Due to length, author's notes will be found at the bottom of this page.
Find Roger Smith.
Dorothy's objective stood clear before herself. While her quarry was but one man, he was miles beneath the city of Paradigm, and in territory that was, as yet, uncharted to mankind as it once was. Dorothy's map of the underground system ended as she descended another level, her headband's light illuminating the path before her in the maintenance area, left covered with cobwebs and dust. Obsolete machines by function, she determined, at least in comparison to her mechanical material, with most of them blasted beyond repair. There were traces of humanity left, in the forms of pieces of clothing, and abandoned items such as dolls and suitcases.
Dorothy herself had been acquainted with death, indeed she had been spurned forth from it, in a way. Her predecessor had died years before, and she had been given her memories as a blueprint. However, it was not to say that Timothy Waynewright fashioned a perfect replacement from her. Dorothy was not so naïve as to believe otherwise; for as much as Timothy regarded her existence as important to him, the fact remained that she was still of metal. That was made abundantly clear by the fact that when Timothy grasped her arm as tightly as he did, he could only press down upon the sleeve of her clothing, rather than upon the softness of human skin.
To say that she had felt nothing at the death of her "sister," Dorothy-1, would be incorrect. Though Dorothy herself was utilized, against her will at that, as a battery by Beck for her sister, she, despite her lack of consciousness throughout the ordeal, still felt the pain her "sister" took, every blow sending a shockwave through her system as Big O struck her.
Dorothy's light fell upon an abandoned manual, opened to reveal the interior of a furnace. On occasion, walking with an umbrella over her head, she had chanced upon stands that sold materials which required identification to view, covered by images of an oddly innocent-looking rabbit in a bow tie. A gentleman's club in bright pink lights caught the viewer's eye with an outline of a woman with long hair sitting, her one leg up, and her breasts exposed. The human obsession with breasts remained a curiosity to Dorothy, for she occasionally studied her own in the mirror, the human shell of clothing dropped to the floor. Their mechanical function in an organic female was for sustaining the young, who could not yet chew on food, but beyond that, she was unsure, though she did note that they tended to attract mates for said female, particularly if they were large or pert.
Roger had a few of these materials in his possession, but he tended not to leave them lying about when Dorothy was cleaning. She did, at times, pick up the remnants of one of his lady friends, such as the note from Angel she had crumpled and promptly thrown out, strands of various colors of hair, and discarded materials, such as tissues or pocket lint. Despite his reputation as a playboy, he was rather discreet, except for the occasions after nightfall, though activities of that sort were confined to the master bedroom. If there was a garment left behind by one, she didn't see it, barring when she found a drawer in his bureau to be left open, with one leg of a woman's stocking hanging out of it.
She decided to leave the manual behind. It would give her no new information, and possession of it could very well bring Roger's house into legal question. Raising her hands over her head, she brushed away the cobwebs, twitching her fingers when she felt the solid body of a spider falling onto the back of them. Something crunched under her shoe. The door ahead was slightly cracked open, resting upon a block of wood that functioned as a doorstop.
Reaching out, she grasped it, and tugged it open, the heavy metal door banging off the side wall with a heavy crack that split the silence of the room. Rats squeaked and fled away from the noise. It was understandable, Dorothy figured, that humans would be distrusting of androids, considering the sheer amount of physical force she had just demonstrated. Though she did know that it was merely the tip of the iceberg; they were fundamentally different lifeforms.
Indeed, Timothy regarded R. Dorothy as vastly important to him, no contest on that front, and she did, in turn, respectfully regard him as her father. She'd seen her own body's blueprints, and asked, "That is me, is it not?" Holding them between her hands and comparing them with the painting of her predecessor, the late Dorothy Waynewright, she verified the superficial similarities, but there still remained various differences. Humans themselves held metals within their constitutions, but not nearly to the same extent as their Galateas and their golems. Especially considering in the current day and age of turmoil, in which the demand for metals was high, the suspicion against androids was pragmatic. Dorothy considered herself lucky that she was modeled to appear humanoid, as it provided her with a cloak with which to conceal herself among human society. No one spared her a passing glance.
