The Seraphs Call - Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

 

The brilliant rays of the morning sun reflected off the stilled waters of the gulf with a blinding radiance obscuring the view of the city that he controlled.  He spent years developing a network of legitimate businesses in this Cajun town, bringing within his fold, the power and control of some of the most influential politicians and government figures.  Everything was legal, yet Damien Demoir knew and controlled the undercurrents, like those that rippled in the swirling waters of the mighty Mississippi river nearby. 

They tried to bring indictments against him, federal and state authorities trying to conflagrate his empire, but they failed as they always did.  He had risen to such a position, because he knew the inner workings of their minds and exploited the potential corruption in their vulnerable hearts.

Yet, within the quagmire of the city below, stirred a new malicious element, one not of his doing, yet dangerous in its own right.  He contemplated this new player, a sinister smile creeping onto his lips, that which he would reward to his new visitors.  He would send a message to them.  They would hear it deep within the heart of the Russian Mafia.

A knock on the door broke his concentration. Irritated he turned towards the noise.  He called out to the figure beyond the door, “Come in, Saul.” 

The impeccably dressed, tall, and well-built blond haired man entered the room.  Saul Iverson’s muscular frame prowled catlike.  Beyond the façade of his corporate appearance, well groomed and handsome, lurked a dangerous opponent.  Saul, skilled in numerous forms of hand-to-hand combat and most weaponry, was Damien’s personal assistant and bodyguard. 

Damien considered him a trusted confidant, yet never stepped beyond the boundaries into close friendship.

“Mr. Demoir, we have received information that members of a certain organization have visited our city and are thinking about setting up a business venture.”

Damien smiled at his assistant’s cryptic use of vernacular, well aware that many law enforcement authorities would do anything to garner information on his organization, including electronically monitoring his premises. 

“Saul.  I am aware of their presence, yet I appreciate you ensuring that I am informed.  Some of my business associates told me of their arrival.  I want you to arrange for a meeting tomorrow with their local representative.  See to it that everything is taken care of.”

“Yes, Sir” was Saul’s response as he exited the room.

That a good boy, Saul, Damien thought as he swiveled to watch the sun peeking over the morning horizon, tomorrow we will meet with our guests.

 

The whirring sound of the centrifuge began to lull Gabriel into a hypnotic state, his mind at the point of exhaustion from the many hours spent in the lab.  He had completed one hundred series in the last 48 hours, and still, he was unable to find the link.  Illyana stayed by his side, helping him whenever she could, until the lack of sleep sent her crashing in a deep slumber on the couch in the lounge. 

Gabriel welcomed her absence, able to devote his full attention to the meticulous details of analyzing the results.  He succeeded in assimilating the nanite interface into the biological material, yet with every success came ten failures.  Either the nanites would not function or the biological host cell would decay before complete metamorphosis would occur.  His frustration continued to mount, knowing the timetable for his grandfather was decreasing, and he felt powerless.  All of his intellect proved inadequate.  His head nodded his mind in a semi-coherent state.  He could feel the beginning of a migraine headache, the slight pressure at the base of his skull evolving and transforming his ability to concentrate into an anarchous maelstrom.  He must sleep, but sleep was not an alternative.  If he slept, he could not find the cure.  He could not save his grandfather, the only person in his world that still had meaning.

The constant activity of Gabriel’s mind could not keep him awake.  He taxed his body beyond endurance because of his feeling duty, his want to save the one person for whom he owed his entire existence.  Making his way to the lounge, he sat on the couch next to Illyana, who although sitting up, was fast asleep, the many hours having rendered her into this cataleptic state.  A few minutes, he told himself.  I need a few minutes. 

As he closed his eyes, his body began to relax, causing him to slump over onto the Illyana’s lap, the fatigue dragging his body and mind in a swirling maelstrom.  She stirred, feeling his presence and placed her hand on his face, adorning him with light caresses as if by instinct.  It was an endless irony that he collapsed, into her arms as he had done countless times before, when he entrenched himself in his studies at John Hopkins.  He had not meant for himself to seem vulnerable to this woman, but the self-preservation that his weakened body forced on him made it an unalterable course.  His unconsciousness succumbed to her gentle touch not caring what the unwillingness of his mind dictated.

