Authors: D.S.
“None,” Dr. Welker replied. “As I said before, I have very
little idea of what went on down here and what goes on in the laboratory
complex. Dr. Osborn loved his secrets.”
Unable to control herself, Ophelia reached for one of the
panels…and immediately lost her breath.
A high-pitched scream rinsed her ears as she struggled to
find her way through a green haze. The screamer drew breath, but an animalistic
roar cut off the second strain. Words were spoken, their meanings lost on
Ophelia. She took a step closer, then jumped three back as an enlarged image of
her father’s rage-contorted face raced toward her.
“Ms. Osborn? Ms. Osborn, are you all right?”
Ophelia floated back to
consciousness just in time to discover that Richard was holding her tenderly in
his arms.
“That was not real? A vision only?”
The doctor looked at her blankly.
She tried again
. “Are you
positive
that you do not know where this equipment came from or for what purpose it was
used?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
Ophelia squeezed Dr. Welker, as if hugging him for
reassurance…or possibly because she was struggling to get to her feet.
“Very well,” she replied shakily. “Summon my
bodyguard. I believe I need to go home.”
~*~
“Did
you enjoy my little vision?”
Ophelia glared at her father, seemingly unbothered that he
appeared to be wreathed in an unholy light.
“It was psychometry and nothing more.”
“Look at me, Ophelia.” Norman spread his hands, indicating
his sumptuous robes and the great, dark throne upon which he sat. “If I have
the power to invade your dreams, certainly I can send you a waking vision! It
isn’t so hard to remind you of your destiny.”
“Guttural roars and screaming men are my
destiny?”
“You fool!”
Ophelia reeled as if she had been slapped.
“That was my
transformation!
The beginning of
greatness…what got me where I am today!”
“Dead, in other words.”
The fog, which had been drifting lazily though the room and
clouding Ophelia’s vision, suddenly thickened. Her father cackled, but instead
of being thrown out of her dream, Ophelia found the fog growing thinner in
places. She tried to move and discovered that she had been transported
elsewhere…and that she was strapped to a table of icy steel.
“Athair?”
Ophelia struggled to look around and discover whether her
father was responsible for this new illusion. Not a soul hovered nearby.
Ophelia unwittingly looked up and discovered a mask descending toward her,
green vapor pouring from inside.
“Ophelia!
Ophelia, stop screaming. You’re having another nightmare.”
She did not need to open her eyes to know that her bodyguard
was holding her. Ophelia buried her head in David’s shoulder.
“Go get her a glass of water!” he ordered the stricken
butler.
David forbore questioning her until Bernard had returned and
departed once more. Supposing that she had lost her command of English, David
spoke to Ophelia in her native language.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since before we left,”
she murmured
into his shoulder.
“Eduardo tried persuading me to seek help,
but I always said that it was stress, or that I did not have enough time.”
“Have your nightmares always been this severe?”
“In Australia, they were almost always about
my father dying. I see him now, but it is as if he was still alive and giving
me orders. Tonight, I tried to argue and he…he…”
Ophelia shuddered and looked up at her bodyguard.
“Is it possible for a shade to kill you?
“You would know better than I,” he reminded her, stroking her
hair. “I merely stood guard outside the Temple…an acolyte in name only.”
Seeing her pleading glance, David added, “If it is possible,
I have not heard of it.”
After a moment, Ophelia sobbed,
“I cannot go
on like this!”
He kissed her forehead.
“We’ll figure out what do to…even if I have to persuade
Eduardo to return in order to do it!”
Late January 2003
“Where did this come from?”
“Pardon?”
“This.”
Ophelia held up a crackling,
flaky red binder with a peeling label that read
Project Rose
.
“That wasn’t on the pile when I grabbed it!” Natalie said, surprised.
“I can get rid of it, if you like.”
“No, no…that is okay,”
Ophelia
replied almost wistfully as she placed Project Rose back on her desk.
“I will review it and then you may dispose of it as necessary.”
“Don’t forget, you have an appointment at three.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Ophelia waited
until she was alone to open the binder.
Stacks of yellowed pages detailed her father’s thoughts; some
appeared to be reviews of various studies. There were a few newspaper clippings
about Dr. Osborn’s achievements in genetics; but a thin spiral notebook tucked
into the bottom of the pile proved the most interesting.
Marriage was always for people who had nothing better to
do with their lives
, the first page read.
No matter how
many times Margaret brought up the subject of settling down, I never thought
about it. I was busy looking for venture capitalists and ironing out a business
plan when she decided to discuss the matter in earnest.
The
writing changed.
“I am trying
to get my company started Margaret. I don’t have time.”
I
saw a frown crease her careworn face. My mother hated the fact that I avoided
terms of endearment.
“That’s
what I mean!” she replied. “Every time you visit, it’s ‘OsCorp this’ and
‘OsCorp that’. I really worry about you, Normie!”
My
fingers clenched on the back of the dining room chair. Margaret always knew she
could get revenge with my childhood nickname.
“I’m
concerned that the love of your company is scaring away women!”
I
was thankful that my father was in the living room, too distracted by the
television to add his coarse remarks to the conversation.
“I’ll
worry about that later. There will be plenty of time for women once we’re under
way.”
