The sound echoes though the city, like thunder rolling down from the heavens. Dust rises quickly and I can hear the coughing that accompanies the dust cloud created by the fallen chunk of concrete. Even my own eyes water from the small particles of grit in the air. Covering my mouth and nose with my gloved hand I start down towards the source of the dust cloud. “Is everyone all right?” I call from behind the mask of my hand. I hope no one is injured; I can’t afford to lose another worker on my crew.

“No, Miss Angelus. We lost another chain though,” comes a reply from one of the workers.

Another one? That’s the third one today. Checking my watch, I sisgh. “Just leave it. We’ll pick up here tomorrow. That’s it for today.” Offering a small wave, I turn and leave. I am careful to wait until I’m away from the construction site before taking my hand away from my face.

An hour later I find myself in the nice but modest surroundings of my apartment. I don’t stop to admire them. I go straight to the bathroom, strip out of my dirty clothes and climb into a hot shower.

It is now, when I’m alone beneath the water, that my mind once again returns to what it has been occupied with for most of the past two weeks.

Memories.

I have no interest in the memories of fifty years ago, when the city’s inhabitants were first stripped of their memories and Paradigm City earned its reputation as the City of Amnesia. The happenings of that time are of little importance to me. I wasn’t even alive. My thoughts are of my own memories of ten years ago, when I was a young child of ten. When my name was still Elise Amara Winterhart and I still had a mother.

I can remember the day when the white Megadeuce began to destroy the city. I had been too young then to understand the madness with which Alex Rosewater lusted after the power of his new world order. In truth, I still do not understand it. Then, I can remember the return of the black Megadeuce, Big O. However, this is where my memories cease, only to pick up in the aftermath of the great battle, where I am an orphan with nothing more than my name. I have a clear recollection of people collecting the shattered remains of their splintered lives in the hopes of recreating something resembling normalcy. I can remember in vivid detail finding my mother and father dead amidst the rubble, together in a twisted and eternal embrace.

It was after the destruction that I was taken in by Isaac Angelus. He was and still is the only owner of Angelus Construction and Demolitions Incorporated. His company and supplies had been one of only two surviving construction businesses left in Paradigm. It was to be expected that people would turn to those two companies for the reconstruction of their beloved city.

Isaac Angelus, the man I have called ‘Father’ ever since the incident, had no desire to employ me in his company. He didn’t see why I wanted to work for the money, and instead offered to simply give me a weekly stipend to do with what I wish. I didn’t want it, and begged to start low and work my way up. Now I’m a labor manager and I love it.

But that gap…that blank in my memory continues to plague me. I can’t fathom what might have happened to create such a void in my recollection. Some small, scared part of me doesn’t want to contemplate it.

I turn the water off, sighing softly as I climb out of the shower. Naked, I stride fom the bathroom and into my bedroom. The blinds are already closed. I always keep them that way. I go to my closet to find something to wear. My reflection in the mirror gives me pause and I stop to look at myself. I study my face at first, using the tips of my fingers to trace its contours. Small, delicate bone structure, with shining bright eyes and thin lips. My study travels downward, pausing momentarily at the gentle curbe of the collarbone. My fingers travel lower, brushing the side of my small breast and coming to rest on my flat stomach, just above the navel. There’s a scar there.

Where did it come from? I don’t remember…

I return to my search for clothing, unsure of why I had paused in the first place. It takes me a while to find suitable clothing to wear. Normally I would be getting ready to relax after a hard day’s work, but today is different. At six o’clock I have an appointment.

I have an appointment with a Negotiator.

* *  * *

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I am uncomfortable. I am sitting in a well-furnished living room. I’m dressed in a black skirt, a collared white shirt and a black suit jacket that matched the skirt. Tapping my newly bought shoes on the carpeted floor, I readjust my hands in my lap for what has to be the hundredth time. I can’t help but feel that I don’t belong in such an upscale apartment. I am out of my element and craving my niche. I find myself being glad that I had taken the time to braid my hair as opposed to leaving it free. It’s more professional.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I check my watch despite the grandfather clock that sits within my line of sight. I have now been waiting for twenty minutes. And I am still uncomforyable. More so than I had been moments before.