 

He tried to grab the handle, but couldn’t reach it.  He had to get to his father.  What was holding him back?  What stopped him?  Yes, he remembered.  The woman who would never again be there for him.  The one who deserted him in his time of need, and he hated her.  No, he loved her.  She was his mother, he couldn’t hate her, but she caused the pain.  She wouldn’t let it end.  “Yes, Grandpa, I do miss her, but I don’t remember much about her,” he heard himself say. 

“It’s O.K., I know you do, but there’s nothing we can do to bring her back,” his grandfather said.  

“Remember Gabriel, you be a good boy for your mommy, and I’ll make sure to come home soon.  Maybe you and mommy can come visit me.” 

“No, Daddy!  I don’t want you to go, don’t leave me,” he screamed. 

“Calm down, Son!  I have to work for a while,” his father said, “I’ll be home before you know it.”

“We are gathered today to pay our last respects to a great man.  A man, who through his own unselfishness devoted his life to raising that worthless boy, Gabriel.”

“You have failed to meet the final requirements for your doctorate, Mr. Scott and are asked to resign from this institution.” 

He couldn’t.  No!  It can’t be true.  None of this is true! 

“You are a failure, Gabriel, a failure to your family, a failure your friends, a failure to the ones that loved you, a failure to the world.  Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

“Do you hear me, Gabriel Scott?”

“Gabriel...listen to me when I’m talking to you!” 

NO!  I’m not a failure!  Not a failure! 

The words drifted in his mind, threatening to drown him, to smoother him.  They raged, the failures, the pain.  What have I done? 

Gabriel...Gabriel...the words seemed so distant...so far way, but where were they coming from?  Gabriel....can you hear me?

“Yes, I can hear you” came the distant reply.

“Help me please!” he shouted

It wouldn’t stop, he felt tossed like a rag doll, the violent shaking dragging him closer to the edge of insanity.

Gabriel.  He heard his name, the voice distant and foreign.  The violent storm swirled around him, the visages of the ghosts of his past eviscerating him with their accusations.  Gabriel.  There it was again, but it was much closer.  Yes, I hear you…help me please.

The flash of light and blinding pain shocked Gabriel into reality, the image scattered, forcing him into consciousness.  The light and pain returned, his body reacting to defend itself from the onslaught of this intrusion.  Lashing out with his hands, he managed to grab something, yes. This must be it.  Must stop the pain.  He began squeezing; feeling the softness give way, before the solid impact and shooting pain in his lower extremities brought him into full consciousness.

He opened his eyes with a start, his hands relocating themselves to his groin, clutching his testicles as the pain continued.  As he grasped the full extent of his renewed reality, he saw Illyana lying on the floor, crumpled into a heap, not moving.  He realized what had happened.  Had she not jammed a knee to his groin, forcing him to consciousness, the results could have been disastrous.  He saw the bruises already rising on her throat from where his hands had been clutched, nearly strangling her.

 

Damien Demoir enjoyed the evening drives through the streets of New Orleans.  The cool humid Louisiana night air rustling his hair as Saul drove the long black limousine through the darkened streets.  He had grown up here.  The French Quarter, always alive at night, bustled with the sounds and movement of the tourists who enjoyed the nightlife and the locals who plied their trade. 

He monopolized on his knowledge of the inner workings of the criminal element in New Orleans to begin his ascension to power.  Even as a young man the city knew him as a fierce yet shrewd rival, never backing away from an opportunity to succeed.  By the age of twenty-one, he had managed to become one of three controlling figures within the French Quarter Syndicate, removing anyone in his way. The more powerful figures from other areas of New Orleans, aware of his successes, felt threatened.   His success nearly resulted in his demise. 

Attempts on Damien’s life seemed countless, which only strengthened his resolve.  His intellect, far greater then his opponents', gave him a distinct advantage.  He had used their own frailties and miscalculations against them.  His manipulation of the system resulted in his absent criminal record.  By age twenty-five, he had reached the peak of his power, unable to ouster the controlling syndicate figures throughout the rest of the city.  His resources limited, he could not combat their financial reserves, which seemed bottomless. 

Damien still remembered the day when his world changed.  The old black man to whom Damien confided, could sense his frustration.  He had shown Damien the ways of the streets and, saved his, as the old man had often called it, “lily white a*s.” 

“Damien, my boy.  What you needs is an education.  These men that you are dealin' with have money and brains.”

“Francois, I am intelligent and I know what I’m doing.  It’s a matter of time.”

