Dr. Thomas Light's Story

If we replace the working parts, Tom, we get a different machine...

The words of his once-friend turned nemesis were haunting him again. It was a simple and expected thing to have Albert's voice whispering in his ear at times like these, times where he was out of fuel on his motorbike and his stomach was growling with hunger. Times where the designs he had worked so diligently on for eight years of his life flashed through his eyes, the hands that had built a weapon intended to be an aid started aching. These were hard times, indeed.

With a deep sigh, he shoved large hands into battered pockets of his dark grey lab coat, his bushy black beard shivering in the wind, protecting the chin that hadn't seen sunlight since his seventeenth birthday. The tattered walls of the city were at his back, and his thoughts lay heavy, settling inside his skull like a parasite.

So absorbed was he that he didn't at all acknowledge the young girl walking in the opposite direction at a measured pace. He was far far away. In a different time.

At the brush of human contact, Tom's eyes immediately were drawn to the small woman, his eyebrows drawn in surprise. "Hm?" At her effusive apology, he too a shaky, too large step backwards, to give her a once over. His eyes moved from her feet to her face quickly, taking in her features as the once great communicator had trained himself to do.

"No harm done," he rasped, his deep voice crackly and uneven due to misuse. He hadn't spoken to anyone in three long weeks, and even then it was mostly shouting and pleading at his own trial. After clearing the dust and sadness from his voice, he tried again. "You don't need to be sorry, friend."

At her question, he nodded. "Yeah, it was blocked off a couple of miles down. I was hoping to get to some kind of inn before... I was looking for a place to stay." He finished, awkwardly.

His first thought? Rejection. He would push this young girl out of the way and walk on to his random destinations. But then, something struck him.

A memory.

Emily looked a lot like her, actually. More like the child that Emily had promised before she died, the daughter that Tom had been denied, the marriage that never went through. He sensed in her another twisted and tortured soul, someone that could probably relate to his current... difficulties.

His words shook as he said them. "Yeah, um. Yes. That would be... lovely. Let me go get my motorcycle."

A not so invisible audience, as it turned out.

Tom's hands were smacking together before he knew what happened, a quick, breathless round of applause that he felt the young artist deserved, and who was he to deny someone what was rightfully theirs? The staggered applause slowly tapered to muffled clapping, before his hands dropped to his sides to bury themselves in his dirty, stained lab coat. A smile was on his face, a smile that hadn't appeared behind his whiskers in some time.

He took a few tentative steps towards the youth, his hands buried, his emotions on the surface. "That was marvellous," he said, his voice rough and chapped, still bogged down with sorrow no matter how hard he tried to chase it away. "you play... marvellously. Have you been playing long?"

To the back of the diner, sitting in one of the high backed booths that boasted red velvet and sported cuts and frays in the tough leather, cracked and soft, perfectly comfortable yet rough and scraggly on the outside. Someone had scored "fuk comunist" into the seat, and a tough, big thumb, hardened with callouses and pride, ran repeatedly over the crude saying, memorizing the shaping and forms of the letters. The thumb belonged to Dr. Thomas Light, robotic engineer and physician, dressed in a once-white lab coat that sported more old stains and pockmarks than the man's social life. Beneath it was his toolbelt, wrapped over dark jeans and a white T-shirt.

Dr. Light noted the girl's smile, so gentle and fragile, yet it hid something within her. His gaze skipped over her after the flash of expression, however, and moved straight to the other patron of the diner.

It was an imposter.

He didn't expect others to know of it; it was a damn remarkable work of machinery. But there was something in the way it moved, almost over-graceful, eager to experience. He had seen the same look on his own creations, that wide-eyed wonder at the things he allowed them to experience.

They had called him Father.

Light gripped his coffee mug with ferocity, wanting to walk over to the creation and run his calloused hands over its skin. For now, he would bury his interest in the black sludge.

Don't turn your back on me.

Echoing through his mind were those six words, uttered in a dark, angry rasp, with the sounds of machinery and the hissing of pneumatics punctuating the fierce sentence. He had been but a young man, then; high off of his first success, bouncing with anticipation over the GUTS mining robot. Nobody would have to see their fathers and sons broken and beaten, nobody would have to cry out at the sky with despair for losing their loved ones.

With hands of iron, there wasn't a task that they couldn't do.

But now, the youthfullness and vigour of a successful man had warped, changed by the mirror of Snow White. The mirror had asked who is the smartest man in the city, and the answer hadn't been Tom Light. The answer had been a man who had cackled to the world behind his TV screen and his robotic army, the man who had put the good doctor on rails and sent him from the city in shambles, his work perverted, twisted into an evil use. All he had was his rage, now.

All he had was his defeat.

Still, he worked. How could he not work? How could he not fill each scrap of paper within reach with mathematical symbols and hastily-scribbled designs? How could he not mutter to himself behind his unshaven face, his eyes ridged from lack of sleep?

There was no better place than Canti's to work out his problems, find out his equations. There was no better place than the one that reeked of pale ale and stale eggs, and, most of all, the scent of roasted beans. To a coffee fiend, Canti's was the best place around.

He walked hunched over a notebook, and slid into a booth that was one table away from the stranger's. He bent over his work, his snub-nosed pencil flying over a moist and yellowed page, fractions, symbols, and hasty lines scratched into it. His life's work, his single purpose.

It was all here.

The journal that had been subject to his scribbling, constant movement was suddenly and absolutely torn to shreds by the pressure of his pencil, the pages ripping clean with a sudden snapping of led and wood, the bit sent flying into the passing waitress as she opened her mouth to ask him if he wanted his usual. The familiarity was broken by a shriek as the piece of point-eight smacked against the woman's eye, her flailing forcing her to step back, into another passing waiter with a bowl of soup. The soup slopped half onto the servers and on the floor, a clatter of china exploding against the linoleum.

All of it didn't register when he looked into familiar black pools, pools that he had gazed upon as she lay upon the floor, bleeding and broken.

He closed the cover of his notebook, reached into his lab-coat-pocket, and withdrew a revolver. Without hesitation, hiding it behind the large booklet, he stared at her, morose and sorrowful.

"Where is he monitoring this." His deep voice rang out, squeaky and bumpy for lack of use.

The good doctor kept his gun trained on the woman, his lips frowning. "It's clear to me that you're a subject - possibly an 05 or an 06, beautiful craftsmanship judging by the way you move - that's been reanimated, copied, cloned, or contrived in order to further keep an eye on me, and-or torment me further. As such, I will not stoop to the level of making conversation regarding the innocent subroutine you're running. There is one thing I would like to remain explicit, and that is you are not from my past."

He leaned closer, the notebook that was hiding the gun from the servers sliding with the revolver, a smooth and calculated transition. "So. Where is your monitor located? The eyes? The tonsils? If I were him, I'd hide it somewhere lower." His gaze trailed down her, pausing on her chest. He growled slightly to himself, visions of Albert putting his hands all over Emily's corpse to get exact measurements, knowing that he was violating his enemy's love, knowing that Tom would know - and think about it - later.

"Where is it."

He watched her indecisiveness with narrowed eyes, taking in the way her body moved away from the table before rejoining it quickly, her decision making stuttered. A machine malfunction, maybe? Some kind of glitch?

He kept the gun trained on her, and he began to speak, quietly. "Indeed? Just wanting to converse with me of all people? A random, start-up conversation that led you to sit here, put that book in front of me? This is all just a simple, quiet conversation, hmm?"

He smiled slightly. "Very well, then. Let's discuss."

With a slight click, he put the revolver down, placing the journal over it, so the muzzle was still pointed towards her. Leaning back in his seat, he folded his hands and watched her from under his eyelashes. "Let us discuss reanimation. Do you think it's possible?"

Tom rubbed his chin, nodding slowly. "It appears that everyone has an opinion but you, then." He said, softly. "But yes, Frankenstein. Dr. Frankenstein was considered to be the man behind the monster, and yet, at the same time, the monster himself. Since everyone is familiar with this book - and everyone includes you at last check, I think - then it's reasonable to assume that you have one as well?"

He paused slightly. "I'm looking to continue your original goal. I'm looking to converse. Don't tell me you've had a sudden change of heart." He leaned closer, hissing. "Play along with me."

Tom watched her, silently, as she told him about his work. The analogies were there, clear as day.

"He did." The man said, idly. "Of course, Dr. Frankenstein's assistant wasn't even mentioned, was he? He wasn't praised, nor was he feared. Even if he were to take credit later, everyone would know that it was still Frankenstein's work, wouldn't they? Everyone would know that it was still the real genius' creation, the man who didn't change the working parts - but created them. Everyone would know that he was a mere poser in the grand creation of Frankenstein's."

He paused then, tapping the gun, his fingers wrapping around it. "Would that bother this lowly assistant, do you think? Would it keep him up at night? Because, despite losing everything, I think Frankenstein would take pride in that fact. That, no matter what he would've done in this hypothetical situation, he kept the assistant from that. He kept him from the people's respect, if not their love, or fear."

"What do you think?"

Tom chuckled. "Ahh, so there is a voice in your head." The gun was now fully wrapped into his palm, and he stood, the hand still trapped beneath the book, his eyes, glittering dark spheres, glaring down at the woman. Gone was the false levity; here was a man who was a survivor, who had been through hell and back to seize a moment of hope.

"I expected so much better from you than this, Albert. This was sloppy. This was clumsy. Emily, let me ask you something. If Clerval could control the monster, if Clerval could speak directly to the monster's mind and help her instincts, would Clerval save it from harm? If a desperate man - say, Frankenstein himself - put a gun to the creation's head,"

Suddenly, the cold metal was pressed against the woman's forehead, the eyes never leaving hers. "Would he make her roll out of the way? Would he do that, Emily? Think carefully."

Four chairs away from where Kamala sat to read, a group of three men were huddled around a scrap of paper, their voices loud enough for the young man to hear them, but hushed enough to prevent easy eavesdropping. One man was spreading out the parchment, the other two pouring over it.

"You said that you found it again?" the first said, underneath a bowler's cap. The man spreading the paper nodded, shifting his shoulders so his white lab coat better suited the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his bicep.

"Nearly perfect condition. I never thought I'd see it again, to be truthful." He rubbed at his chin, the dusting of hair there scratchy and tingly against his skin. "When Kane took it, I thought I saw the last of it."

"It was Kane's?" Piped the third man.

"Yeah. He landed it in a clearing not too far from here. We couldn't recover the woman."

Bowler cap leaned backwards, hard. "Shit. There's that trail cold."

The man in the lab coat nodded, as if mourning the subject of discussion. "She'll likely escape us, now. We'll need to hire another jockey, now that we have the ship back."

"Wait a minute," the third gentleman said, "what about Kane, Doctor? Was he nowhere near?"

Doctor Thomas Light shook his head, a slow, sad movement. "Nothing but spots of blood around the incinerator. Someone liberated Miss Mayers, and killed Lucius Kane."

The silence at the table punctuated their surprise.

A man, sporting a full beard and sad, sunken eyes, lifted a hand towards Izzy as she left the room, his white coat looking tinged with yellow, as if he hadn't taken it off for some time. Despite this, he had a nametag proudly proclaiming his name as "Dr. Richard Breen, Specialist", and his demeanor was one of quiet confidence.

"You're Miss Shields?" He stated, as he approached her. "My name is Dr. Breen. You're listed as Mr. Brohm's emergency contact. Do you mind if I ask a few questions?"

The man nodded, barely sparing her a glance before going back towards his clipboard. "I see," he said, noncommittally, before launching into rapid fire facts.

"Mr. Brohm was in our care less than a month ago; with major wounds from what was perceived to be a gang-related attack while he was delivering. However, the man we worked on, the man in that room, has shown cellular aging approximately five years further than mere weeks ago."

He paused, glancing at her face, then his gaze settled over her shoulder, like he couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"Do you know who his parents were, Ms. Shields?"

The man known as Breen finally met her eyes, leveling the crimson gaze through his glasses. "No matter. You'd be confirming what I already know. There are certain individuals who have begun cropping up of late; injured by a certain power that was deemed to be contained within a select group of people. However, when these group of people began to pro-create, they appear to have passed this power onto their offspring. One of the side effects of it is rapid aging over a certain age, increased by the amount of use the power gets from its owner."

He adjusted the glasses. "Ms. Shields, there is reason to believe that Mr. Brohm is one of these cases. Can you account for his whereabouts up to a year ago?"

The response was cool, collected.

"Because eighteen murders have been committed in the past year alone, all with the exact same markings that coincide with the power. As it is, Mr. Brohm is now the only case currently residing in Wing City, and the police have been notified and are on their way. Anything you say to me can only help you, Ms. Shields."

He took a step away from her. "Allow me to help you."

The doctor took another two steps back, the calm, coolness of his visage disappearing as Izzy advanced.

"Procedure," he said, swallowing, "procedure dictates that anyone who has wounds of a questionable nature - such as gunshots - be reported. The... he clearly had been tortured. I was merely upholding the oath, and..."

A whimper came through his throat, then. "Don't hurt me."

The doctor glanced to the side, his temples beginning to shine with moisture. He flinched at the finger jab, backing into a rogue gurney, and stayed there.

"He... he can travel, yes. Along with the aging, he has good healing qualities. We made them-"

Suddenly, he cranked his jaw shut, squeezing his eyes closed at the near confession.

There was a soothing sound that accompanied Thomas Light's work, here. Something in the air that softened the clicks and low whistling, something that made the hustle, bustle of his work bearable in terms of audio. He could see himself working well, here, among the mountains.

Across his scarred worktable were pieces of a gasoline powered generator, gears and cables sticking out all over the place, his large, coke-bottle glasses on and magnifying what he saw. In his hands were tiny instruments - modified clockworking tools - that he moved along the generator, manipulating the workings of the motor, fiddling, really.

The project for the township had begun once the townspeople had accepted his harvesting droids; sturdy square robots on treads that were able to lighten the townspeople's loads by large degrees. They were a short term solution, and only really good for moving things that were inconvenient to lift or heft from A to B, but there were five functional robots tinkering around the town, and demand for more. However, each of them ran on a small battery, lasting only a few days.

Which led to his design and creation of a small charging station outside his shop, and a further parameter that could be programmed into the droids. At the press of a button, the machines would head back to his lab, recharge, and go back to their scheduled task. He was working on building a second one near the center of the town, but that'd have to be powered by something much better than gas.

Which, naturally, had led to him taking apart the generator, and his current predicament. Clean power, without any usage of gasoline, wood stoves, coal. Solar was the easiest option, as was wind. But he'd need large panels, or an unsightly windmill tower.

A challenge, he thought, as he put down his tools, lifted his glasses off of his head. From the back of the lab, he heard a distant clanging.

"Xiao!" he called, wiping his hands on his apron. After a moment, the clanging stopped, and a young Losenyu assistant dressed similarly walked in, his hair spiked messily and oil on his cheek.

"How are the prototypes," Thomas asked in the boy's native tongue, scrubbing at a stubborn part of his nails, still smeared with grease.

"Working, but the plating's poor quality. The Matriarch is due today?"

"In the next hour or so. And you have the Reaver?"

The boy nodded.

"Okay. Put them in position. I have the designs for the labourers ready, too."

As Xiao ducked back into the back room, Dr. Light squinted back towards the generator, flicking a switch.

The machine sputtered to life on a whirring noise, the light bulb attached to it glowing softly, then stronger as the machine stayed on. After a few minutes, it was growing bright and hot, illuminating the shelves upon shelves of mechanical stock, tools, discarded projects. An android's face stared at him from one corner, a leg curled in another.

It was a mess.

It was his.

As the light bulb suddenly shut off and the generator belched blue tinted smoke onto his apron, the good doctor smiled.