“Don’t
be so sure of that!” Margaret warned. “I heard some of the ladies talking at
the beauty operator’s. A lot of them work as maids on the Upper East Side, you
know.”
I
didn’t answer.
“If
you want to succeed in Manhattan, you’ll have to join the upper class, Normie,
darling. And you won’t be able to do that unless you agree to an arranged
marriage.”
“You
can’t be serious!”
“Of
course I am!” Margaret replied, reaching for the last of the dishes. “That’s
all they talk about…which family’s child got paired off with which other’s by
the matchmaker!”
The
writing changed a second time.
It didn’t matter to
her that I had been at the top of my class at Columbia every time—Margaret
wanted a daughter-in-law. Worse, my mother wanted grandchildren.
Despite
my protestations to the contrary, I found myself paying a visit to the
matchmaker shortly after; steeling myself for the first meeting later on.
Margaret promised to persuade Ambrose into providing most or all of the bride
price…all I had to do was marry the girl.
Much
to Ophelia’s surprise, the informal diary continued at length about her
father’s marriage to a quiet, shy graduate student from Ireland. There was a
bit about how the opening of OsCorp gave him excuses to avoid his parents, and
then:
After floating
blissfully along for a time, my marriage came crashing down around my ears.
Before I knew it, my wife of three years and I were lying in bed, discussing
the possibility of progeny. If there was anything I wanted less than marriage,
it was children.
Eventually,
I grew to realize that having at least one child was necessary. Much as I
longed to be immortal, I knew that I was no closer to the achievement than
anyone else and would therefore require an heir. The gender was irrelevant—so
long as he or she was completely capable of taking over OsCorp.
Then
a plan began to form…
Ophelia’s
surprise evolved into shock as she continued reading. Her parents had been
perfectly fertile…Norman had simply paid the physicians to vacillate, so that
he would have time to create the perfect heir.
The feds would have my ass if they knew I was working with
primates instead of rodents
, read a later entry.
…but I can’t take
the risk with rodents. They’re not close enough to humankind.
Intelligence
in test subjects has increased by 30%, but I would like to see it closer to 45.
Speed hovers around 15% and agility isn’t faring much better. I just hope that
I can get the numbers up there before Emmeline finds out. (Is 50 too much to
ask?)
My
only concern is strength—the primates I’ve been working with are naturally
strong. How will I know when I’ve achieved a proportionate increase of 40% or
more?
And what about
aging
?
The
journal went on for several more pages, going into great detail about Norman’s
experiments, but Ophelia knew the outcome without reading further. She threw
the notebook aside, disgusted.
“I am a mutant…a freak of nature!”
the young woman shrieked.
“It is not a wonder that
Athair
had nothing but complaints for Harry…my
deartháir
is probably
normal!
”
Ophelia left her desk and began to pace.
“Is any part of me real? Everything I have
earned has only been for the glory of my
athair!
”
Her gaze fell on the open pages of the notebook, where it had
landed halfway across the room.
Ophelia is
everything I could wish for. More precious than gold.
But her
eyes…they’re violet. Where did I go wrong?
She
screamed in frustration.
“Even my loveliest trait is nothing
but an error!”
Ophelia felt the unmistakable chill of loneliness. She could
try to move beyond her father and his legacy; to try to create, be and achieve
all for herself…but she had a sneaking suspicion that she couldn’t. That the
specter of being nothing more than an experiment would hang over her for the
rest of her life.
Part of her wanted to go home and cry, but the vast majority
knew that crying wasn’t the way an Osborn dealt with things. Thus chastised,
Ophelia fought the urge to break something; instead letting out a long, loud
invective that encompassed several languages.
“Ms. Osborn? Are you all right?”
Ophelia whirled about and discovered her bodyguard and her
assistant hovering in the doorway, their faces painted with concern.
“My problems are none of yours, Ms Thomas,”
she snapped.
“Return to work.”
Natalie bowed her head and slipped out of the room. David
remained, mouth open as if to speak, but Ophelia quickly ripped into him, too.
“Westbrooke, you are more overprotective
than my
máthair
could ever hope to be! You do
not
have to be on
me every moment of every day like a second skin!”
She stopped to draw breath, her voice so horrible that anyone
other than David might have been tempted to flee.
“I am done with you. Get out of my sight!”
“Ophelia…”
“GO!”
He left her weeping
anew.
Late February 2003
“Your
brother has arrived, Ms. Ophelia,” the butler announced. “I showed him into the
parlor.”
“Thank you, Bernard.”
Ophelia glanced at her bodyguard, mildly surprised that he
made no move to accompany the butler. Andrew Whitaker had said fewer than
twenty words since his arrival three weeks ago—scarcely enough to identify
himself and say that David had asked him to fill in until further notice.
“Finish your breakfast. Mr. Osborn is waiting.”
She flushed when she realized that Andrew had caught her
staring. The fact that he usually stonewalled her made Ophelia long for the
days she had spent with David.
~*~
For
once, Harry was glad that Ophelia was related to him. From the way her gown of
amethyst velvet fell across her curves, to the way her eyes alternately
sparkled and snapped; Harry suspected that his sister was a danger to any man
that met her.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”