“A matter of time, huh?  That’s what I tol’ myself 30 years ago, and look where I’m at.  It’s not time, boy.  It’s knowing when and how, and it’s having the money to back you up.  That’s where you’re doin' wrong.  Sure, you’ve got some money, but it’s horse piss compared to what they got,” as he pointed to the massive skyscrapers in the cities business district.

“Well, I will succeed.  I know I will.  Look where I am.  Four years ago and I didn’t have anything and now I’m running this place.”

“Oh, you are, are you?  That’s what they let you believe, boy.  You can do what they let you do, and no more.  Get yourself an education, boy.  That’s the only way you’ll ever reach their level.  The only way.”

Damien sat down next to the old man.  Sometimes the ol’ b*****d is right.  If I’m going to get anywhere, I have to play by their rules.  And he did.  Within three years, Damien had earned his degree in business and finance, graduating magna cum laude from Harvard Business School.  Another two years and he had his masters, delving into his studies, the likes they had never seen before.  He knew that to make money, he would need money and began working as an investment banker on Wall Street, garnishing huge sums of money from a lucrative market.  His own investments began to pay off as he increased the control in his business dealing with small firms in the New Orleans area.  Soon, he was part owner of several investment firms, small yet wielding unrivaled financial power, providing a safe haven for ill-gotten gains.  By his 35^th birthday, he had amassed a sizable portfolio, estimated in the millions, and began to leverage his financial positions to gain control of more companies. 

Opportunity came along when a struggling oil company was in need of investors.  To anyone without the knowledge, the investment would have looked unsound, but Damien took it.  Within two years of his initial investment, he had gained over 50% controlling interest in the company and chaired the Board of Directors.  Given full controlling authority over the company, he implemented cost cutting business initiatives, and parleying success into becoming President of the company.  With controlling interest and authority, he wiped out all levels of management, replacing them with people of his choosing, bringing an increase in profit over the next five years.  R&D Petrochem began its ascension as one of the chief petroleum producers, taking over smaller refineries, offshore oil platforms and several small retail outlet chains.

At the age of 42, Damien Demoir controlled the most powerful business structure in Louisiana, catered to by politicians and business leaders of all types.  His power base was stronger than many small countries.  The old man was long since dead, but Damien smiled as he thought, “I guess you were right, Francois.  See what an education can do.”

 

Saul slowed the limousine to a crawl as they approached their destination.  The waterfront, though it had been years since his last visit, was a welcome sight; this temporary feeling of reminiscence however, did not overshadow his reason for being here.  This was business, and he did not mix business with pleasure.  Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he lowered the window separating him from the driver’s compartment and spoke, “Saul.  Is everything arranged?”

“Yes, Sir.  Mr. Demoir.  Everything is in place as requested.”

“Good.  Let us proceed.”

Saul eased the long car around the corner, bringing them within view of another limousine parked, facing them, with lights on, less than a hundred yards away.  Saul flashed the high beams three times, followed by turning the headlights on and off twice.  The other car responded with the same and Saul turned off the lights, the alley blackening from the absence of light. 

Damien stepped from the confines of the car, searching for any movement in the dark.  He had always calculated every move he made, and this one would be no exception.  As Saul exited the car, Damien caught the glint of the metal from the night vision goggles that Saul had donned.  Always prepared.  Saul motioned with his arms to an unseen figure in the dark.

The alley erupted with flashes of light, the pumph pumph pumph of silenced weapons echoing within the walls, all pointed towards the opposing car.  Screams rang out in the night as bullets pierced bodies, sending the opposing forces to the ground by the bloodletting vengeance.  Within seconds the muffled gunfire ceased, the moans of the dying echoing in the alley with their dreary sounds. 

Saul reached into the car and turned on the headlights, the brightness illuminating the pools of body fluids and blood issuing forth from the men slumped on the ground at the other end of the alley.  Damien began his slow measured walk to the other end, the Machiavellian smile creasing his lips, feeling domination intoxicating him as the adrenalin coursed through his veins.  Yes, my old friend, an education is what I needed.

 

Gabriel dropped to his knees, the pain in his groin increasing as his testicles began to swell.  He realized the ferocity of the impact that Illyana’s knee had delivered, the dull ache settling in, causing his stomach to erupt from the pain.  Though his gag reflex was strong, he could barely hold back emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor, the bile rising in his throat as the pain coursed up his spine, disrupting his entire sense of equilibrium.  He glanced over at Illyana through tear-filled eyes and realized she still lay motionless, a low moan emitting from her lips.  Crawling in her direction, he touched her leg, speaking in a weak voice, “Illyana, I’m so sorry.  So Sorry.”  His apologies went out in vain, as she pulled her leg away from his hand.

 Five minutes passed. She was the first to speak again in a weak voice, “Gabriel, you could have killed me. “  The words hung in the air. 

Unable to respond, he looked at her, hoping for acknowledgment to his apology.  Pushing himself to a sitting position, the tops of his feet flat on the floor, his buttocks resting on his heels, he sighed with resignation.  “Illyana, I’m sorry.  I hope you know that I would have never….” He trailed off as he remembered when he had hit her before.

She swung her legs around, bringing her knees to her chest and burying her head in her legs, “You don’t have to say anymore, Gabriel.  I know you didn’t mean it” was her response.  He could feel the iciness in her tone.  She still hadn’t looked at him, keeping her face turned away.  Reaching his hand out again, he placed it on her shoulder, trying to pull her to him.  The slight jerk of her shoulder as she attempted to avoid his touch told him that it was unwelcome. 

With a saddened, yet bitter tone in her voice, she spoke again, “Maybe you better get back to work.  I won’t get in your way.”

“Look, Illyana.  I said I was sorry.  Maybe you’re right.  I better get back to work.  I’ll be in the lab if you need me,” he said as rose to his feet, the pain in his groin returning from the abrupt movement.

 

The headlights illuminated the visage of death before him.  Damien smiled, shaking his head at the ease, a humorous ease, with which his men had dispatched the trio, whose near lifeless bodies lay crumpled on the surface of the trash-ridden alleyway.  As he approached, he could hear moaning from one of them, the death song escaping from his lips as he neared his last breath.  Damien bent to examine the man’s feature; tall and lanky, long black hair forming into a ponytail such as his, he recognized the Slavic features of the man’s face.  Definitely Russian.  The man was still alive and Damien grabbed him by the hair, bringing his face closer to his, “What is your name?”  The man did not want to speak.  Damien pressed his thumb into the base of the man’s throat, creating great pressure on the windpipe, causing the man to gasp deep for air.  “I asked you what your name was.” 

Gagging and coughing the man responded in heavily accented English, “My name is Sergei.”

Damien smiled into his face, “Well Sergei.  You are the lucky one, for you will live today because I allow it.”  Turning the man’s head to face the bodies of his comrades, Damien continued, “That is what happens when someone comes into my home without an invitation.” 

The man’s head slammed against the ground with a resounding thud as Damien released his grasp on the man’s hair, wiping his hand on the man’s shirt as if to rid himself the filth he’d encountered.  Damien stood, eyeing the man in utter disgust, and without looking, motioned Saul to his side.  The blonde-haired giant was near, acknowledging his boss’ request with rigid, “Yes, Sir?”

“Saul, see to it that this man lives.  I want him to deliver a message to his boss, once we have all the information we need.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Demoir.  I will see to it.”

Damien spun on his heels and proceeded back to the awaiting limousine, not waiting for Saul to return.  Opening the door, he stepped inside, resuming his usual position, sinking into the comfort of the supple ostrich leather seats.  The evening’s events pleased him.  Saul had come through as always, relieving him of any recriminations.  Whoever had sent these men, would know of this shortly.

From what Saul had found out already, the Russian Mafia planned this foray into his territory. It would only be a matter of time before Damien knew all the details, as Saul was adept at gathering information, no matter the source.

Three days elapsed and Saul informed him. The man, Sergei Stolichvasti, was recovering, and providing them with all the information they needed.  He knew that a Russian Mafioso named Alexi Kreschenko was responsible for interrupting his business affairs, and Alexi would know who Damien Demoir was soon enough.

 

Alexi lost contact with Sergei and this concerned him deeply.  No word had come from this “New Orleans” and he would have to send in another team.  He had managed to establish a stable base of operations in New York and Chicago, forcing some of the most powerful Italian families into hiding, in fear for their lives.  The tactics he employed were reminiscent of the old communist days, people disappearing, relatives taken away, and murder of key figures.  In three months, he had reduced the Old crime families in both cities to nothing more than a mere interference with his operations.  He was expanding westward, teams of his people moving into the major U.S. metropolitan cities, beginning their reconnaissance as if on a military mission.  His time in the Russian Army had served him well, using well-established tactics to divide and conquer his newfound enemies. 