She had wondered whether Roger had favored her due to her more human appearance. She certainly wasn't blind, as she knew very well how he looked at her from time to time. When she did meet his gaze, however, he would withdraw in embarrassment, or to busy himself with his work, reviewing the notes of his latest client. He didn't, however, touch her without permission, another habit he shared with his human women, women, Dorothy noticed, tended to each only appear once. While a letch, he certainly didn't molest, grasping by the shoulder or the waist as opposed to breast or buttock, leaning close to the ear to whisper a secret that caused his subject to giggle, but without running teeth or tongue over in public company.
There was an occasion where he did grasp her, however, though it could be argued that it was out of a certain necessity, though one that she could easily have eliminated with the same strength that had yanked open that heavy door.
While arguably having been raised by mechanics, Dorothy found her trust in them to be waning the longer she was a resident of Paradigm. Similarly to a peeping tom peeking up the skirt of a woman, she found the eyes of a mechanic or engineer, here and there, to be rather intrusive, as if they were staring beneath her pale skin and stiff posture to see the wires and metal beneath. She displayed her distaste by pointedly turning on her heel, or regarding them to speak with her boss, as opposed to with her. Admittedly, Dorothy knew that it was closing a door on her part, as a communication of the type might eventually bring her into contact with other gynoids, or perhaps some androids, though most likely it would be within a chop shop.
She recalled that it had been raining heavily that day, the drops hammering upon the tin roof of the garage. Sitting within it were several parts for the cabs that functioned within Paradigm City, the manufacturer, a subsidiary of Paradigm Corporation (though what wasn't owned by the corporation these days) was experiencing an issue with the drivers' union. While Roger spoke with the foreman, Dorothy stared down at one of the completed models, her face reflected back to her from the polished surface of the hood. While the specs of the vehicle stood up to regulated scrutiny, she recalled the fact that the vehicle's service from the driver tended to reflect most upon the customer. Roger would have his hands full with this one. Industrial grinding and clangs filled the air, along with steam. Looking across the room, she found a worker, bent low over the open hood of another vehicle, his welder's mask down, and the blue flame from his blow torch set a shower of sparks flying.
She supposed that, if one could squint, her being in the area could be considered vulgar, as she was watching how mechanical entities were brought to "life," as it were. Yet, the topic offered no degree of interest to her, the fact being that these entities lacked sentience.
Roger's tone changed sharply, and Dorothy turned her head. The foreman was pointing at her, and Roger, his arms folded in discontent, was tapping his foot in annoyance. Dorothy glanced back once more, and saw the worker shut off his torch, and raise his mask to several a face covered in grease to stare at her. The operator of one of the long arm cranes above a conveyor belt tilted back his construction helmet to stare as well, his one hand remaining on his hip, and a cigarette, blue smoke drifting out of it, stuck out from the left side of his mouth.
Dorothy quit her current position, and walked over to stand at Roger's side. "What seems to be the problem?" She inquired.
She may as well not have spoken, due to the foreman turning his head to face Roger, and speaking over her words. "How much do you want for it?"
Dorothy's fist clenched once at her side, but she released it. Her processor called forth an image of her human predecessor, a fleeting image in sepia tone of her, in a torn and much-patched dress, her skin cut and bruised, and hair a mess, yelling in outrage, her head craned toward what appeared to be someone in military uniform from a bygone era. The anger and helpless sorrow associated with the image was alien to her, anger, and promptly cut its apperance. While the memories were embedded within her, they were not available for triggering at will. Whatever Timothy Waynewright's intention was regarding that type of placement, it was not, in the current situation, helping her.
She shouldn't have been shocked at being called an "it," considering the fact that, by virtue of being made of metal, she could not give birth like a human woman would. An android would most likely be called the same, as he would be unable to impregnate a female. At the same time, however, the foreman's blasé tone was heavily off-putting, relegating her to nothing of more importance than the finished cab she had been standing beside earlier.
