No, I do not own any characters or Big O itself, and no, I am not making any money off of this.
When Roger came to, the first person he could recognize was Dorothy, leaning over his bed. He reached up an arm, and she took his hand. He smiled, but weakly. It was a frightening thing; he had never felt this weak before.
"Ah, feeling better, are we?" The jovial voice came from a tall man with golden hair, dressed in a long, white, flowing robe. "You've been out for three hours. How do you feel?"
"Like I just fell out of Big O's cockpit. Where-" Roger began to sit up, but a sharp pain in his chest put an end to that. He groaned, and lay back down.
"Stay still, Mr. Smith. You've been bleeding internally ever since that Megadeuce and you fell underground. Your butler did an incredible job of putting you back together, but he couldn't help this without full medical facilities." The man grinned. "From what I've heard of your exploits, you haven't had access to those for some time."
Roger chuckled, but it became a cough. He thought he tasted blood. "What can you do?"
The man's merry face fell, and his tone took on an aspect of utter seriousness. "Mr. Smith, we cannot heal the injury in your present state, and we cannot stop the bleeding. In a few days, you will die."
Dorothy suddenly fell forward, her arms encirling Roger. "You can't leave me, now that I just got you back...you can't do this to me, you louse!"
Roger winced, but reached an arm around her anyway. "I know, Dorothy. Are you sure there's nothing you can do?" he asked of the tall man.
"Now I didn't say that. We've worked out a method that will allow you to keep on going long after your body fails you."
Dorothy, despair etched on her face, sat up, and turned hope-filled eyes to the man. "What do you mean?"
"It's a process called TMD, or Total Mental Download. It copies your conciousness, your subconcious, all your memories, every last thought in your head, into a computer or other such device." He gave Dorothy a thoughtfull look. "Including androids."
"You mean-" Dorothy sat straight, still clutching Roger's hand.
"Yes. He would be exactly like you, but with every memory, thought, and basically everything that makes him Roger Smith hard-wired into a computer board. There is, unfortunately, a catch. The process takes a few days, and only the most disciplined and capable mind survives it."
Roger swallowed, and nodded. "I'm willing to take that risk."
The man smiled. "I thought you would. I'll call in the team immediately."
Roger relaxed as the man moved to the door. Then partially sat up again. "By the way, I didn't catch your name."
The blonde man, his hand on the doorknob, turned and smiled. "Call me David."
When Roger came to, the first person he could recognize was Dorothy, leaning over his bed. He reached up an arm, and she took his hand. He smiled, but weakly. It was a frightening thing; he had never felt this weak before.
"Ah, feeling better, are we?" The jovial voice came from a tall man with golden hair, dressed in a long, white, flowing robe. "You've been out for three hours. How do you feel?"
"Like I just fell out of Big O's cockpit. Where-" Roger began to sit up, but a sharp pain in his chest put an end to that. He groaned, and lay back down.
"Stay still, Mr. Smith. You've been bleeding internally ever since that Megadeuce and you fell underground. Your butler did an incredible job of putting you back together, but he couldn't help this without full medical facilities." The man grinned. "From what I've heard of your exploits, you haven't had access to those for some time."
Roger chuckled, but it became a cough. He thought he tasted blood. "What can you do?"
The man's merry face fell, and his tone took on an aspect of utter seriousness. "Mr. Smith, we cannot heal the injury in your present state, and we cannot stop the bleeding. In a few days, you will die."
Dorothy suddenly fell forward, her arms encirling Roger. "You can't leave me, now that I just got you back...you can't do this to me, you louse!"
Roger winced, but reached an arm around her anyway. "I know, Dorothy. Are you sure there's nothing you can do?" he asked of the tall man.
"Now I didn't say that. We've worked out a method that will allow you to keep on going long after your body fails you."
Dorothy, despair etched on her face, sat up, and turned hope-filled eyes to the man. "What do you mean?"
"It's a process called TMD, or Total Mental Download. It copies your conciousness, your subconcious, all your memories, every last thought in your head, into a computer or other such device." He gave Dorothy a thoughtfull look. "Including androids."
"You mean-" Dorothy sat straight, still clutching Roger's hand.
"Yes. He would be exactly like you, but with every memory, thought, and basically everything that makes him Roger Smith hard-wired into a computer board. There is, unfortunately, a catch. The process takes a few days, and only the most disciplined and capable mind survives it."
Roger swallowed, and nodded. "I'm willing to take that risk."
The man smiled. "I thought you would. I'll call in the team immediately."
Roger relaxed as the man moved to the door. Then partially sat up again. "By the way, I didn't catch your name."
The blonde man, his hand on the doorknob, turned and smiled. "Call me David."