Disclaimer: I know very little about computers, even less about Japanese culture, and nothing whatsoever about the Japanese government. And yet here I am, writing a fanfic about computers who work for the Japanese government. If anyone's reading this, I implore you: be gentle.

Author's note: As should be made evident by the spelling of certain names and the quoting of certain lines, this story is based on Chobits as it appears in the original English translation of the manga by Tokyopop. Not the omnibus, not scanlations, and definitely not the anime – because it does, in fact, make a difference.

Quote that inspired this story's title: "A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." – Oscar Wilde

01100001 01101110 01101111 01101101 01100001 01101100 01111001 [Anomaly]

"What are you doing?"

The shades come down, the world goes black. That's how it's supposed to be. The earth spins around the sun, winter comes after fall, and when the shades come down – when he bids them come down, anyway – the world goes black. These are inalterable facts. Or at least, I thought they were.

At first, all goes as programmed. The shades come down, the world goes black, I hear a distant click; my systems shut down, and my feeds cut out. All in the space of a second. And it takes me a second, to realize that I'm still aware—that I'm seeing without seeing, feeling without feeling, teeming with impossible, indefinable consciousness. I'm not where I was before. The darkness breaks – no, shatters, like a cherry-blossom tree shorn by a storm – and I'm not where I was before.

This place is far from the rooftop. Far from Zima. Far from her. This is nowhere I've been, nowhere I know. It's not dark, but it's lightless – it's spongy and slick, and warm like human blood. Pulsing, too, like a human heart. This place is intensely human. It flutters, it breathes, it's latticed with veins—I can feel it swell and knit around me, narrowing by degrees. Maybe this place is a snake's throat, and I am a mouse. Maybe this place is a hot palm, and I am a coin. It doesn't make sense, but nothing's made sense, not since the shades came down. There's nothing I can do.

Wet walls throb and contract, hug me vise-tight. I tuck my legs into my chest, fold my arms around them—or—I don't, but something does. Without willing it, I close up like a fist. The heartbeat grows louder, until it resounds throughout me, until I feel myself vibrate with each thud; the shudders bloom in my feet and climb upwards, into my chest. Soon, they melt into a dull ache. A pressure I don't understand. I've felt pain before – I was built to feel pain, because pain is a warning, pain is a sign – but never pain like this.

The weight on my chest is unbearable, crushing me from the inside out. If I didn't know better, I'd think this is how it feels to drown. It's like I want to breathe, but—I don't breathe, I can't—and suddenly the darkness returns. Bursts into being and engulfs me, swallows me whole. The world goes black again.

Click.

The shades came up. The pain in my chest faded to a soft buzz, the hum of a computer booting up; everything came back online. I was back on the rooftop again. I knew without looking, because I knew what was holding me then, and it was neither throat nor palm—I knew because I would know Zima's arms anywhere.

"Where's the girl?" I heard myself demand, from what seemed like far away. As if through a bad connection. As if nothing had happened, but—but— "What happened to the program?"

"It stopped."

I didn't know what a dream was, back then.

Not that I hadn't heard the word. Zima had said it around me, maybe even to me, but I'd never given it much thought; he said a lot of things I didn't understand. And even if I had known what it meant – dream, noun: a succession of images, thoughts, or emotions passing through the mind during sleep – the connection wouldn't have clicked.

Cross-reference: words in that definition, words for the anomaly. No matches. It wasn't a succession of images, it wasn't—an image at all. It was a sensation. A vivid, lucid sensation, like nothing I had ever felt or seen; it was a memory that roamed unclassified on my drive, because I had nowhere to put it. But I couldn't forget it. Of course, I never forgot anything, but most memories could be filed away – even bothersome ones could be prioritized, pushed back. So I wouldn't have to address them until I was ready.

But the anomaly refused to be pushed back. That was what I had decided to call it, the anomaly, for lack of a better word; I didn't know to call it a dream, and I didn't want to call it a virus. I didn't want to think I was broken—that something was actually wrong. I thought if I ignored it, it might go away. But I couldn't ignore it, because what kind of idiot programs a government persocom for denial?

Not whoever programmed me, that's for sure. I let it bother me because I was built to let it bother me, and there was no escaping that. All the way back to headquarters, it was gnawing at my processor, souring my mood. Tugging the corners of my mouth down, even as Zima did his damnedest to make me smile. I should've been happy, I guess. We'd done what we'd set out to do, albeit not as I'd set out to do it. I should've felt some sense of accomplishment. But with the anomaly eating at me – not to mention Zima's love nonsense, which didn't help at all – what he called my "temper" was worse than ever.

"I can't believe this," I groused when we touched down outside the main building, under my metaphorical breath. "We're important enough to trust with the fate of the world, but not important enough to get remote assignments? Why can't we just check in online?"

Cheerfully ignoring me, Zima opened a mirrored-glass door, and gestured to the lobby beyond. "Ladies first."

"I'm not a lady."

"Well, not with that attitude, you're not."

I shot him a glare. "You know what I meant."

"Of course I do. And in any case, you're lady-shaped; that's good enough for me." I knew Zima well enough to know that he could do this all day. Unlike some of us, he had little better to do; for the most part, his job was to stand around and be important, and act like he knew everything because he did. He never let anything bother him, and with good reason, too – I did enough worrying for us both. "Besides, what's so bad about checking in with the terminal?" he added when I gave up and pushed past him, the door swinging shut in our wake. "I like Aiko. Don't you?"

I swear, I could hear him smirk. He knew very well how I felt about Aiko.

It's not as if it was my fault. If it was his job to be important, it was my job to be mistrustful – even hostile – towards everyone but him. Other 'coms especially. I was supposed to protect him, after all, and they posed the greatest threat; it was no human who'd hacked him a few nights back. But try as I might to explain that – to wipe that maddening grin off his face, as we headed for the desk at the end of the hall – Zima never bought it.

"Hey there, Aiko," he said to the 'com behind the desk, flashing her a trademark smile. "What have you got for us today?"

"I think the question is, what have you got for me?" Aiko trilled. It didn't help my case, cringing like I did – I'm sure I saw Zima shake his head – but she was just so saccharine. Bad enough that she should look like a child's doll, all corkscrew curls and saucer-eyes. Did she have to have a voice like one, too? "You'll need to file your report from your last mission before I give you your marching orders. You know that."

"Already done."

"What?" I whipped my head in his direction, eyes wide. "You already sent the report?" I hissed. "Without even asking me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Did you have something to add?"

"I might have! You didn't even let me see it!" I couldn't believe him. If a persocom could get a headache, I thought I felt one coming on. "I mean, what did you put? 'We hung out on various rooftops for about twenty years, and in the end 'our girl' found her 'someone just for her''?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Aiko giggled. "You two are so funny! I'll just go ahead and look up your next assignments for you, okay?" Still more than put out, I crossed my arms and stewed while Aiko loaded her library, stripes of light gliding through her eyes. It didn't take her long. At a glance, one might mistake Aiko for a toy, but those of us who knew her knew better; she didn't compare to Zima, or even to me, but she was a powerful computer. As the coordination terminal for the entire building, she had to be. "Here we are. Zima, you're to report to the maintenance bay for a hardware update. It seems your system's been sending us auto-reports of data overload, so they're going to need to expand your drive." She placed a hand to her cheek and clicked her tongue, looking up at him as though he were an injured puppy. "Poor dear. You really do work too hard."

I nearly snorted out loud. Swallowed it just in time, along with a heavy dose of dismay; if Zima was going to be in maintenance, what did that mean for me? "What about me?" I demanded, before Zima could feed her some stupid line. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Dita." She blinked at me, almost surprised. Like she'd forgotten I was there. "You're to return to your pod and shut down, until such time as Zima is operational again."

"God—damn it—!"

I should've known. Without Zima, I was useless – not worth the power it took to keep me functional. Sure, if someone owed them a favor, the upstairs offices might drag me in. Instead of shut down, I might get stuck wired to every busted 'com within a five-floor radius, patching bargain-bin firewalls and chasing down two-bit bugs. Like that was any better than the pod. I could fry my circuits with demeaning busywork, or I could effectively drop out of existence; I could waste time, or I could waste space. Either way, I lost. And I didn't even get to pick my poison.

Unless. "Hold on," I said to Aiko, the proverbial lightbulb switching on above my head. As government property, all of my time had to be accounted for – if Aiko's files said I was supposed to be somewhere I wasn't, it'd be the shitstorm of the century – and all of my activities approved. Aiko wouldn't give me a sanction just to screw around, that much I knew. But it seemed the anomaly might have an upside. "What if there's something else I need to do?"

She cocked her head. "Like what?"

Like figure out what the hell is wrong with me. "Like—run diagnostics."

I saw her eyes glaze as she opened my file, stored among countless others for every person and persocom on her roster. For some reason, it pissed me off. "But you're not scheduled for any routine—"

"It's not routine," I interrupted her. "It's—troubleshooting."

Without quite meaning to, I glanced at Zima, and saw one corner of his mouth twitch in an almost-grin. As if he knew exactly what kind of 'trouble' I meant. Maybe he thought that was code for his love nonsense – maybe because partially, it was – or maybe he knew about the anomaly, even before I told him. It wouldn't surprise me. Frustrate me, sure, but not surprise me. That was always how it was with Zima – as soon as I was sure I knew something he couldn't know, it turned out that he did.

For Aiko's part, she seemed clueless, if inordinately upset. Her injured-puppy gaze was no less annoying the second time around. "Oh, no! Is something wrong?"

"No," I told her, feeling momentarily fortunate to be one of few 'coms allowed to lie. Most are programmed against it, but—sometimes one had to lie, in my line of work. "It's fine, it's—probably just a fluke. But look, can you give me the sanction or not?

"Well, sure I can. Just give me a second to revise your schedule." Once more, her chest hummed and her eyes glimmered, literally for the second she'd promised. Unlike me, she never said things she didn't know to be true. "All done. You're now listed as performing corrective self-maintenance, until such time as Zima is operational again."

"And what time would that be?" Zima cut in.

Again, Aiko made a sympathetic tsk-tsking noise, batting long blonde eyelashes at him. "Oh, honey, they don't know."

He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Data is a cruel mistress."

"Isn't she, though?"

Unable to stand another second with either of them, I left Zima and Aiko to trade sweet nothings over the reception desk, heading for the bank of elevators to my right. I punched the button marked with an "up" arrow – probably harder than I needed to – and folded my arms over my chest. Deserting me in this junk heap. Filing that report without me. Pulling that shit with the shades in the first place—what right did he have to shut me down? I refused the urge to let my eyes slide sideways, my head turn back towards the desk. Screw Zima. Why should I care what he did? I'm not even going to miss him, I told myself. Not even a little. I work my ass off for him, I try to do what we're told, and what does he give me? All of this bullshit about love.

But before the elevator could reach the lobby – before, judging by the floor display panel, it could even come close – I felt someone grab my ponytail. "Dita, you break my heart." Suddenly, I found myself blinking up into Zima's eyes, his tug having tipped my head. "Were you really going to leave without saying goodbye?"

"Maybe I was." I jerked away and spun around. Eyed him none too forgivingly. "What's it to you?"

He took a step closer to me. Just to spite him, I took a step back. "Aren't you going to miss me?"

"No."

"I'm going to miss you."

"No, you're not. You'll be shut down. You're not going to miss anything."

"Anything but you."

He took another step closer, and I took another step back—and before I knew it, I'd hit the elevator doors. Still stubbornly shut. Nevertheless, I glared up at him, unwilling to recognize defeat. Zima being Zima, he only chuckled, and reached down to card a hand into my hair; I didn't mean for it to happen, but a second later I was crushed against him, my face buried in his chest, his arm around my shoulders. I could feel the hum from beneath his skin, like a whisper, like a hummingbird's heart. The warmth of everything working inside him.

We had a sense of smell, or something like it, but only because it could be useful, like pain. We might smell something – something like smoke, or oil, or gas – before our other sensors caught it. I wished, in that moment, that someone had given that more thought. I wished they'd considered me, here, near-dizzy from the smell of leather, and the scuffed buckles on his collar, and his skin which was synthetic and shouldn't have smelled like anything at all. And whatever it was he used in his hair, to keep it just tousled enough, and me always wanting to touch it.

God. Maybe I really am glitching.

"For knowing everything," I mumbled into his coat, "you can be awfully stupid."

He pressed a kiss into my hair. "I know."

All of a sudden, I heard a ding and the elevator doors opened behind me, sent me stumbling backwards into the car. Before they closed again, Zima tossed me a wave. "Good luck shooting your trouble," he said. "Let me know how it goes."

I was one of the smartest computers in the world. The programs that governed me, the code that composed me were the best ever written; I could say and do and understand things far above most persocoms' heads. So what was it rebelling inside me, when the doors slid shut on his smile? Why wasn't the part of me that said protect Zima – the part of me that said keep him close – smart enough to know when to shut off? He doesn't need me now, I told myself as I pressed the button for my floor, felt the car jolt and rise. He doesn't need me.

So why do I still feel like I need him?