The buttons on Roger's sleeve scraped against the fabric of her upper back as he placed his arm around her shoulders, his fingers fastening against her right shoulder to pull her toward him. "She's not for sale," he replied coldly.
The foreman wasn't to be moved. "Come on, what's the loss of one of your many assets?" He folded his arms. "Upper management's been toying with the idea of automated drivers. That should settle this labor issue once and for all."
Roger's fingers didn't leave her as he reached into his pocket with his left hand, and held out his business card to the foreman for emphasis on his point. "I represent the interests of either side equally. Let alone the fact that you are regarding my associate, Miss Waynewright, as chattel right in front of me, you are also attempting to taint my unbiased opinion as a third party to this situation." Placing his card down upon the metal side table, upon which two cups of coffee had been sitting during the meeting, Roger surmised, "On that note, I declare this meeting over. You may contact me again, but I demand that the next meeting be conducted professionally." He dropped his arm from Dorothy's shoulders.
The windshield wipers of the car slashed at the rain on the way back to Roger's estate. Dorothy had elected to say nothing upon initially leaving the garage, and neither had Roger, though he had driven faster than would have been advised under the current weather conditions. When he at last slowed to a stop at a red light, he glanced over at her. "Sorry."
Dorothy looked at him, and responded plainly, "It was to be expected."
Roger's hand tightened once on the wheel, the motion reminding Dorothy of her irrational human sentiment back in the garage. She clarified, "I would have dealt with them, but then that would not have reflected very well upon your client reviews."
Roger smirked at that. "No, it probably wouldn't have." Turning away, he started the car again as the light flashed green. "Though it would have been interesting to advertise myself as taking an Amazon with me wherever I went."
"That would not work, as I am shorter than you," Dorothy replied, the deadpan note of her voice drawing a laugh from Roger.
He sobered, however, and continued, "I shouldn't have placed you in that situation."
"It would have been inevitable," Dorothy replied as a bolt of lightning displayed the limbs of trees outside the car. "Do not forget that I tend to venture out on my own. I was brought into existence by mechanics, and it is likely that other mechanics would want to end me just to see how I tick." Her fingers drummed on the center console. "I am the clockwork nightingale, after all."
"Brushing off an apology from me?" Roger inquired, a tinge of humor to his tone, "Isn't that looking a gift horse in the mouth?"
Dorothy inferred the humor was not completely to be taken at face value. For a negotiator, Roger needed to learn how to hide his emotions better. Opting to terminate the conversation, she replied, "It was an apology, therefore it was reactive. If it were a gift, it would have been proactive."
Roger conceded the point, terminating the conversation.
Upon his return trip to the garage, he left Dorothy behind with Norman.
As to how robots were treated prior to the event of forty years ago, Dorothy had no information. Frankly, she was unsure as to when robots came into existence, the exact date of their creation a mystery. What did it matter, though? Droids and machines were created by man for man's purposes, even ones that achieved sentience such as herself. Timothy had created her as a shrine to his late daughter's existence, though she suspected that reason, despite how very important it was to Timothy, was just on the surface.
Though she had been unconscious during the fight between her sister and Big O, Dorothy had managed to piece the events together on her own, especially considering that, outside of Dastun attempting to pull her away from Dorothy-1, Roger was the only other still-living person to have touched her in a protective manner. Powering down for the night within the same room as her beloved grand piano, the lid closed, Dorothy had mused for more than occasion on the sensation of touch, and its significance to human beings. Memories of the original Dorothy sometimes seeped into her consciousness at those points, as well. Snapshots of such included her dancing with her father, their fingers interlinked, her hastily placing away expensive-looking jewelry into a velvet box displaying heavy water damage, the sky (what slits could be seen of it through nailed wooden boards) an unnatural dirty orange, and her clutching at a warmth her right side, dark scarlet seeping into a stained dress faded from a bright to a muddy red, the context unable to be determined due to blurred vision.
A rat whipped past Dorothy's foot. Following it with her gaze, her light drew upon the top of a ladder. She placed her hands over the cold surface. Knowing Roger, he most likely was down there, far from anyone who could help him in his recklessness. Grasping both sides of the ladder, and bracing her feet against them, Dorothy slid down on the sides, the wall speeding past her, and illuminating in various colors before her eyes. Skidding to a halt at the bottom, she stepped off, patted her skirt back into place, and took in her surroundings.
The walls appeared strangely futuristic, despite the scene of decay above. It was a welcome break from the rats and cobwebs above, though the shift in architecture was rather unsettling. Her light bounced off the walls, better illuminating the area before her, similarly to the camera flashes on the night she had sung.
Timothy had told her she had looked beautiful, and inquired as to whether she was ready for the upcoming night. Dorothy had replied to the affirmative, and Timothy had gone on about their life together, how it would "just like old times." If only she could remember what those "old times" were, exactly. Nevertheless, that was the treatment of the situation. Timothy had loved her, as one would love a gynoid built for an express purpose. Roger Smith, on the other hand, strayed to a different path, one that she found rather odd. Then again, this was the same man who despite his wealth lived outside of the domes. Combined with today's current incident, Roger, by all regards, was a fool.
Yet, foolishness in this day and age wasn't something Dorothy would regard as completely without merit. A wiser man than Roger, perhaps, would have washed his hands of a volatile gynoid like her, considering Beck's hijacking, and would the very least have turned a profit on it. Roger's accusation to the foreman that day easily could be ruled as uncalled for, as that, by all means, was what robots were: walking chattel.
Upon her request, Roger had opened the file indicating laws involving droids within Paradigm City. Tracing his finger upon the topic of ownership, he read: "If a droid is owned by a human being, regardless of sentience, it may be sold, improved, of disposed of at the will of the owner. A droid may become an emancipated citizen, but must provide proof of emancipation." His eyes flicked to Dorothy at that, and she knew full well that her proof of emancipation lay in her ability to shuck off her deep red dress at will for something of color, and to walk out the door. Looking back down, he continued on, "Once emancipated, a droid will be subject to the same laws and regulations as those which bind its human counterparts within Paradigm City. No exceptions. Emancipated droids may also own property, barring other droids." Shutting the file, Roger elaborated, "A friend of mine is in that situation. I'll take you to meet him sometime."
So there was foolish behavior two-fold in his words. Foremost, he declared a mechanical being to be his friend. Polite society most likely did not condone Roger's relationship with the as-of-yet-unnamed party, though Smith probably didn't care. Secondly, he actually considered taking her to see someone of her own kind for company, which was unheard of if she was to be his servant.
There were things that the original Dorothy felt, anger, love, fear, happiness, sadness, all irrational human emotions that R. Dorothy felt as a shade, a mere echo, as opposed to in actuality, an echo which was too weak to really bring much of a shock to her in the waking world, outside of the loss of Timothy. Though she did notice that the echoes were seeming to grow in succession, whether it was in the glances Roger cast at her, the garage incident, the creaking open of a case file, or even more simply, the slight rise she got out of him each morning by waking him up with the piano.
A couple of women had bustled by her on the city streets on more than one occasion, giggling and clutching shopping bags. Dorothy had pondered the concept for a few moments of lady friends, but considered against it, with Angel's note in the trash can. The women Roger brought home with him acknowledged neither her presence nor Norman's, or referred to them as "the help." Norman quietly remarked to her that there was a reason why the women didn't stay longer than for one night.
Her light fell upon a body, lying sideways on the floor. The black hair and clothing was a dead giveaway, though Dorothy was surprised to note that the legs were curled inward, uncharacteristic of the haughtier behavior that was typical of him. Circling about him, Dorothy knelt down, her light falling onto his face and verifying his identity. Roger grunted and turned his face away from the light, but did not awaken, his eyes moving behind closed lids, and his hands curled close to his head.