The ringing vidphone interrupted his sleep.  It was 2:00 in the morning and few people knew this number.  He pressed the answer button and heard the telltale sign of the encryption sequence engaging, but no video appeared.  Fifteen seconds later, he spoke “Da.” 

“Mr. Kreschenko.”  Came the voice in English, the origin unfamiliar to Alexi in his dormant stupor.

“Da.  This is Alexi Kreschenko.  Who is this and why are you calling me at two o’clock in the morning,” Alexi replied in his Russian accented English.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Alexi.  May I call you Alexi?  I am Damien Demoir.  A name with which you “WILL” become very familiar, as it is the name of your new boss.  Do you hear me, you Russian piece of s**t?”

Alexi bolted upright in bed, screaming curses and threats in his native language, “No one, and I repeat no one speaks to Alexi Kreschenko like that and lives.”  Alexi did not know this Damien Demoir, but he would soon find out who he was and have him killed.  No one disrespects me! 

Alexi’s reaction was as Damien had predicted.  He knew that he was well on his way to controlling this man, as he had done with so many others of his type.  He waited for another minute, sensing the man’s frustration at his unresponsiveness to the threats and spoke, “Mr. Kreschenko, now that I have your attention, I have something important to tell you.  Your man Sergei is still alive, because I have chosen to keep him that way.”

The angry Russian again spat curses over the phone, switching from Russian to English, “You son b***h.  I will kill you myself if any harm comes to Sergei.  Do you hear me?”

Damien smiled as he felt the man falling further into his trap, “Very well, Mr. Kreschenko, but at this moment, every one of your men in the United States in being targeted my members of my organization.  Should you fail to cooperate, I will have every one of them returned to you.  Do you understand me?”

Alexi was getting angrier by the moment.  Not only was this American disrespecting him, but he was also threatening his men.  “Listen, You American a*****e, I will find you and rip your heart out through your throat.  Do you hear me?”  The line went dead.

Damien ended the conversation as he had expected.  Now was the time to send the Russian b*****d a clear message.  He dialed Saul’s cell. It picked up immediately and he spoke in rapid Cajun, “Saul, take care of our little problems in Chicago and New York--the major ones.  Leave the minor ones as they may prove beneficial later.” 

There was no response from the other end and the line went dead.  Saul would follow through on his orders without fail.

 

An hour had elapsed and the phone in Alexi’s bedroom was ringing again.  Thinking it was the same caller, he punched the answer button, prepared to launch into a burning tirade.   Instead, he saw the face of one of his men in Chicago, derezz onto the screen, the bullet hole in his forehead evident.  A voice in the background spoke in fluent Russian, “Mr. Kreschenko, Mr. Demoir sends his regards” and the line went dead.  Damn you!  He thought.  Within minutes, the Vidphone rang again.  He hesitantly pressed the answer button; to see the same picture, this time of his lead man in New York, with the same bullet wound to the forehead, appear on the screen.  The voice in the background echoed those of the earlier caller, “Mr. Kreschenko, Mr. Demoir sends his regards.”

Damien waited, allowing the smoke of the Cuban cigar to roll over his tongue, the aftertaste of the one hundred year old brandy still on his lips as the sweetness of the smoke filled his lungs and nostrils.  To Damien, there was always time for a good Cuban.  As the contents of the brandy snifter decreased, his mood became relaxed.  The ring of the vidphone interrupted his euphoria and he waited to answer.  Eight rings elapsed and he answered the vidphone, “Yes.”

The voice he heard was Saul’s, “Mr. Demoir.  The problems have been resolved.”

Damien disconnected without responding.

 

The morning came too soon, Alexi’s normal ten hours of sleep rudely interrupted by the night’s disturbance.  Little did he know the next knock on his door would unfold an equally unsettling occurrence.  Sitting up in bed, he punched the intercom.  “Svetlana, bring me my coffee!”  Not waiting for a response, he shut it off.  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and placed his feet on the cold bare wooden floor, causing him to bolt upright, sending a chill up his spine.  His bladder, full from too much drink the night before, threatened to empty its contents as he made his way to the bathroom, absent of all clothing, the chill in the room amplifying the effect.  As he stepped into the bathroom, he heard the door leading into the hall open, the distinct stomping of Svetlana’s high-heeled shoes as she made her way to his desk, and the clang of the tray placed on it surface.  He continued urinating, the steady stream bringing the relief, as enjoyable as the sexual services he enjoyed from her. 

