The Big O and all of its settings and characters are owned by Cartoon Network, Sunrise, and Bandai Visual.
The Prisoner and all its settings, characters and dialogue are owned by Everyman Films and ITC.
Additional material by Alain Carraze, David Ladyman, George Markstein, Patrick McGoohan, Helene Ozwald, and David Tomblin.
In a sea of red hot molten metal a metallic face emerges. "Cast in the Name of God. Ye not guilty."
THE BIG O:
Thunder boomed through the cloudy sky as a determined man in a black suit drove his long black sedan at top speed down an empty highway, then into a city where huge geodesic domes cover mid-20th century buildings and into an underground parking lot. Entering a building via a set of double doors titled "Way Out" he then strode down a long, narrow corridor leading to another set of double doors, pulling them open with great ferocity. The raven haired man was tall, young, and handsome wearing black slacks, black shoes, a black tie bisected by a gray stripe, and a crisp white shirt covered by a black polo jacket.
The man mounted a fierce argument before a man in a beige military uniform who was identified by a sign on his desk as Major D Dastun. The man in black delivered an envelope marked 'Private—Personal — By Hand', and slammed his fist on to the desk, smashing the saucer of a cup of coffee. The angry man left and drove home, not realizing that he was being followed by a hearse, with the license TLH 858.
Meanwhile, in an unknown location full of filing cabinets, an automated system typed a series of large X's across the man's photograph and dropped it into a drawer marked "RESIGNED".
At the man's apartment, he quickly packed his possessions. Outside, the hearse pulled up and a man dressed like an undertaker approached the front door. As a white gas flooded the room through the keyhole, the tall modern buildings outside his window danced before his eyes. He collapsed on his bed and fell unconscious.
When he woke up, he looked around in confusion. What had happened? He glanced around his room. Nothing was taken, but the window blinds were closed. When he passed out, they were open. To his astonishment, when he lifted the blinds, a totally unfamiliar scene greeted his eyes: A green and pleasant village square surrounded by tall trees and curiously colored baroque buildings.
ACT 0
ROGER THE PRISONER
Chapter One: Arrival
My name is Roger Smith. For as long as I can remember I've lived in Paradigm City, a city without memory. Over thirty years ago every man and woman lost all memory of what went on before. But memories are like nightmares. They can appear anytime you least expect them.
For as long as I can remember Paradigm City was only city in the world (if you ignore a few hamlets and villages that have sprung up along the river in the meantime). Today I quit my job with the military police and find myself outside Paradigm City in a place that should not exist. I wanted to get away. I should have been careful of what I wished for.
Roger walked through the deserted streets of the quaint little town. The strange architecture of the buildings gave the place an almost fairytale quality. Roger himself had emerged from such a cottage; the interior had matched the inside of his apartment perfectly, but the outside didn't match at all. "Hello…?" the man in black called. "Is anybody there?" What time was it? He didn't have a watch on. Colorful blue flowers were planted all along the street.
The town seemed deserted. There was no sound but the mournful sighing of the wind. Roger wandered the empty streets as the sun rose on the horizon. He spied a skinny ornate tower that seemed not to belong, but more importantly, he saw an old man watching him from a balcony atop a carillon tower. Roger dashed up the stone steps up to the tower and climbed the stairs two at a time, but when he got to the top no one was there. He looked out to see on one side of the tower was a village green bursting with foliage and surrounded by quaint colorful buildings in a variety of architectural styles. It was the same one he spied from his window when he woke up. In the distance, behind the buildings was the brown-grey of the desert, stretching forever into the horizon. No sign of the skyscrapers or the massive geodesic domes that belonged to the city he knew.
He was startled when the bell in the tower next to him tolled without warning. He dashed down the steps to find who rang the bell but found himself wandering through the streets completely alone. Suddenly, the obnoxious sound of a brass band was boomed throughout the village green.
"Huh?" Roger turned around. The village's picturesque central square was filled with people wearing bizarre multicolored outfits. A brass band paraded past a notice instructing people to Walk on the Grass.
The villagers seemed to sport an amazing array of casually tacky fashion. Black and white in contrast seemed popular, as well as startling combinations of red, yellow, blue, green, white and orange. Both the men and the women favored pullover shirts, either in a solid color or with horizontal stripes. Slacks were the daywear of choice, either in beige or some other bland color. Shoes were either loafers or deck shoes. To a man they all seemed to wear hats. Caps of all types were popular as well as straw boaters. None of the men wore ties and none of the women wore skirts. It was as if Roger had woke up on another planet. With the exception of those in the band every one of them was holding a string attached to a festive red balloon.
"Good morning all, it's another beautiful day," a woman's syrupy sweet voice suddenly announced from loudspeakers all over the village. "Your attention please. The Union would like to welcome the newest member our community, Mister Roger Smith! Your community expects all its citizens to do their part in making Roger Smith feel at home. There are two additional announcements: Ice cream is now on sale for your enjoyment. The flavor of the day is strawberry. Here is a warning. There is a possibility of light intermittent showers later in the day. Thank you for your attention and have a lovely day."