Dorothy replaced her light, and remained close by him. If he did not wake on his own within a few moments, she would take the liberty wake him. An immediate awakening would not be advisable, as whatever brought him into this state had certainly rocked his state of equilibrium. A vigil over him would be better, and in a way she thought of it as recompense (though not owed within the purview of their contract) for his protecting her.
Dorothy placed her bare pale hand on the floor alongside his gloved dark one. She supposed she could call it something close to human fondness, as she did care for this man more so than others. While a louse, he did have his sense of morals. She could not think of bringing harm to Roger, even when irritated with him, and hypothesized that the crumpling of Angel's note was the closest she had come to jealousy. She also did not relish the thought of his being killed, otherwise she would not have ventured down after him despite Norman's capabilities.
She lifted her hand, and placed it upon his head in a manner that could be considered comforting to the human eye. Her body was warm from its functions, as opposed to the cold of the metal walls and floor surrounding them.
Sepia tones drew images inside her processor once more. Dorothy's hand slipped off in her confusion as the figure in military uniform came into view again. His body, however, was out of focus, the object of significance being a piece of paper in his hand, its wording periodically broken apart by bold stamps of the word STOP. The original Dorothy's glance upward from it was too fast for her successor to read it, but the gesture of the soldier holding it said enough, with him removing his hat, and revealing the face of Dan Dastun beneath, a mournful expression upon it.
R. Dorothy raised her head, and tilted it to the side. Her memory core had its limits, and admittedly, she did not know Timothy well enough personally to determine the exact meaning of the images, only to infer. Nevertheless, the inference would be too much to reveal to Roger at the moment, as it would only broaden the labyrinth in which they already stood, never mind the fact that these "old times" didn't make sense in the context of the current period. Dastun had to have aged by then, and Dorothy knew that he wasn't an android due to his skin having a soft texture.
She placed her hand once more upon Roger's head, confirming to herself that the gesture could be called human fondness. An echo sounded off in the distance, and Dorothy jerked her head about. The reach of her light found nothing, yet her body seized up, as if something pulled her in that direction, and she, similarly to a fragile human, had wanted to run the opposite way.
Yet she remained at Roger's side. Perhaps he was not the only fool.
I apologize for the abundance of author's notes on this subject, as, due to Big O being an ambiguous series, there is my own personal interpretation against what is actually visible in the anime's canon.
Dorothy's flashbacks are purely a construction of my own mind. I theorize that she may have been implanted with the memories of the human Dorothy, but I am not sure, as that is neither confirmed nor denied in canon. As this fanfic takes place during the fourth episode of the first season, Dorothy is still confused by the gap she straddles between the human and mechanical worlds due to a) being based off a deceased human, and b) being a sentient machine.
Under the system of American business law, cases involving relations between labor unions and management, an arbitrator would be in charge of the situation. As Paradigm City's system has fractured due to being within a post-apocalyptic setting, with the interests of a corporation (i.e. Paradigm Corporation) superseding civil interests, it is unlikely that arbitrators would be undergoing training within this system. Added to that is the fact that books within Big O's universe have been burned, en masse, the material for business law, those being the histories of torts, class action suits, recorded labor relations cases such as contract negotiations, and so on, would effectively be erased from existence, the training material is simply not there. Thus, a freelance negotiator like Roger would undertake such matters, if hired.
Due to androids themselves featuring as more background, with the mechs and human characters in the foreground, I had to draw my own conclusions as to how androids and gynoids are treated within Big O's universe, sentient or otherwise. Despite R. Instro having agency, he is still ordered around by Gieseng, who claims Instro as his ward. Dastun is also suspicious of the android with whom he is partnered in the second season, and the relationship between an android and a human female was implied to have been kept under wraps for years. Drawing upon these examples, I concluded that despite droids in this series having sentience, they are not regarded as full human beings.