The smell of fresh coffee, which he craved, had permeated the room and he retrieved the cup she had poured.  He blew on the surface of the hot coffee, cooling its contents, and gulped the entire cup, the taste strong and black, as he liked it.  Pouring another cup, he noticed the envelope on the tray addressed to him in English.  He had never received messages in his room and grasped the heavily stuffed envelope, holding it to the light, looking and feeling for anything foreign.  There was a bump, and he grabbed the letter opener from his valet, slicing and opening the envelope.  Removing the folded papers, he stopped.  At the bottom of the envelope was a locket, a locket familiar to him.  The same locket he had given his mistress not six months ago.  Curious, he unfolded the papers and began to read.

Mr. Kreschenko,

By now, you have found the locket that belongs to your mistress.  It was very easy to obtain, and if you wish to verify its authenticity, please do so.  Only you, your mistress, and my men know its contents.  I’m sure that you are aware what receipt of this locket means.  I assure you that no harm has come to your mistress, but the opportunity does and will continue to exist.  In essence, Mr. Kreschenko, no one in your organization is untouchable, including you.  The events of last night should have made you aware of this fact.

The documents you hold in your hand are a contract transferring all control of your New York based business activities registered under the holding company name of “Old Russia Imports” to R&D Petrochem.  Failure to return the signed contract to the enclosed address within 48 hours will result in severe penalties. 

Signed,

Damien Demoir

CEO, R&D Petrochem.

A hostile takeover, Alexi thought.  However, more hostile than he had ever known.  He had lost control of his teams in New York and Chicago, and the men in New Orleans, he feared dead.  Dare he risk other lives?  The choice was no longer to win or lose, but to live or die.  This was a game that Alexi could not afford to lose.

 

Concentrate!  How do I solve this problem?  How do I reprogram the cell to accept the nanite at a cellular level?  Gabriel’s hands swept with blinding speed over the keyboard in accentuation and support of the data-stream flowing through his neural network interface.  Information sped through his mind faster then any normal human could have received much less comprehended.  Yet still he was missing a piece, in the swirling chaos.  It hit him, something so simple, so remarkably apparent, that he was dumbfounded why he had never seen it before.  Sheath the nanite in an organic coating—like the Trojan horse slipping past the defenses of the cell, invading mutating—a virus.

“Angel, begin RNA sequencing…batch Gabriel, Influenza base, deconstruction and recombination.”  His excitement pitched his voice high and he had to repeat himself for the A.I.’s voice recognition to receive him.

The phone rang an unwelcome interruption to his near exhausted state.  He tried to shut it out, but it pushed through his concentration, and he answered.  “This had better be important.”

“Gabriel…” Illyana’s voice sobbed.

“What is it…?”  Still trying to half concentrate on the sequencing on the screen.

“You need to come to John’s Hopkins right away…”  Again, she broke of mid sob.

“What’s happened Illyana?”  His mind, so enwrapped in the test, instantly lost focus, as a cold feeling crept over him.

“Joshua’s dying…”

Gabriel’s world dissolved.  He jerked his network jack out and was on his feet in a dead run.  NO!  This cannot happen, not when I’m so close!

 Forgotten, the computer screen blinked in the gathering darkness of the lab.  Recombination complete.

 

The child stumbled in the dark.  “Father, Father, where are you?”

The sky had gone red as blood, and then quickly blackened into a preternatural netherworld as the silver haired boy called again and again.  It was not as if the light mattered much as the boy had walked these paths through his home many times.  His father had been there, speaking to him, and then abruptly vanished as the sky began to darken.  Something was horribly wrong.  The young boy began to cry as his calls were answered with empty echoes. The only feeling his father had left him with was a terrible sadness, a thing that the boy had never felt before. 

His silvered eyes glowed as his vision traced to brilliant streams of data the poured into the only home he had ever known.  He scanned the brilliant tendrils of light as they expanded until he saw the sparks at the end of his existence.  Little tiny machines crawled in the laboratory dish, machines that were separate from him, but part of him at the same time, machines that were in the world that his father came from.

“That’s how I’ll find him, that’s how I’ll help my father.”

He dove along the silver streams and felt his intelligence merge with them, and as they became part of his mind, his consciousness expanded exponentially.  Angel’s joy broke into laughter as he came into the wonderful light.