"What?" Roger paid more attention to the parade. Banners proclaiming Welcome Roger Smith were being carried by various villagers. Roger felt his cheeks burn red as he clenched his black gloved fists. "What's going on here? Where is this place? What am I doing here?"
The villagers continued their celebration, seeming to ignore him despite the fact that some of them were carrying placards with his portrait emblazoned on them. Roger dashed towards the crowd and seized a man by his shirt. "Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"
"Welcome, Roger Smith," the man said with forced cheer.
"Ah!" Roger looked into the man's eyes and saw past the false merriment and perceived the unspeakable suffering of one who has irrevocably lost his soul. He pushed the man away and found himself surrounded by garishly clad well-wishers.
"Welcome to the Union, Roger Smith," smiled a man in an orange pullover sweater with horizontal black stripes.
"Glad you could join us, Roger Smith," greeted a woman who wore a blue fedora and a multicolored cape over a yellow and green sweater.
"Get away from me!" Roger cried as he pushed his way out of the crowd. He had always been a private person and had never cared for crowds, especially crowds full of eerily smiling strangers who all knew his name! Roger jogged away from the procession and gaped at the parade in his honor that seemed perfectly happy to continue on without him. Not knowing what else to do, he jogged back the cottage he had woken up in. The interior looked like his apartment at least.
He hesitated when he noticed the sign that said '3 private' on a striped pole under an awning before his cottage, but was more startled when the door opened automatically before him accompanied by a heavy electronic hum. There was no one behind it, the door opened by itself! As he hesitantly entered he looked around for other surprises and was startled when his telephone rang. He pushed the hourglass out of the way and picked up the phone that was on the end table next to the couch. The telephone had a number '3' printed in the center of the dial.
"Roger Smith?" a deep booming voice asked. "You must have so many questions. Why don't we have a chat? Number Two. The green dome."
The caller hung up, so Roger went outside to see if he could find address number two. It couldn't be that hard. The sign in front of his cottage indicated that he was at address number three, how far way could two be? It was then that he noticed an imposing edifice capped by a green dome. "I have questions all right," he muttered grimly as he strode through the street and up the steps to columned entrance to address number two.
Roger knocked at the door marked '2' and the door opened automatically like the one at his cottage. He was greeted by a tall elderly man dressed in an archaic tuxedo. The almost normal garb made the old man stand out more than his balding pate, full white mustache or black eyepatch did. "Hello there sir," the elderly butler bowed courteously. "I believe you are expected," he added genially.
"I bet I am," Roger grunted sarcastically.
"This way sir," the butler escorted him across an elegantly but conventionally furnished hall to a pair of double metal doors. They opened automatically and Roger took a step backwards when he saw a strange futuristic chamber before him.
"Welcome, Roger Smith, welcome!" the short jovial man with the wild beard greeted in a booming voice. Over his tacky togs he wore a dark jacket with a circular badge at its lapel. The badge was a red disk over which was inscribed the number '2'. "Sit down, and take a load off, my dear fellow!" He said as he used a multicolored umbrella to hit a button on his circular control panel. A chair emerged from a hidden panel in the floor. "You must have so many questions!"
"That's putting it mildly," Roger grunted as he approached the little man, sparing only a cursory glance at the chair. "What am I doing here?"
"Straight to the point, eh?" the cheerful dwarf chuckled before attempting a more serious tone. "You are the man for me sir! No beating around the bush! Well, it all has to do with your resignation, my dear fellow. It has raised a number of questions that important people want answered."
"What sort of people?" Roger asked. "Paradigm?"
"Your career with the military police was cut short far too soon," the little man continued. "Lots of new officers discover they can't handle the job, but you were different. Your psychological profile indicates that you are more than up to the task. So why end a promising career so early, hm? Starting to remember things, are we? Having strange dreams perhaps?"
"Why do you want to know?" Roger demanded. "What makes my choices any of your business?"
"You don't understand," the older man continued. "You are not like other men. The Memories buried in your head makes you very dangerous as a free agent…"
"Memories?" Roger sneered. "I don't have any Memories! Even if I did, does that give you the right to kidnap me and bring me here against my will?"
"Your behavior would indicate that you've had enough of Paradigm City," the older man with the '2' on his lapel replied smugly. "Allow us to offer you an alternative."
"What alternative?" Roger sneered. "Here? I don't even know where 'here' is!"
"Then allow me to enlighten you. Welcome to the Union," the man nodded in satisfaction. "Gone is the nightmarish dystopia that is Paradigm City, where capitalism and poverty takes the place of order and freedom. Here in the Union, everyone is equal, and the will of the people is absolute! Unlike the corrupt city of Paradigm, where a man without capital is a man without choices, here we give you a choice."
"What if I don't want the choice you've given me?" Roger quipped.
"You can do what you want," the bearded man shrugged, "as long as it's what the majority wants."
"What if it's not what the majority wants?" Roger challenged.
