I just (consciously) realized... Robots are a LOT like Elves, you know? Which might be why I love both "species" so much. OO They both have this super-human strenght, agility, beauty and perfection; they have "powers", the ability to think and feel and relate to the Universe in different ways than humans, they are ageless, always young, never-changing through the eras. They're melancholy and alone. Different. Superior...
In fact, the following fic would work perfectly well with a human and a Elf, as it does with a Human and a Robot Master.
Title: Kalinka.
Author: Nemesi.
Fandom: Rockman Classic/Original Saga (MM)
Genre: Romance. Angst.
Word Count: 2608.
Characters/Pairing: Kalinka→Protoman, Protoman→??.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: Rockman, its characters, places and themes belong to Capcom, Shogakukan, ShoPro, TV Tokio, etc.. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: Character Death.
A/N: For… err… obvious practical reasons, Proto doesn't look like he does in the official game-artwork. Rather, he looks older. A little like he does in the Megamix manga, a little like in the cartoon, a lot like in the Rock Opera. He looks like he does in MY fanworks: around 17 and 20 years of age, not too tall but perfectly built, slender and strong, with short, dark spiky hair.
Also, at some point in the fic, some "laws" are mentioned. While I'm not sure that Robot Masters had to follow Asimov's "Laws of Robotics" to begin with, Rockman IS based off Astroboy, and the robots there had one 'law', so to speak, to follow: which is to always aid and never harm humans.
Summary: "But true love is a durable fire, in the mind ever burning, never sick, never old, never dead, from itself never turning." - Sir Walter Raleigh
It wasn't a message, that he received. It wasn't even a signal, or a broadcast of sorts. There was just something, in his circuits, something in the electrical soul of him that told him it was time, time to leave everything behind and go to her.
He halted where he stood, perched high on a pinnacle of rock in the midst of the desert. He twisted to look back at the setting sun for a long moment, his head held high, poised like a bird. The golden radiance of the sunset was still filling his visor, when he tapped his teleporting device.
Protoman found Kalinka where he knew he would – in her father's dome, the ancient bulk of it. Her room was at the topmost storey, a marvel with glass walls and a glass roof, like a jewel case, or a cage of sorts.
He beamed into existence in the far end of it, the one single corner where shadows held fast against the enclosing, cold light of Russia that poured in from all directions, and did nothing to announce his presence, as was his custom. Yet, not a heartbeat later, a hand rose from the bed on the other side of the room, parted the brocades falling in heavy folds around it, and beckoned him closer.
He went willingly, silently. Came to a stop at the edge of her bed. Here, a whiff or scent, wax candles and white flowers and soap, rare like mist, rose to greet him. It curled like a garland round the figure laying amongst the cushions like a doll in her velvet case.
She rose watery blue eyes on him, smiled her pretty smile, that which never changed, and that even now made her glow, star-like, with health and love and life. But even as her mouth curved, she clutched her fur cloak closer about herself, a twinge of shame burgeoning within her chest, twining with her elation and giving it a sour taste.
Protoman said nothing, did nothing for a while. Behind the cover of his shades, his eyes trailed over her face, down to her aged form, the frail hands, limp like wilting flowers and just as soft. He took in the wrinkles and blemishes and fragility of her, looking at her the same way he'd looked at the desert and at the sun before he'd set off: with a kind of familiarity that bordered on affection.
There were no horror and no pity in his demeanour; no judgment came from him. When he spoke, his voice was even, almost musical, his tone as she remembered it, rough and pleasant like velvet.
"Kalinka."
The warmth imbued in her name moved her. She breathed his name, breathed: "Protoman", and felt her own shame melt away at his acceptance.
"I knew you'd come," she said, a quiet delight in her voice. "I knew you'd hear me."
He smiled then – a small quirk of his lips, nothing more, but acknowledged that truth with a nod.
They were attuned, something that perplexed and amused him at once. She could always tell when he was near; and he, in turn, always knew when she was in need.
There was only another on Earth, who could feel Protoman as keenly, as deeply as she; only one whose presence Protoman could feel always, warm and sparkling like a candle behind his closed eyelids. But this other one was a Robot Master, primed to Protoman's signals, as he was primed to theirs. She was merely human.
"I had promised."
Kalinka's hands relaxed, not quite releasing the cloak, but regaining some colour around the knuckles. The was a delight about her face, when she looked at him, that was almost endearing. She reminded him of his sister, somehow. Their quiet strength, that needed no weapon and no words to win every fight; their doll-like loveliness, untouched despite the works of time.
"Thank you," she said. For coming here. For being with me. Thank you.
Protoman shook his head, and rearranged himself until he was leaning against his shield, arms crossed. She would've said something, and he would've been content to listen in silence forever, but a branch outside relieved itself of its burden of snow, making noise.
Both Protoman and Kalinka turned towards the sound, and watched the landscape rolling out before and under them. Endless white all over, stretching as far as the eye could see, stretching until it met the blue of the sky and melted with it, in swirls and strokes.
"I want out," Kalinka said simply.
Protoman didn't question her. Didn't try to reason with her, didn't even encourage her, for that matter. He just picked her up, pulled her to his chest, and teleported out.
Protoman had teleported them atop a snowy hill, crowded by a single, weathered tree. Kalinka was small and frail in his arms, her weight like that of a little bird, non-existent and fragile. She was hard and soft at the same time, her skin peachy, almost translucent in the low light, her bones jugging from underneath, clearly visible. She sighed, and her breath turned mist about her cheeks, clouded her vision for a while.
They were high, so very high. High, jagged peaks reared up all around them, white like bones, drawing an ample girth around a snowy plateau, that gleamed and glittered as through sprinkled with silver powder. Further ahead, where land met ocean, the ice cracked and blistered, revealing the browns hidden underneath. On the shore, galleons and castles of ice took sail on to the dark waves, and drifted off into the swirling mists.
"Snow," she mused when he carefully sat her underneath the tree. "It ever made me think of you."
The slight tilt of Protoman's head as he settled down next to her was as good as an inquisitive glare.
"Me? I'm nothing like snow," he affirmed. And his very tone belied him, because it was as cold and even as the snow beneath them.
Kalinka tipped her head, buried her cheek in her fur cloak. For a moment, the grey woman was gone, and a girl in crimson brocade came in her place, golden curls framing her face, and coyness tinting her cheeks a pale pink.
"You are," she disagreed happily. She knew enough of him to recognize his scepticisms, and his hidden scowl amused her. "Don't you believe me?"
Silence. Only he could ever make it so eloquent. He buried his hand in the snow at his side, cupped a handful of it, and held it towards her for inspection.
"Snow is pure. I never was."
"But you're cold, and you're beautiful. And you instil awe, and you instil fear."
He dumped the content of his hand, settled back against the trunk, crossed his arms, and didn't answer. Kalinka grinned, placed her hand atop his own, and her fingers were blue with cold, whereas his own were warm and soft with the imitation of life.
"Sing for me."
What little was visible of his face shifted, softening with something akin to amusement.
"Foolish humans," he chided softly. "You and your noise. You are always craving it."
"We crave joy, and songs are joyful," she replied. "Sing for me."
"I cannot sing."
"You lie."
"Robots don't lie." He was affronted.
"Then you are omitting something, which is as good as lying." She was delighted.
He shrugged.
"I don't know any joyful song."
"Then sing me of war, and of sorrow. Sing me of pain, of melancholy and need. You know those."
Protoman turned to study her face. She gazed serenely back at him, her hands on her lap, her hair shining a pale silver, like spider silk.
"I do," he trailed off, unsure of what to say next. He settled for the truth. "But I am no singer."
Kalinka laughed throatily.
"You won't sing? Very well. Play, then. Play this." Reaching up, she placed her hand, gentle and small, at the junction of his throat.
He needn't ask what she meant. They both knew well enough to what she referred. His mechanical voicebox was like a flute or a carillon of sorts, if you will; and its notes were clearer and purer than any other instrument of human construction.
Protoman was well aware of the power of that "instrument" of his. How many had fallen prey to it over the years? Too many to count. He recalled enemies shortcutting and blowing up as inhuman frequencies spilled from his throat. He recalled allies lulled into a dreamless, self-repairing slumber to the sound of lower, droning keys.
…he recalled, in depths of his systems he kept locked and shielded, a trusting head sinking against his shoulder, so many times; a hot lithe body pressed against his chest, the weight of it, the lulling purr of its processors. He recalled smooth synthetic hands locked behind his neck, bushing his hair, as he played the same tune, slowly and carefully, over and over.
"Play for me." Kalinka repeated. Though her words were soft, hers was an order, and he recognized it as such.
He took her hand from his throat and averted his gaze. His back to her, he produced a string of notes, so quiet they were but barely within the range of human hearing. And the artistry of it was like a shiny bubble of soap, beautiful and light and fragile, flashing over and over with so many colours, taking hues from everything around it.
And it was haunting, and it was sweet, Protoman's song; it carried sorrow and narrated pain. It mourned a loss, even as it courted a new hope.
She closed her eyes, surrendering to the magic of it, and forgot everything else. Forgot herself, forgot the world, her care, her pain. Softly, she hummed alongside him, her voice crackling and weak, but not at all unpleasant.
The song hadn't ended, and her eyelids were still lowered, when she spoke.
"You loved me, in your own way, and for that I am grateful. You loved me enough to come and see me this one last time. Cared enough to save me, to protect me through the years. From the shadows as it was, I always knew what you were doing. My saviour. The knight of this foolish spoiled princess."
He looked at her, no real emotion on his face. She slouched a little against the tree trunk, a glass doll with whisper-thin limbs, breathing but barely, and watched askance at him, through eyes that fought to stay closed. The lines of care on her face seemed to deepen suddenly, carved by an unforgiving sculptor. Her chest fluttered agitatedly under the thin chemise she wore, but her smile didn't waver.
"But you never fell in love with me, as I did with you. I hope you'll allow me some childish pride, and let me resent the one you gave your heart to, if only for what little time remains to me."
He shook his head, hopeless.
"Kalinka, don't give me talents I don't posses. I am a machine. I have no heart to give."
"No heart? Is that what you think?"
"Feelings are illogical. Robots have no use for them." Robot feelings are but glitches. Loopholes. Bugs.
"The words of your fathers, not yours." She was still smiling, and that was nice. "You know your AI was based on the human psyche, and emotions are basic to its functioning. Therefore, you all have an equivalent for them. Your feelings can be expressed in mathematical terms, yes, but does that make them any less true? Anything in this world can be quantified. Human emotions are often expressed in words. Robot emotions are expressed in numbers – or song." She reached out, struggled to touch him, and was relieved when he caught her hand with his own, held it like one would hold a butterfly. "Besides, you do have one you value over everything else. You do have someone you'd die to protect. Someone you need, like humans need the air they breathe. It just isn't me."
Something wafted by his face, a look of mingling hurt and longing. It was quick and instantly gone, but she caught it nonetheless.
"Foolish bot," she chided gently. "You and your laws. You were trying to lie to keep me from pain. Did you think I didn't know already? That you were never mine?"
Lesser AIs would've crashed, trying to do what he'd done - dance on the razor edge of the laws, flirting with the concept of lying, bending words to his will and making them his slaves. But Protoman was no mere machine – he was a Robot Master, the first one; he was the original and perfect. He could lie. He could find loopholes to go around the laws. He could work miracles.
Evidently, not when she was concerned.
He looked away, clenched the snow in his hand, felt it melt and drip through his fingers, like rain or blood.
"I'm sorry." That you are right. That I can feel, and you aren't the one. That I give you pain, even at the end.
"Tell me their name."
"Kalinka…"
"Humour a dying woman."
He didn't say a word – didn't utter a name. For a long moment they remained in silence, unmoving. Then, from deep within his chest rose a sound, one short, brilliant tune that hovered about them like a rare spell, shimmered and was gone, music composed by a robot, music made by numbers, music, self-taught, when he shouldn't have the ability to teach himself anything, should have no taste in art to start with. And she understood.
"Ah," it was a whisper. "Just as I thought. Would you grant me one last request?"
His hand felt cool against her cheek, but soft; his touch feather-like, yet conveying more sorrow and love she could've hoped for.
"Show me your face."
And he did.
Wordlessly, and with an economy of motion, he unlatched the clasp holding his helmet, and cast it aside. Her eyes grew wide with wonder. Her heart, that weak and sorry thing, lurched in her chest, and then took off into a gallop, as though it was young and lively all over again, and strong enough to conquer anything.
"…you look…" she began, and then words failed her. He was everything and nothing she'd ever imagined, and she was both glad and saddened. "…such pretty eyes." She said at length, and they were. Megaman's eyes, and Roll's eyes, and Bass's eyes as well, at once. Steely but deep, compassionate and determined, and a little wild besides. And lonely, oh-so lonely.
Reaching up, she cupped his face, marvelling and the artificial perfection of it, its mechanical youth, endless and impossible to blemish. There was a glint in her eyes, but it wasn't sorrow, and it wasn't tears.
"I love you," she said.
Protoman's answer was as close to what she wanted to hear as he could ever utter, and truthful enough to warm her heart.
"I will miss you."
He moved closer, so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek, weak and breezing; he folded smooth hands around her crinkled, bony ones, helped her close her weak arms about his neck and pulled her to his chest; he let her sink her pretty head against his shoulder, and buried his face in the curve of her neck, enclosing her, cradling her, soothing her, this precious child, this marvellous woman, this fragile elder.
It was in Protoman's arms, where she'd always longed to be, that Kalinka, daughter of Cossack, exhaled her last breath.
-おわり-
I loved you and this love by chance...
Alexandr Pushkin
I loved you and this love by chance,
Inside my soul has never fully vanished;
No longer shall it ever make you tense;
I wouldn't want to sadden you with anguish.
I loved you speechlessly and wildly,
By modesty and jealousy was stressed;
I loved you so sincerely, so mildly,
As, God permit, you may be loved by someone else.