“Would you care for some tea?”

I jump at the voice and turn, now embarrassed by my own behavior. My eyes settle on a pretty young woman dressed in a plain black dress, with a black headband nestled in her chin-length auburn hair. She looks normal enough, but her eyes tell me that she is not human. They’re dark and cold, devoid of emotion. Her voice is somewhat flat but still holds some hint of feeling that couldn’t have been programmed. Maybe she’s a special one, I think, smiling at her. “Yes, thank you.” I watch her place the teacup on the table in front of me and pour the tea, steam rising from the amber colored fluid.

“Would you care for sugar or cream?” asks the android, turning her dark eyes on me.

I shake my head, still maintaining my smile. “Is Mr. Smith aware that I am here?”

The android girl nodded. “He probably won’t be much longer. He has an affinity for pretty women. He is a louse.”

I blush at the compliment and laugh at her depiction of the Negotiator. The simple, matter-of-fact way she says it is rather amusing. Before I can reply, another person makes himself known.

“That’s enough Dorothy. Isn’t there something you can go clean?”

Roger Smith, Negotiator, strides confidently into the room, giving the android a look of annoyed embarrassment. He keeps his sharp gaze on her until she turns and walks out, leaving him alone with me.

He clears his throat. “So…Miss…?”

“Angelus. My name is Elise Angelus,” I reply, offering my hand for a customary handshake. His grip is strong and his hand warm when he finally accepts my hand. He strikes me as a good man who likes to play the protector in any situation. I can gather a lot from anyone by the way they shake my hand, though it would soon become apparent that I am not the only one with that gift.

“The daughter of Isaac Angelus with calloused hands?”

“Adopted daughter,” I correct him and sip my tea. “I’ve worked for his construction company since I was fifteen.”

“Well Miss Angelus, what is it I can help you with?” He goes to the cabinet and takes a bottle from one of the shelves. He pours the contents into a glass. The liquid is similar in color to my tea, but I assume it is much higher in its alcohol content.

“I was hoping you might be able to help me fill a gap in my memory.”

I can hear the amusement in his voice when he turns back and replies to my request. “Why do you think I’d be able to help you there?”

“Because…” I take a deep breath, mustering the courage to vocalize the rest of the statement. “Because it directly involves you.” I force myself to hold his now curious gaze. In a rush I continue, “I’m talking about ten years ago, when the two Megadeuces fought over Paradigm City. When it came down to you and Alexander Rosewater.

He blinks for a moment, obviously caught off guard by the vehemence of my words. Finally he glances at the clock and sighs, taking a seat on the couch across from me. “This might take a while.”

* *  * *

Two hours later I step back out onto the streets. The night air is crisp and cold, snowflakes falling lazily over the city. Exhaling, I can see my breath as I dig into my pocket and retrieve my gloves, slipping them on before I turn and start down the street.

As I walk, my mind works back to everything Roger Smith told me. To say that it is a lot to absorb is a severe understatement. I still feel a bit dazed with it all. But I am happier with the knowledge. Pieces have been added to the puzzle of my life, and it didn’t seem quite as incomplete anymore.

“Ma’am, donate some money to the Children’s Heaven’s Day fund?”

Lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts, I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was walking. I now find myself in the shopping district of Paradigm City. I blink and nod, putting a few dollars into the money-hungry bucket of the charity worker. “Have a happy Heaven’s Day, ma’am,” he responds.

I continue walking until something in a store window catches my eye. I stop and take a step closer to the window, pressing my gloved hand gently against the frosted glass. After a minute of studying the object, I decide to purchase it and enter the store to do just that.

It is a photo album, bound in red leather. The gold lettering print across the cover reads ‘MEMORIES’. In the city of Paradigm it seems an ironic name for any book, but I hope to fill it with the memories I create. This way no one can ever forget them.

Ever.