"You don't want to be the lone wolf, Mister Smith," the little man shook his head condescendingly. "You really don't. Society cannot exist as a collection of separate individuals. The unified collective is civilization. Unorganized individuals are anarchy. We are a unified collective."
"If wanted to be part of a group I would have stayed with the Military Police. I've had enough of this," Roger shook his head. "I want to leave. I'll write you."
"Haven't you yet realized that there isn't any way out?" the little man said in mild amusement. "Now then, let's get on to business. Why did you resign anyway?"
"I've got nothing to say to you!" Roger cried. "Do you hear me? Nothing!"
"Now be reasonable, Mister Smith," the man in the circular chair gently scolded. "It's just a matter of time. Sooner or later you'll tell me. Sooner or latter you'll want to. Let's make a deal. You cooperate, tell us what we want to know, and this can be a very nice place. You may even be given a position of authority."
"I'm will not make any deals with you!" Roger snarled. "I've resigned. I quit. I walked out, do you hear me? I've had it! I'm not going to be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered! My life is my own!"
"Really?" the bearded man in the chair feigned surprise.
"Yes," Roger asserted. "My life is my own. I'm a free human being. I'm getting out of here. You won't hold me."
"Oh but we will," the bearded man rose from his chair to meet Roger's challenge. "What we do here has to be done. It's the law of survival. It's either them or us."
"Do what?" Roger snarled. "Kidnap people? Imprison them? What's next, the thumbscrews? What are you going to do to me if I refuse to cooperate?"
"You act as if you've been locked up my dear fellow," the little man purred in his deep voice. "You wouldn't force our hand, would you Number Three?"
"Number what?"
"Three," the stocky little man nodded. "Until you accept your place with us, everyone has a number. Yours is Three. No offense, but you associate the name Roger Smith too much with your old life. That life is over. Roger Smith is dead and you've been reborn as a new man! Until you are given a new name, you'll be known as Number Three."
"Now wait a minute you can't just take away my name like this!" Roger protested. "I'm not a number, I'm a person!"
"Yes," the little man nodded. "A person who will now be known as Number Three."
"Why you…!" Roger stopped and looked at the number on the little man's badge. "Wait a second. You're wearing a number on your lapel," he observed. "Are you just a number? Does that mean that you're just as much of a prisoner as I am?"
"Oh my dear chap, of course," the little man laughed. "Until you're given a new name, none of us may have names. We're all equal here. All in this together. One for all and all for one as it were. That's why I sympathize with the way you're feeling right now. Sometimes it can be hard to accept the things we really want."
"I want out," Roger sneered.
"Yes," the little man nodded. "And you are out. Of Paradigm City. If you wish you will never have to even hear about that corrupt place again."
"This is getting me nowhere!" Roger cried. "I'm getting out of here!"
"Running away again are we?" the bearded man mocked.
"I didn't run away!" Roger turned to face him. "I resigned!"
"We have files on you, you know," the bearded little man told him. "We know everything about you, everything. Things about you that you couldn't even guess at, except in nightmares. And we know that you aren't the kind of man to run. So why run now, hm? Why run away from your life now? What happened? What changed the valiant and loyal Lieutenant Smith into a man who shuts everyone out and flees from his life of service?"
"You've got all those files on me," Roger snorted before he turned to go. "You figure it out!" he snarled as he left.
"Don't worry Number Three," the little man said in a threatening tone. "You'll be cured. I'll see to it. No more nightmares. If you have so much as a bad dream, you'll come whimpering to me. Whimpering."
Roger left the building with the blue dome to see the villagers outside waving placards with his picture on it. Instead of 'Welcome Roger Smith' they now said 'Welcome Number 3.' They had given him a number and taken away his name.
Roger rushed back to the cottage he had awoken in earlier. It seemed to be his residence now that he was stuck in this place. Although most of the cottages looked alike he could spot his because it had the number '3' on the door. When he entered his 'home' he found out he wasn't alone.
The young beauty was curvier than a collection of beach balls. Her platinum blonde hair cascaded down to her shoulders and she wore a pink maid's uniform. She was dusting the interior of the place, but she appeared to be putting on an exhibition in her pornographically short skirt.
"And just who are you, Doll-face?" Roger snarled.
She turned and revealed her lovely face and the fact that her pert curvy chest was straining against the fabric of her blouse. "I'm your personal maid," she said in her sweet melodic voice. "The Labor Exchange sent me."
"First rule you should know Angel is that everyone who lives in my house has got to wear black," Roger sneered. "Where can I get a map?"
"Who needs a map?" the blonde shrugged. "Our little community isn't that large. Pretty soon you'll know this place like the back of your hand."
"Who runs this place Doll-face?"
"I don't know," she stamped her foot defiantly. "And don't call me 'Doll-face' Number Three! If you're going to call me cute nicknames, I prefer you call me 'Angel'!"
On a desk filled with hourglasses a phone rings. Roger's hand picks up the receiver and a sinister voice says:
Next: Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling
