somebody PLEASE turn off the engine.”

“When I wake up, this will all be over and the world will be the place we always knew it could be. I hope I see you there.”

“This can’t be the right way. I think your directions are wrong.”

“Didn’t we agree? No apologies. I am not afraid. Let the night come.”

“See ya later! Or, not, as the case may be.”


Dorian stopped suddenly. He’d been examining a tank with a 7 stenciled on it in black, noting only the obscenely low temperature gage. But as he listened he turned slowly to face #14.

Not all of the ghosts beneath Paradigm were hollow metal giants starved for memories. Here they were flesh and ice awaiting oblivion.

“There you are.”

Though soft spoken, his voice seemed terribly loud because he’d yet to readjust his hearing properly. His small voice blotted out the din for a moment as he peered at the dewar, lost in a cascade of unbidden thoughts.

Perhaps building a replacement son hadn’t been enough. Had Tina Wayneright decided to hedge her bets and freeze the original, just in case? R. Dorian decided against that scenario as soon as he conceived it, finding it far more likely that Mother had forgotten the real Dorian was frozen. After all, that was hardly the only detail she’d forgotten. Her sketchy memories had recalled only the desire to resurrect her dead son and the means to do it. So there he stood listening to his double’s final thoughts repeat along with the last memories of everyone else in the converted dewars.

However, it wasn’t to his unfortunate double that he’d been speaking.

There were no windows or obvious openings in any of the dewars. Indeed, it was difficult to see the tank itself through the entanglements of the librarian unit attached to it. But he didn’t need to look inside to know what he’d find. He’d seen the pictures in the binder with features so like his own, unlocking memories to provide the rich colors the sepia-toned photographs lacked. He walked around Dewar 14 until he stood before W126.

“Why did Mother forget you, Dorothy? Why remember one and not the other?”
*****

Roxanne didn’t know where Dorian had come up with the old, dusty green moped she’d seen in the hangar recently, but she was certain that it was hidden under the fresh aquamarine paint and new replacement parts of the one still parked in front of Comery’s place. What little color had returned to her drained away when she realized that whatever had happened, Dorian hadn’t left the mansion.

Of all the jobs I’ve taken and all the people in this city of amnesia, how did I manage to send Dorian to the man with a frozen Wayneright in his basement? Why couldn’t Comery just collect beer cans like a normal guy?

Dr. Comery had warned her that the house might be locked down, but she decided to see for herself. He wasn’t kidding. An anthropoid pit bull in a butler’s uniform opened the door when she knocked. He wasn’t keen on answering questions and quickly sent her on her way. She also noticed that a silhouette appeared in each window once about every five minutes. The staff was on alert.

“Awful lot of security for an entrance to a place most people wouldn’t go on a dare.” Roxanne observed sourly, watching the mansion from the Griffon.

Fortunately, the staff seemed more interested in securing the house than the grounds. After driving around the block to ease the paranoia of the “butler” still standing in the doorway when she left, she crept into the back yard.

The jungle seemed a touch more real in the dark and kept her reasonably invisible to anyone looking out from the lower windows of the house. The white path stones ringing the pool and winding through the greenery were nearly all she could see, so she slid the red filter into place on her flashlight and switched it on. The soft scarlet glow was barely adequate to read the scene, but it was less likely to draw unfriendly attention.

An unseen piece of glass snapped under her foot when she reached the overturned chair. There was nothing on the table for a change, except a nearly empty bottle of scotch.

You can’t get good help these days; not if you want them to also be deep cover Military Police with a license to kill, anyway. The lazy staff had apparently made off with anything pertaining to the doctor’s work but let everything else just as Comery had left it this afternoon.

She knelt beside the pool and plucked a pair of cheap sunglasses from the surface of the water.

What could have happened here? Comery says Dorian tried to kill him, but that’s about as likely as me negotiating with the old man’s demons. What would he do with a crazy scientist raving at him? Like an idiot, he’d probably try to finish the job. He always does what he’s told. What if he went back into the house and ran afoul of that neckless creep in the monkey suit?

Damn it! I can’t blame Comery and I can’t blame Dorian. This is my fault. Dorian’s probably as dead as his human counterpart because I couldn’t be bothered to go to work this morning!

Roxanne didn’t beat herself up for long before others started showing up that were willing to do it for her. She spotted a dark shape with faintly glowing red eyes on the path that led from the house. Another loped along the opposite side of the pool. No wonder there was no one outside. There were guard dogs.

A tinny growl erupted from the predominantly fake vegetation, far closer than the other two threats that she’d briefly considered fleeing. She knew she was in no shape to go racing robotic hellhounds to the fence, at least not today. There was no way she’d make it now. Roxanne dropped her flashlight and made a grab for the chair as the nearest dog leapt forward. She managed to knock it into the pool and out of the fight at the cost of a couple of chair legs and some precious seconds the other dogs used to close on her. Moments from being a chew toy for snarling metal jaws she noticed a scrap of paper laying where the chair had been. She snatched it up and ran like hell without looking back. She made it to the roof of the nearby cabana unchewed except for her raincoat, pieces of which still dangled from the shining fangs of her pursuers. The roof shook as the robots hurled themselves at the cabana over and over. She had to hold on to keep from falling. The dogs’ persistent barking and leaping alerted their masters, who added the discharge of firearms to the racket. With bits of tile exploding around her, Roxanne reached for her watch.

The cabana was located on the edge of the property and was slightly taller than the hedgerow and the fence it hid. Under normal circumstances, safety would have been a short jump away. But under normal circumstances, Roxanne didn’t suffer from vertigo.

The griffon appeared as commanded and she dove for the sunroof as the upstairs maid was reloading. She almost made it, too. Actually, she was lucky she wasn’t run over by her own car. Clinging to the roof with bullets ricocheting close to her head as the Griffon tore off down the road at 60 miles per hour didn’t make her feel particularly lucky. She crawled down through the sun roof and into the drivers seat, finally able to catch her breath.

“I am…NEVER…getting sick…again!” She vowed between ragged gasps.
*****

TWINS???? ARGH, you torture me, Pero!!!

Brilliant work. I am hooked. I am intrigued. ^_^

Thanks, Lady T. But it's all your fault, you know. When you said that Roxy had Major Smith's memories it put a little bug in my brain. I figured that Dorian would make more sense as a twin than a parallel because those memories include DOROTHY, who seems to have died and had her memory copied either before or durring "the Event," as would have Dorian. Their memories are older than this cycle, and therefore predate the parallels. I guess Tim just missed his daughter more than his son, and Tina vice versa.

Anyway, if I've learned anything from A Clockwork Tomato, it's that you can never have too many Waynerights, fresh or frozen.

I'm afraid I've written myself up a tree with this one and I can't get down. Shoe-horning the obligatory megadeus battle into the story without it seeming completely tacked on is a problem, but I think I'm almost there. My real trouble is that I don't know what to do with the corpsicles. If Roxanne has Roger’s respect for the dead she’d want the library destroyed (and at the moment it looks like she's headed in that direction). I can imagine R. Dorian resenting Dorian on ice, but I don’t know what he’d really think about the library. It’s the same with Angel. I know he wants memories, but…eeewwww! I’m the biggest problem, though. Even though I think the aims of cryonics are bunk both inside and outside this story, I don’t know if I can kill off even a dead Dorian or Dorothy. There might be some more weird stories in here if Roxanne’s moral outrage and I leave the library be. What do you think? HELP!

I wrote the final scene for this bit quite a while ago. It was another one of those “I woke up in the middle of the night with someone else’s characters kicking around in my head” kinda things. I should go out on the same note I came in on, right? I think it’ll work if I could just get there.